Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry again; Saturday mornings are a therapeutic time for writing.
When we were kids we went to St. Catharine-de-Sienne School. It was about 1.5 kilometers away. Mom would buy us bus tickets, but we would sometimes walk. This was before there was such a beast as French Immersion. So off we went to French school.
My oldest sister, Pat, missed out on the French school, but the rest of us started our education in French. I think both of my brothers switched over after grade 4 and my youngest sister after grade 5. I finished grade school in French. In my first year of high school, our English teacher was so upset about the lack of basic grammar skills that she threw a snap grammar quiz at us. In all 5 of her classes. The 25 of us from French schools all finished in the top 30.
But back to my subject matter. On nicer days, we would enjoy walking to school. We started to become familiar with the neighborhood that we would shortly be moving into. On our way to school, we would pass an apartment building at the juncture of Elmhurst, Patricia, & Sherbrooke. Usually, the superintendent of the building would be outside. We always said hello.
We soon discovered that Mr St-Laurent had a son that went to our school as well, Guy.We used to occasionally walk with him, and we became chums. When I was in grade 3, Frank and I were the only 2 still going to St. Catharine. One day during recess, we were all rushed back into class early. Apparently some of the older kids had decided to pick up one the poles to hold the lights over the skating rink and carry it around.
Grade school kids are neither judicious nor strong. In their attempt, they could not, as a group raise it all the way, so many just let go. Guy St-Laurent was at the end and didn’t know it was being dropped. While trying to hold it up, he slipped, and the pole hit his head. He died.
9 years is too young an age to learn about death. You are too old to be able to brush it off. Unfortunately, you are far too young to be able to rationalize what happened. You are also way too young to be questioning why God would let this happen. Grade 3 is wrong place to be trying to figure out life.
For the next 10 years or so, while the St-Laurents still lived there, Frank and I would always greet him: “Bonjour Mr. St-Laurent, comment aller vous aujourdhui?” You see , Guy had been an only child, and sub-consciously, I think Frank and I knew that the right thing to do was always show the poor man deep respect. He was always gracious and as we became teenagers, he would even engage us in small talk. We would, however , never discuss Guy.
November 27 is a day when I think about Guy; Guy was a cheerful and fun-loving guy. We liked him because he was older but would still talk to us. November 27, I always remember that day in grade 3. It usually also leads to me think about life, death, and other darker thoughts. Guy was a great kid. Grade school was a great time. This event was a life defining moment for me; I regret that the defining was going on when I was so young.
In the past friends and family have both commented to me that I take death really well. I lost 3 of my grand-parents when I was old enough to remember. I lost my best friend to AIDS in 1990. My Dad, Big Al, my hero, left us too soon in 2003. I don’t take it well. I move on with the grief that comes from someone dying because of what I did on November 27, 1969. You see it worked then, and it still works.
Everyone grieves differently. Guy was a good kid, a good son, and unfortunately, a good teacher. I learned to grieve that day, and even though it was terribly upsetting for a 9-year-old, Guy taught me well.
So Guy, no empty RIP, but please do rest in peace. You were far too young to die, your passing has helped me become who I am.
Guy St-Laurent, a good kid, will always be a part of me.
Cheers!
(I don’t go out of my way to be morose, really)
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Mowgli
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
Nita, my wife and I adopted a puppy. His name is Mowgli, he is goofy and fun-loving, and is the cutest one of the litter at the rescue centre. He appears to be a Sheppard/Lab mix. I am unabashedly a dog person. I don’t have a problem with cat people; my brother Rob is one. Having put up with me for over 10 years, Nita can also claim to be a dog person.
My granny, whose spaniel was named Brownie, is my first dog memory. I think Brownie died when I was about 4, and I think all the grandchildren (mea culpa, or maybe mea mega culpa) were just too much for the 14-year-old. Granny loved Brownie. Unfortunately, I think we scarred the bejeebers out of her.
My brother, Frank, and his family, are the penultimate dog persons of my side of the village; they have had 4 dogs, and have some very fond memories of them. Tux was their first, and he was a rescue Lab mix. As dogs go, Tux was a patient gentleman.
When Amanda, my older daughter, was learning to stand up, she discovered, that she could grab hold of the fur on Tux’s sides and pull herself up to a standing position. The first time she did this, Tux had a very strained look on his face, and looked somewhat sheepish when he walked away and Amanda landed on her butt. When next she tried it again, he licked her face. She put her hands up to stop him, and wasn’t able to grab his fur. Like I said, a gentleman.
