I accomplished something this week I’ve wanted to for probably 50 years. I recently received an email from Lew Gregor, friend and membership chair of the Royal Canadian Legion. He was inviting me to the Branch 170 general meeting Tuesday night.
“I want to welcome you,” his note said, “as a new member of the Legion.” (more…)
She clutched the folded papers in her hands for quite some time. When the officer on board HMCS Sackville called upon her, she knew it was her turn to speak. Then, though unaccustomed to public speaking, Catherine Wilson stepped forward in front of the warship’s company and other civilians assembled there, unfolded the speech, and began:
“My father, John Wallace Potter – better known as Potts – was born on March 10, 1922, in Toronto,” she said. “It took him three attempts to enlist before the Royal Canadian Navy finally accepted him in May 1941.” (more…)
The archivist at the museum had no idea it was there. In fact, when Jean-Phillippe Stienne applied for and landed the job as new archivist and collections manager of the museum, archives and art gallery in Nelson, B.C., back in 2017, he knew nothing about the explosive history buried beneath his new office.
“I came here because it’s a beautiful part of the world,” Steinne, 43, told me during a speaking stop I made in British Columbia last week. “I’d actually been working here a few years before I knew about the mystery under the museum.”
When I asked what he was talking about, Stienne, or “J.P.” as everybody calls him, walked me out the front door of his museum (formerly the Nelson post office) and down a back alley to an adjacent building. He unlocked an exterior door, which revealed an inner door with a thick circular porthole window and a black-lettered sign that read, “Nelson’s Cold War Bunker.” (more…)
When I was in Grade 3, back in the mid-1950s, an older and belligerent kid chose me as his victim in the schoolyard one day. He picked on me because I wore glasses. He knew I had just arrived in the neighbourhood, so he teased me for being the new boy. He taunted me because he knew I didn’t have any friends to turn to. He made fun of my name.
“Hey, Teddy Bear,” he kept calling from across the yard.
Bad memories of that schoolyard experience returned to me last week when Russian President Vladimir Putin sent his columns of tanks, trucks and soldiers charging across his western frontier into Ukraine. (more…)
Not a large man, he stood about as tall as the art easel he was about to unveil. But by the motion of his hands as he spoke and the animation in his face, we knew we had to listen. He wore a bright red and white shirt (I think I’ve always seen him in the colours of Canada). His commentary spoke of pride. His eyes sparkled telling a veteran’s story.
Then, he pulled away the easel’s covering to reveal his latest portrait honouring Second World War veteran and friend Harry Watts. There was instant applause from the audience, there to honour Harry’s 90th birthday in 2013. Then, portrait artist Dave Sopha and veteran Harry Watts hugged a genuine hug of appreciation and respect.
“Veterans like Harry Watts are larger than life,” Dave said. “We owe them everything.” (more…)
He entered the hall a few minutes before the historical society began its monthly meeting. With a service dog at his side, he made his way to the last row of chairs and quietly sat down. His chocolate Lab settled beside him, and the meeting began. The chair of the society welcomed everybody, in particular the first-time attendees.
“Welcome to all our regular members,” she said, “and to those here for the first time too.”
I could see that being centred out that way made the man in the back row a bit uncomfortable. But friendly smiles were exchanged between the society chair and the new faces and the atmosphere became relaxed. (more…)
It was getting late. I’d been interviewing him for several hours. He’d given me such illuminating stories for my research of the Korean War. But this veteran had one last lesson for me. And I stumbled on it unsuspectingly. I asked the former sniper with the Royal Canadian Regiment what sort of emotions he’d felt during his time overseas.
“No such thing,” he told me. “Emotion was a luxury we had learned to give up in the army.” (more…)
About five years ago, I travelled to Kitchener to help a Second World War vet celebrate his 90th birthday. Harry Watts had served as a dispatch rider, a.k.a. motorcycle messenger, in Italy and Holland, 1943-45. Suddenly, during the birthday wishes and cake cutting for Harry, members of the Canadian Army of Veterans (CAV) pulled up on motorcycles to pay tribute to Harry, their eldest member.
“We’ve come to help you celebrate, Harry,” the CAV riders said.
“Thank you, brothers,” said Harry, his eyes welling up with emotion. (more…)
I almost missed it. My daughter and I were up in the bleachers watching her son at a house league hockey practice. The six-year-olds were skating, falling, trying to stickhandle and the arena was bursting with noise. Then I spotted this one boy standing way off to the side, crying, wanting off the ice. One of the volunteer coaches skated over to him, got down on his knees and quickly connected with the boy in conversation.
The boy stopped crying. The coach’s face looked very encouraging and before long the boy was over the trauma and re-joined the practice. Nobody seemed to notice the exchange. It was low key, calming, but clearly motivational. And I thought of that quote by that U.S. national basketball coach from the 1970s.
“The true test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is looking,” John Wooden once said. (more…)
On my last day of classes in 1964, with nothing left to teach us, my Grade 9 phys-ed instructor just gave us a bat and a ball and told us to go play some baseball work-ups. I loved playing shortstop, the position my dad liked most too. Not long into the game, however, the catcher and I chased the same infield fly and we collided head-on. I broke my nose, lost some front teeth and was knocked out cold. I spent several weeks recuperating at home in bed. My father happened to be writing in his office at the house, so he spent time trying to distract me from my pain by telling me stories. It wasn’t long before I popped the big one.
“Hey Dad, what did you do in the war?” I asked. (more…)