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…)
We are virtually alone down this back road in northern France. A breeze rustling new spring leaves and chirping birds overhead provide the only sounds here. Nevertheless, because the lawn and flowerbeds look so immaculate, we know gardeners have tended here recently. At a headstone engraved with a maple leaf, our group gathers to listen to fellow traveller Robin John.
“John Alexander Edward Hughes enlisted in the Canadian Forces on May 22, 1917, five days after his 18th birthday,” she said of her uncle.
Which meant that Hughes was just legally eligible to enlist. (more…)
Not since the Second World War has this country required that young people complete service in the military. The Canadian Forces have relied solely on volunteers since 1945. Consequently, this week, while attending a student awards night at Centennial College, I was surprised to meet a young scholarship recipient who’d previously completed military service. His name was Yonghwan Seok.
“Before I came to Canada in 2018,” he told me, “I dropped out of (school) and went straight into two-year, mandatory military service.” (more…)
It was a critical moment. My teacher friend Tish MacDonald stood behind the tombstone collecting her thoughts. Several dozen of her students from Uxbridge Secondary School quieted down in front of the headstone with the inscription, “Rifleman, Donald McKay Barnard,” etched into it. They waited for their teacher to offer testimony. They waited for Tish to speak her truth.
“This is why we come from Canada,” she said, barely holding back tears, “to respect what was lost here and to honour what men like Fred Barnard and his brother Donald sacrificed as young men.” (more…)
They all stood in a circle. All the men wore dark-blue Legion blazers or military dress uniforms. Most were greying or bald. I knew I was in trouble if I was going to find my specific contact – one of the featured guests at last Saturday’s CNE Warriors’ Day Parade – because I didn’t know what he looked like. I just knew he was a veteran. As I greeted the group of men, they all turned to face me. And I immediately knew I was saved. They all wore name tags.
“Mr. Stafford,” I said, glancing down at his name plate. “Ed Stafford, Veteran,” the tag said. (more…)
Last Friday, when the tributes, reminiscences and spiritual acknowledgements at our neighbour Ronnie Egan’s funeral came to an end, many of us retired to the basement hall of the church for conversation and, well, refreshments. There was lots of coffee and tea and something to tide everybody over. The banquet tables were laid out with veggies and dip, cheese and crackers, fruits and sweets and, of course, sandwiches.
“What else?” I heard someone say. “Ronnie wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, but to have egg-salad sandwiches.” (more…)
We met over the Red Maple Leaf. Or, I guess it was actually under it. We had only been her neighbours for a while, when she looked up at the Canadian flag hanging at my front door and took exception to it.
“You’d better take that down,” she said sternly. “It’s against the law for the national emblem to be that tattered.”
Originally resentful that my neighbour should call me out on the physical condition of my flag, I soon learned that my neighbour – Rodine Doris Mary Buckley-Beevers Egan – had every right to demand that I replace the flag. Not just to ensure that I wasn’t charged by the Government of Canada or the Queen herself for disgracing a national symbol, Ronnie felt personally obliged to fix such things. Indeed, I sensed it wasn’t only her nature, but her occupation. (more…)
We sat around the breakfast table last Sunday morning, when our hosts in the eastern Ontario village of Mallorytown offered some insights to the job of community building. Bob and Barbara Morrison, entertaining my wife and me last weekend during one of my speaking stops, explained their secret to saving a piece of history where they live – the Mallory Coach House.
“We needed a place to house and display some village history,” Bob Morrison told us. “It seemed the right building in which to do it.”
Thinking the acquisition of something as historic as a coach house must have involved expensive legal assistance, complicated rezoning by village government, drawn out discussions with former owners and endless searches through deeds and archives, I asked what it was like to acquire the building.
“The former owner got out of bed one day and left,” Bob Morrison said. “We just put together the volunteers and fundraising and bought it.”
Sometimes the “keep it simple” axiom works best, even when dealing with items as precious as historic buildings. The Morrisons explained that their municipality, known as the Front of Yonge Township, organized a committee to finance the venture and to take on the renovation in 2005. Three years later, the volunteers had gutted the place down to the stone walls, refurbished it as a museum and opened it to the public as the Mallory Coach House.