A few years later, Frank was visiting us in Guelph, and he and I took my dog, Taffy for a walk. There was a dog across the street, and when Taffy started to head in that direction, I snapped my fingers. Taffy immediately heeled, and sat at my foot.
Later at home, Taffy was getting frisky, and wanted to play. I turned to her and said “Git” She found a toy to play with and left us alone. At this point Frank says to me “You bastard! I spent almost $1000 dollars sending 2 different dogs to obedience classes, and nobody ever taught me “Git” or finger snapping!” (These things Mowgli will learn.)
On Nita’s side of the village, THE doggie person is her sister Arti. Art and I have some deep philosophical differences when it comes to people training dogs, and dogs training people, but nobody cares more for their boys nor would sacrifice more for her babies than our Art. Straight up, if everyone treated each other the way Art treats her boys, terms like détente and IED would not exist.
When I first went to the shelter to see Mowgli’s litter, he was there with 2 brothers and a sister. They were playing. He looked at me, came over to say hi, and it was love at first bite. I handed over the adoption paperwork immediately. That same evening, I brought Nita out to meet him. When we arrived, Mowgli, né Calvin, had left for his overnight foster home, and we only had his litter mates to look at. Another puppy browser commented how they all looked like they had Rottweiller in them.
Red light! Nita does not like rotties, and thinks they are too aggressive and scary looking. We were able to make arrangements to stop by and see him where he was spending the night. Nita was voicing her opinions about rotties. I was worried that she would not like him, but when we got there, he had her at hello.
After Mowgli’s first night, I remembered just how distasteful house breaking is. After a nights sleep (good left out intentionally as Mowgli still thinks it’s OK to tell us he’s rolled over and there’s no one there to keep him company while he’s sleeping), and performing my morning ablutions to the strains of puppy yodeling, I get to start my day by receiving, with great humility, the gifts and offerings left by our operatic slipper chewer. I know some of these offerings need to be revered as they stink to high heaven.
So now I trudge out 2 or 3 times a day around our rainy neighborhood, dragging a reluctant soaked Mowgli behind me. He’s trying to figure out why I’m trying to drown him, and why I keep collecting his offerings; “Does he like my crap that much?”
Sorry folks, no life lesson here, just some unabashed puppy loving.
Cheers Mowgli!
(To honor all the dogs in our families; Brownie, Saxon, Poppy, Taffy, Tux, Cactus, Max, Phoebe, another Max, Georgie, Ulysses, Sam, Luther, Jack, Horton, Lola, and finally Mowgli. There will, no doubt, be more.)
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Lest We Forget
(Please read the next post "Remembrance Day" first)
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
In 1939, my Dad, Big Al, doctored his birth certificate from 1924 to 1922, thus convincing the recruiting officer that he was turning 18. He almost got away with it; he was about to board a train to Halifax for overseas shipment when his grandmother ratted him out to the Black Watch Colonel; he was 15. Not wanting to lose a trained warm body, they reassigned him to a variety of time-killing assignments, the funniest of which was teaching 4th year McGill cartography students how to read maps. Really.
Big Al signed up with the Black Watch, but was reassigned out of the hospital in England to the Highland Light Infantry, the HLI. After the surrender of Germany, Big Al informed his mother, in his last letter to her, that they were sending the boys home. In the same letter, he dropped the bomb on her that he had volunteered to go to war in the Orient.
Fortunately, the troop carrier with all the volunteers for the Orient was approaching Halifax harbor the day the Japanese surrendered. The Harbormaster, rather intelligently, did not allow them to tie up that night. I’m not sure there would have been sufficient alcohol in Halifax, and it would have been embarrassing to have to berth all the returning warriors in the pokey.
At one of our HLI reunions, Big Al met one his mates, who I think was named Maybee. Apparently during the taking of Buron, on a charge to take the town, they were ordered to ignore the fallen, and keep advancing. Big Al found his friend Maybee shot in the leg. Big Al was the communications man and remembered that his radio had been damaged with either bullets or shrapnel, thus rendered useless.
My Dad, my hero, stopped, cut off a piece of wire, and made a tourniquet for his friend, all the while being berated by his Lieutenant, who was threatening to shoot him. Big Al had no idea if his friend survived and as he explained to me, had assumed that Maybee was just one more of the dead, so had not thought of him until that day.
