A veteran friend of mine and I happened to be comparing notes about an upcoming overseas trip we’ll be taking together. We were itemizing some of the clothing he might need for the climate where we’ll be travelling. I reminded him about the possibility of rain at night and the likelihood of warm temperatures in the daytime. I used some reliable advice:
“Pack layers,” I suggested, “so you can add or subtract as needed.”
“Why do you think I take several days to pack?” he pointed out. “I like to plan these things.”
“So that’s the secret,” I kidded him. “You take almost as many days to pack as we will be travelling.”
Spring flooding of the Muskoka River through Bracebridge, Ont. Photo on Twitter, Daryn Jones.
I could hear it before I could see it. It sounded a bit like a strong wind blowing through the trees. But it was a constant white-noise sound. Then I could feel it. The earth beneath our feet seemed to vibrate. Not an earthquake, but as I walked onto the wilderness bridge, I could feel it being pounded.
The force of surging water seemed to rattle the steel and stone of the structure to its core. I stood there at the centre of the bridge spanning the river where it pours over a large drop known as Victoria Falls and I marvelled at Nature.
“This is as close as I’d ever want to get to a tsunami,” I suggested to a one of my travelling partners. “What power.”
Ontario Premier Leslie Frost, left, and Toronto Mayor Allan Lamport pull the switch to officially start Toronto Transit Commission’s subway service on March 30, 1954.
I guess because they demand the greatest attention on the world stage or occupy the most broadcast time and newspaper space, we tend to pay closest attention to national political figures when they speak.
When, for example, Sir Wilfrid Laurier said, “The 20th century belongs to Canada,” or Pierre Elliot Trudeau said, “Just watch me,” we remember the statement and the speaker. We don’t tend to remember, however, what Toronto Mayor Allan Lamport said about the way his city grew and prospered.
“No city ever became great,” he said, “without a subway.”
A Canadian Sherman tanks of B Squadron, Lord Strathcona’s Horse grind a path up the bank of the Imjin River, in 1952.In his book, Deadlock in Korea, author Ted Barris chronicles the stories of the men who, after surviving the horrors and strain of war, often faced a new struggle to reintegrate into a society that was eager to forget the war. THE CANADIAN PRESS/National Archive of Canada
VANCOUVER – It was one of those aching moments of clarity, interview gold that every author and historian hopes to achieve, one that said so much about how the Korean War was perceived in its time and the wounds it left for the people who fought it.
It is a story that sticks with writer Ted Barris, but belongs to Bill Jackson, who fought with the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.
He returned home to Brooks, Alberta to an empty train platform in October 1952 and when his proud father later introduced him at the local legion branch a voice from the back of the room told the young soldier to sit down.
“So you were in Korea? So what?”
The 516 who died in what the Liberal government of the day called a United Nations “police action” paled in comparison to the slaughter of the two preceding World Wars.
Gold Team rep Tommy Redford hoists the UAH trophy for the Men’s Over-40 championship.
We sealed it just after 3 o’clock Sunday afternoon. None of us expected it. Everybody figured we would be on the outside looking in. But it was just the opposite. We prevailed over all the opposition and when we gathered for a victory photograph, somebody put it facetiously, but appropriately.
You’d think in a room full of people over 70, there’d be somebody with a light for candles on a birthday cake for a 90-year-old. Ronnie Egan and I had to do the cake cutting without lit candles.
The event was coming to its climax. Guests were assembled. Speeches from dignitaries, family and friends were in the books. We had even sung “Happy Birthday” to the birthday girl. All we had left was to present the cake and candles to her, invite her to make a wish and watch her cut the cake. But there was a problem. Nobody had a way to light the candles. No problem, I thought, I’ll ask the audience.
“Anybody got a light?” I asked. And I looked out at a sea of faces expecting a smoker or a boy scout to come forward.
But nobody moved. Not one person had either a lighter or a book of matches to offer. If any group might be expected to have one or the other in its pockets, for sure, I thought, this one would.
When I attended public school in the village of Agincourt (now part of Scarborough) because it was nearly a rural school the playground was sizable. Still, during recess, the boys in my class had to find the tallest maple tree – just off school grounds – to climb. The principal realized if one of us were hurt, he’d be liable. So he declared the tree “off limits.” That didn’t stop us. One day, we were blithely enjoying the tree, when out strode Principal Kilpatrick in a rage. Everybody ran for cover… except me.
“Were you playing in that tree?” Kilpatrick asked me directly.
“Yes,” I said, because I couldn’t hide the fact. (more…)
Centennial College in Toronto recently asked me to organize a roundtable discussion during several days of lectures, study and debate on human rights. I agreed and have approached several acquaintances of mine in the federal civil service to participate. I was hopeful, in one case, that an expert on federal law might join the roundtable to offer a Canadian perspective.
“I’d love to, Ted,” he said. “But I’ve been told not to speak publicly on anything.”
“Not you too,” I responded. “Not like the scientists.” (more…)
For some it’s the first ride on the Ferris wheel or the bumping cars. It might be that first night public skating and holding hands with someone of the opposite sex. For a lot of young people it’s Prom night. I guess it depends on when the parents in the equation think the son or daughter is ready to move from childhood toward adulthood. For me, that move came at an unusual moment. It came, after harassing my mother for months, when she finally relented.
“OK, OK,” she said. “You can go, but you have to go with friends.”
You see, when I was about 10 or 12 years old, the place we considered the ultimate destination was the Royal Ontario Museum. (more…)
She does it every Wednesday night. By about midnight, my hockey buddies and I have put in a recreational hour-and-a-half scrimmage at the arena, showered, changed and landed at our favourite watering hole, Jersey’s in Uxbridge, Ont. Most of us have put in very average performances on the ice. Others claim they produced stellar goals or stand-on-their-head saves. But at the bar, thanks to our server, Tracey Surette, everybody gets the star treatment. Before any one of my teammates is three or four steps inside the front door, she’s got his favourite brand already in hand, the lid popped and the liquid poured.
“How’re you doing,” she always says with a smile. “Nice to see you.”