Last weekend, we also dined with a number of the people behind that acquisition and renovation project. Among them was former Front of Yonge Township Councillor David Wells, who has taken the time to research and write “The History of Mallorytown,” published in 2011. In it, Wells documents the colourful history of the coach house, from its 19th century beginnings as a stagecoach way station, where teamsters could hitch up fresh teams of horses, where travellers could escape the bumpy ride and where stories of the road were born.
“It took an average of eight days to travel from Kingston to Montreal, a distance of 286 kilometres,” Wells writes. “Today we can cover the same distance in around three hours and much more comfortably.”
During the same weekend trip I travelled to a local branch of the Royal Canadian Legion in Brockville, Ont., to speak to members and friends of the Thousand Islands Writers’ Festival. The organizer had hoped to attract several dozen to the event; Russ Disotel was delighted to welcome as many as 75 people to his inaugural wintertime festival reading and historical talk. But as often happens, I learned as much history as I presented.
Prior to my talk about a Second World War subject, a man approached and introduced himself as a currently serving member of the Brockville Rifles and former peacekeeper with The Royal Canadian Regiment. Kurt Grant served an eight-month tour of duty in Croatia. But Grant’s service to his country wasn’t only represented by his service ribbons and sergeant’s stripes; it’s also captured in a piece of history he holds dear – his 2004 published book, “All Tigers, No Donkeys: A Canadian Soldier in Croatia, 1994-1995.” And lest I thought citizen soldiers such as Sgt. Grant made history keeping warring ethnic groups apart by accident, I learned otherwise.
“Because the military didn’t have the money to pay its [reservists] anything above the rank of private,” he wrote in his book, “we all chose to forfeit our rank and pay so that we might be considered for this tour.”
His book offers a diary of his experience of deployment into a region of nearly out-of-sight, out-of-mind peacekeeping, yes. But it also delves into the psyche of a modern Canadian soldier that few civilians know or understand. As I spoke briefly with Kurt Grant, I learned that military history doesn’t always come from wars and battles long past. The ink can still be drying to be worthy of our paying attention.
“This is the view from the bottom of the pile,” he notes in his preface, “from the pointy end of the stick was it were, not from the lofty heights of the headquarters shack.”
There was one more piece of history I discovered last weekend, one I hadn’t expected at all. As I wrapped up my talk on Saturday to the Thousand Island Writers’ Festival, we were about to retire to refreshments, when a woman asked to address the hall. She rose and complimented the festival for its event, those present for their attendance and me for my passion to preserve the stories of veterans. Moments later when the woman approached for an autograph in one of my books, I recognized her. Joanne Watson had been my high school French teacher. I hadn’t seen her since 1968, a time and history I never expected to revisit.
Bumping into history, like refurbishing a coach house or listening to a younger vet, isn’t complicated at all. But it can educate you in a hurry.
The conversation began much the way many of my chats with men of a certain age do. I got his birth date. The man told me he was born in January 1923. He quickly pointed out he’ll be 91 in the New Year.
Next, I asked about where he’d grown up and because he’d lived through the Second World War, where he’d served. He explained he’d been with the East Yorkshire Regiment on D-Day as part of the Operation Overlord invasion force.
I asked Geoff Leeming if he would be our honorary veteran at the Uxbridge Oilies Remembrance Tournament on Nov. 9 at the arena.
“Fine,” he said, “but you know I didn’t serve in the Canadian Army. It was the British Army.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” I said. “You’re a veteran in my books.”
The ceremony was about to begin. Most of the dignitaries had assembled. The sound system was live. The pipe and drum bands were tuned and ready to go. But the MC of the proceedings held off until just before 11 o’clock.
“We’re awaiting some guests of honour,” Colonel Bob Chapman, the MC, said. “They’ll be here momentarily.”
Then a transit-sized bus pulled up to the curb on Simcoe Street in Oshawa. The bus was resplendent in poppy insignia and Remembrance Day slogans and when its doors opened, out came about a dozen veterans, most under their own power, but clearly needing some assistance. That’s when this heart-warming thing happened. (more…)