Maybee recounted how he had been evacuated to Juno beach, patched up, and sent back across the channel. When he woke up a few days later in England, the doctors told him that whoever had attended to his leg in France, not only saved his leg from amputation, but had also saved his life. Maybee also had no idea what had happened to Big Al and had also assumed his friend had been one more of the dead.
That was Maybee’s first reunion. Unfortunately, it was also his last; he died later that year. It may seem sad, and for me at the time, it was. I was wrong. You see, 2 old friends were reunited; one of them was able to see his friend healthy and happy, and the other was able to finally thank his friend for his leg and his life.
This came to be a trend year after year. More and more of these guys were passing away. They ware all special to my daughters and me, and we too would notice familiar faces were missing each year. That was sad. My last reunion was 2002, after which we moved to Calgary. My Dad made it to 1 more before he died on December 5th, 2003. 2004 would have had his mates looking around and being reminded that Charlie (Big AL was known as Charlie to his contemporaries) was now one of those who would not be back.
I wonder if the reunions still happen. I wonder if old Jock, the chaplain still looks around and blesses his boys the way he did in Europe, and the way he did the first Saturday of every June for over 50 years in Galt. I wonder if Maybee ever shared his story with anyone else.
But mostly, I wonder if everyone involved with sending our forces into harms way really knows stories like these, and relationships like these. I mean really know them. I’m not implying that they should be making emotional decisions; I just wish they would consider the emotions and experiences “Our Boys” go through. Every June for a decade, I saw their emotions. It affected me immensely, and I think those making decisions about our Forces should experience the same.
I will always remember old Jock, Maybee, and all the others whose names I have forgotten, but mostly, I will remember Private Robert Emmett Charles Bradley, self-proclaimed Acting Lance Corporal without-pay, as being at home among these honorable, ordinary men who did extraordinary things when called upon.
Please think about “Our Boys” during the moment of silence on every November 11, at the very least.
Je me souviens.
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
In 1939, my Dad, Big Al, doctored his birth certificate from 1924 to 1922, thus convincing the recruiting officer that he was turning 18. He almost got away with it; he was about to board a train to Halifax for overseas shipment when his grandmother ratted him out to the Black Watch Colonel; he was 15. Not wanting to lose a trained warm body, they reassigned him to a variety of time-killing assignments, the funniest of which was teaching 4th year McGill cartography students how to read maps. Really.
Big Al signed up with the Black Watch, but was reassigned out of the hospital in England to the Highland Light Infantry, the HLI. After the surrender of Germany, Big Al informed his mother, in his last letter to her, that they were sending the boys home. In the same letter, he dropped the bomb on her that he had volunteered to go to war in the Orient.
Fortunately, the troop carrier with all the volunteers for the Orient was approaching Halifax harbor the day the Japanese surrendered. The Harbormaster, rather intelligently, did not allow them to tie up that night. I’m not sure there would have been sufficient alcohol in Halifax, and it would have been embarrassing to have to berth all the returning warriors in the pokey.
At one of our HLI reunions, Big Al met one his mates, who I think was named Maybee. Apparently during the taking of Buron, on a charge to take the town, they were ordered to ignore the fallen, and keep advancing. Big Al found his friend Maybee shot in the leg. Big Al was the communications man and remembered that his radio had been damaged with either bullets or shrapnel, thus rendered useless.
My Dad, my hero, stopped, cut off a piece of wire, and made a tourniquet for his friend, all the while being berated by his Lieutenant, who was threatening to shoot him. Big Al had no idea if his friend survived and as he explained to me, had assumed that Maybee was just one more of the dead, so had not thought of him until that day.
Maybee recounted how he had been evacuated to Juno beach, patched up, and sent back across the channel. When he woke up a few days later in England, the doctors told him that whoever had attended to his leg in France, not only saved his leg from amputation, but had also saved his life. Maybee also had no idea what had happened to Big Al and had also assumed his friend had been one more of the dead.
That was Maybee’s first reunion. Unfortunately, it was also his last; he died later that year. It may seem sad, and for me at the time, it was. I was wrong. You see, 2 old friends were reunited; one of them was able to see his friend healthy and happy, and the other was able to finally thank his friend for his leg and his life.
