My Great-Uncle's Story - Bonnie Way

Every year when Remembrance Day approaches, I think of my great-uncle and tell myself that this year, I will get around to asking him for his story. He was the only one of six brothers who fought in World War II, serving somewhere in Italy—but that’s about all I know of the story. It is not something I’ve heard him speak about often, though I’m not sure if that’s a cultural or a personal reticence.


I’ve seen a plaque on his wall—put together by his artistic granddaughter, I think—that shows off some of his papers, medals, and memorabilia from the war. At one time, he handwrote four pages of notes for my younger brother, who was working on a project for his English class. My brother lost those notes. They were only the story in a nutshell, but they would have been a great starting place.

My great-uncle is ninety-nine this year, I believe, and still sharp as a spike. I saw him this summer, when I dropped in on my grandparents while he was there playing cards. He had no problem remembering me, though it had been a few years since I had seen him last, and I think he was walking himself back to his room at the lodge when he left.

Because of his age, I realize that time is running out if I want to tell his story. He and my grandpa are the only ones left of the six brothers. At the same time, a shyness holds me back. Despite the fact that he lives in the same town as my grandparents, I see my great-uncle only every few years. It’s hard to sit down with someone you don’t really know—even if they are family—or maybe especially if they are family—and say, “Hey, tell me about the time you fought in the war.”

Maybe this Christmas—with the skills I’ve learned in interviewing in Writing 100, some ideas from the other profile pieces we’ve studied, and a newfound confidence in my own writing abilities—I’ll find a time to sit down and chat with him, to ask him the questions that I’ve been wondering, to record his story not only for myself but for my daughters and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Who do you remember at this time of year? Whose story do you wish to tell? And what holds you back from remembering or telling?

~ © Bonnie Way
http://thekoalabearwriter.blogspot.com/

Amanda - Glynis Belec

Sometimes I watch you.
I watch the way you look at your child, my grandchild.
I watch and wonder where the years have gone and how it is that you are now a mother.

Then I see the dependent, adoring way your child looks at you.
I remember when you used to look at me like that.

But time marches on
You, my once desperately, dependent daughter have become a fiercely
independent woman.
Did I teach you that?

We had our moments of conflict.
We faced joys and challenges together.
We overcame grief and sadness.
We triumphed.

I love spending time with you.
I appreciate when you ask me for advice.
It makes me feel valued and worthy.

Our relationship is special.
We are more than mother and daughter.
We have become friends.

Small Gestures - Karen Toews

Saturday afternoon I often listen to DNTO (Definitely Not the Opera) on CBC Radio One. October 23rd's program highlighted stories about the small gestures people send each other: their significance, intimacy, peculiarity. Typical of these kind of programs that focus on the regular stuff of life that most of us don't give a second thought to, the host invited listeners to contribute their own stories about small gestures.

Contrary to the many times I've heard this offer with nary a thought that related to me, this time I immediately knew I had a story to share.

Of my parents, my dad is the quiet one: always a diligent and steady worker, a kind and gentle man who deserved my respect. He's someone I've never wanted to intentionally hurt - from the days of youthful testing-my-wings through to the present when my visits with him are an occasional and precious treat. Though Dad is soft-spoken, he has a sure conviction about important things of life; like integrity, compassion, respect; and his way of communicating those values has been in keeping with his personality.

Growing up in a devout Christian family, we faithfully attended church together: at least two times a week, often more. Church was a place of worship and biblical learning - and a gathering place to visit. When I was about nine or ten Mom and Dad let me sit with my friends, but I just knew I was in my Dad's sights, regardless of where we sat. We did the normal kid things like writing notes, comparing the contents of our purses, whispering when we thought nobody was watching and when something would strike us as funny, trying hard to make ourselves stop giggling. Every once in a while I could feel my Dad's eyes on me and I couldn't resist a look to see if he was watching. If we made eye contact and he had one eyebrow raised and the other lowered, I knew I had better pull myself in line - right now. Mercifully, he never embarrassed me by getting out of his pew to come and ensure an improvement in my behaviour. All I needed was that one small, but meaningful, gesture to smarten me up in a hurry.

I've been given a lifetime of gestures from my Dad. Just a few months ago, grasping my hand to say good-bye and slipping me a $20 bill. On my wedding day, his gentle tug on my arm - my soon-to-be husband singing as we walked down the aisle wasn't a surprise to Dad. The little endearments shown to my children - and some not so little, like sitting in a rocking chair with babe in arms for two hours so as not to wake her up.

Actions speak loud and clear. The small intimate ones can sometimes be the most powerful.

Every Child Needs Something Big - Pamela Mytroen

The train bumps over the switches and I feel the wave as it rolls from the engine, through the sleeper cars, dining car, the coach I sit in, and continues on behind me to the end of the train snaking through the mountains of Montana. Its crossing song composed of ancient harmonies cries out to warn careless drivers or hungry deer on the tracks. For some sleeping passengers,it soothes their dreams. For myself, awake in the dark coach, it sings a song of memory and longing.

Every child needs something big in their lives. For me it was the train.

As a young girl, living in Canadian Pacific Railway Stations, the sacred sigh of the whistle resonated with my beginnings, calling to conception. And its lingering cadence on the prairie horizon spoke to my eternal soul. But mostly, it defined my childhood by intrigue, and sweetness.

My morning greeting and bed-time lullaby - the sleepy serenade in the distance - reminded me that all was well with the world, at least on my side of the tracks, and when the engines grew closer and rumbled by, shaking the windows and walls of my bedroom, I felt small and humbled and hidden by God.

My earliest memories are red, roaring and rumbling. I could feel the roots of my teeth every time. But my Daddy was always in his office where the safe fragrance of bleached paper and carbon cleansed my insecurities.

I thought every child stood barefoot on the sun-warmed platform, amazed by their tall father. He stood with yellow orders clipped to a tall “P” and leaned out over the tracks as the train stormed by. The engineer looped his arm through the wooden circle, took what he needed and tossed away the alphabet letter. Didn’t every child get to chase the train as it sped away, retrieve the hoop and return it to a Dad who would toss you in the air and hug you?

And when the floor shook didn’t every child’s secrets and prayers tumble out like marbles in a game of Kerplunk, only to pick them back up again, all slippery and rolling about, and quickly tuck them back in before anybody noticed?

Big boundaries hedged me in. A red bracket in front, the CPR Engine, and a steepled bracket behind – the Baptist Church. The bustling Co-op Grocery store and my flag-poled school across town completed the parenthesis of life around me and I knew my place.

It was the in-between where I lived and found sanctuary. My back yard, just down the slope from the relentless rails, beckoned me into its garden of grass and secrecy. Tall pines watched and whispered as the train’s minor melody inspired mysteries to be acted out with friends and games to be played. And when the freight cars passed by we scuttled up to the tracks and walked on molten-steel, with arms stretched out, skinny legs balancing just so until the aroma of fresh bread wafted towards us and we raced each other back home.

Inside my house another harbor welcomed. Never mind that we didn’t have running water. We had the luxury of a freight room with an expanse of hard wood floors made just for running and sliding on sock feet. Crates of yellow chicks waiting to be transported, jiggled and cheeped until my sister and I pried open the lid and pressed the downy velvet against our cheeks.

Peering into Daddy's office with my chin resting on the smooth worn ticket counter, the dong of the large pendulum clock and the squeal of his castor-wheeled chair became the prelude of my measured days and as I worship here in the ceremonial sway of spark and steel I am thankful for having had big things in a small life.


by Pam Mytroen

A Bad Father Is Better Than None - Bruce Atchison

Father's Day can be a lonely time for children deprived of their dads through divorce or death. While their peers are happily making cards and buying presents, these unfortunate children feel unfairly excluded.

My dad was far from perfect but he occasionally demonstrated his fondness for me. In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I wrote of one sublime moment when I felt that rarely-experienced parental bond strongly. In the following vignette, I had just been flown home for the summer holidays after six months at Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, B.C.

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I felt glad when I met Dad at the airport but my joy turned to disgust when he insisted on stopping at a bar on the way home. He had left me many times before in the Volkswagen with nothing to do, occasionally for hours, while he had fun with his friends. Now Dad kept me waiting once more, delaying my arrival. As my father drove through Fort Saskatchewan, the Volkswagen stalled and refused to start. After he tried to revive the engine and only succeeded in wearing down the battery, he slammed his fist in disgust on the dashboard.

It was fortunate that the breakdown happened by Ray's Auto Body Shop, a place where I often played. The old cars were extremely entertaining to sit in. I spent many happy hours in the yard, driving to many wonderful places in my imaginary world, whenever the adults weren't watching.

"Well, I guess that's it for the car. Let's walk the rest of the way home," Dad suggested. "I'll phone the shop and they can fix it." I agreed and Dad unloaded my suitcases.

"Is that too heavy for you?" he asked as I picked up a case with each hand.

"It's alright, Dad. I'm a big boy now."

The walk home in the warm sunlight was one of those sublime moments in my life. I felt that father-son bond as we talked and strolled through the familiar streets of my home town. "I wish Dad was like this all the time," I thought. I heartily longed for a real dad and not an alcoholic who occasionally hit Mom.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of what life was like in that government-run institution. These range from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of mischief. This 196-page paperback, containing 6 black and white photos, is available through the PayPal-equipped InScribe website.