This came to be a trend year after year. More and more of these guys were passing away. They ware all special to my daughters and me, and we too would notice familiar faces were missing each year. That was sad. My last reunion was 2002, after which we moved to Calgary. My Dad made it to 1 more before he died on December 5th, 2003. 2004 would have had his mates looking around and being reminded that Charlie (Big AL was known as Charlie to his contemporaries) was now one of those who would not be back.
I wonder if the reunions still happen. I wonder if old Jock, the chaplain still looks around and blesses his boys the way he did in Europe, and the way he did the first Saturday of every June for over 50 years in Galt. I wonder if Maybee ever shared his story with anyone else.
But mostly, I wonder if everyone involved with sending our forces into harms way really knows stories like these, and relationships like these. I mean really know them. I’m not implying that they should be making emotional decisions; I just wish they would consider the emotions and experiences “Our Boys” go through. Every June for a decade, I saw their emotions. It affected me immensely, and I think those making decisions about our Forces should experience the same.
I will always remember old Jock, Maybee, and all the others whose names I have forgotten, but mostly, I will remember Private Robert Emmett Charles Bradley, self-proclaimed Acting Lance Corporal without-pay, as being at home among these honorable, ordinary men who did extraordinary things when called upon.
Please think about “Our Boys” during the moment of silence on every November 11, at the very least.
Je me souviens.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Remembrance Day
Yes CJ, its story time with Gerry once more.
When we were kids, we marked Remembrance Day and honored those who served, like everyone else. This was a day to honor the Veterans. Our Dad, Big Al had also served, but we would not really learn about it until much later in life.
They taught us in school that you should respect the veterans, which we did, but Big Al did not discuss his experiences much, so we didn’t either. When we became teenagers, we found that sometimes at Christmas, the Drambuie would loosen his lips, and he would tell us tales from the war. These were few and far between, and usually humorous stories about waiting for D-Day.
My personal favorite was about the pub they used to go to while training in England. When there was an air raid warning, everyone would have to evacuate, and leave their beers behind, until they returned. Big Al told us how he would leave a note tucked under the edge of his beer saying “I spit in here!” This was apparently greatly successful until once when he returned, someone had appended “So did I”.
Until Big Al had his strokes in the early 80’s, he only really discussed battle with his younger brother, and it was usually Big Al telling him that he had no idea what it was like. After his strokes, he would start to tell Mom stories after seeing or hearing things that triggered his memories. After a while, Mom started to record these.
At the time, Mom started copying letters Big Al had written my Granny while serving in Europe. I will keep my copies of these letters forever. Mom was somehow contacted by an old friend of my sister who was doing research for a book on Canadians in WWII and was more than happy to pass on her materials to him. My daughters took turns taking the book to school on Remembrance Day for the teachers to use.
Quebec and Ontario do not recognize November 11 as a statutory holiday, so school kids get to be taught in class, and people at work get to observe a minute of silence, when hey remember to. I have, when working in Ontario, since Big Al's strokes, to at least take the morning off in order to go to the Cenotaph to honor my father’s memory. Alberta and BC observe this as a holiday, and every year, Nita shows her love for me by accompanying me and holds me tight when my emotions get the better of me.
But back to today’s story. While dredging up his memories, Big Al wanted to try and reconnect with his war-mates. Mom somehow found out that Big Al’s Sergeant, Big Mike, was in a nursing home in Guelph. I was living there, so I was asked to deliver a letter to him. According to the ladies at the nursing home, Big Mike was somewhat reclusive, but they would bring him the letter. A week later he had died, but I am certain he saw the letter. This was 1992.
Mom diligently kept digging and discovered that Big Al’s regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, held a reunion every year on or about June 6, as they were a D-Day regiment. The reunions were held at the regimental barracks, at Main & Ainslie, in Cambridge. The barracks were in Galt, which is south Cambridge, and about 25 Km from where I was living.
Big Al reconnected at the right time. Our first reunion was 1992, and the following year the HLI were planning their 50th anniversary of D-Day, by going to Normandy. Fortunately, my folks were all for this. They went with the regiment and had a wonderful time. Mom was the only partially French person, and acted as translator for the group.
From the letters published in the book, my favorite was one that chronicled the entry of Big Al’s platoon into the town of Bernier-sur-mer .Their mission was to ensure that the town was clear of Nazis. Their officer thought Big Al was French, and sent him in for a recce ,the reasoning being that they would know if the town was Nazi occupied if they got shot at. No shots were fired, so on the return ride through the town, Big Al started singing the only French he knew-the opening to hockey night when the Habs skated out on ice. The sounds of “Les Canadiens sont la” must have worked, at this point the entire village poured out, and the mayor insisted Big Al and his jeep-mates be inscribed in the city ledger as being the first of the liberators.
They returned to the village in 1994, and Big Al had to walk into the village. He was so slow with his cane that a few of the ladies from the village met him and escorted him into the village. Although this may seem like a minor thing, I found it incredibly moving, and am continually amazed at how well the French honor our Canadian soldiers.
We should too.
Cheers
Ps. I have many more Big Al WWII stories, for the next blog
When we were kids, we marked Remembrance Day and honored those who served, like everyone else. This was a day to honor the Veterans. Our Dad, Big Al had also served, but we would not really learn about it until much later in life.
They taught us in school that you should respect the veterans, which we did, but Big Al did not discuss his experiences much, so we didn’t either. When we became teenagers, we found that sometimes at Christmas, the Drambuie would loosen his lips, and he would tell us tales from the war. These were few and far between, and usually humorous stories about waiting for D-Day.
My personal favorite was about the pub they used to go to while training in England. When there was an air raid warning, everyone would have to evacuate, and leave their beers behind, until they returned. Big Al told us how he would leave a note tucked under the edge of his beer saying “I spit in here!” This was apparently greatly successful until once when he returned, someone had appended “So did I”.
Until Big Al had his strokes in the early 80’s, he only really discussed battle with his younger brother, and it was usually Big Al telling him that he had no idea what it was like. After his strokes, he would start to tell Mom stories after seeing or hearing things that triggered his memories. After a while, Mom started to record these.
At the time, Mom started copying letters Big Al had written my Granny while serving in Europe. I will keep my copies of these letters forever. Mom was somehow contacted by an old friend of my sister who was doing research for a book on Canadians in WWII and was more than happy to pass on her materials to him. My daughters took turns taking the book to school on Remembrance Day for the teachers to use.
Quebec and Ontario do not recognize November 11 as a statutory holiday, so school kids get to be taught in class, and people at work get to observe a minute of silence, when hey remember to. I have, when working in Ontario, since Big Al's strokes, to at least take the morning off in order to go to the Cenotaph to honor my father’s memory. Alberta and BC observe this as a holiday, and every year, Nita shows her love for me by accompanying me and holds me tight when my emotions get the better of me.
But back to today’s story. While dredging up his memories, Big Al wanted to try and reconnect with his war-mates. Mom somehow found out that Big Al’s Sergeant, Big Mike, was in a nursing home in Guelph. I was living there, so I was asked to deliver a letter to him. According to the ladies at the nursing home, Big Mike was somewhat reclusive, but they would bring him the letter. A week later he had died, but I am certain he saw the letter. This was 1992.
Mom diligently kept digging and discovered that Big Al’s regiment, the Highland Light Infantry, held a reunion every year on or about June 6, as they were a D-Day regiment. The reunions were held at the regimental barracks, at Main & Ainslie, in Cambridge. The barracks were in Galt, which is south Cambridge, and about 25 Km from where I was living.
Big Al reconnected at the right time. Our first reunion was 1992, and the following year the HLI were planning their 50th anniversary of D-Day, by going to Normandy. Fortunately, my folks were all for this. They went with the regiment and had a wonderful time. Mom was the only partially French person, and acted as translator for the group.
From the letters published in the book, my favorite was one that chronicled the entry of Big Al’s platoon into the town of Bernier-sur-mer .Their mission was to ensure that the town was clear of Nazis. Their officer thought Big Al was French, and sent him in for a recce ,the reasoning being that they would know if the town was Nazi occupied if they got shot at. No shots were fired, so on the return ride through the town, Big Al started singing the only French he knew-the opening to hockey night when the Habs skated out on ice. The sounds of “Les Canadiens sont la” must have worked, at this point the entire village poured out, and the mayor insisted Big Al and his jeep-mates be inscribed in the city ledger as being the first of the liberators.
They returned to the village in 1994, and Big Al had to walk into the village. He was so slow with his cane that a few of the ladies from the village met him and escorted him into the village. Although this may seem like a minor thing, I found it incredibly moving, and am continually amazed at how well the French honor our Canadian soldiers.
We should too.
Cheers
Ps. I have many more Big Al WWII stories, for the next blog
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