My Father's War

It was during my university years that I first became aware of the peace movement. The Vietnam war was raging and I joined the campus marches and protest rallies which at the time seemed like the right thing to do. I loved the protest songs and the anti war performers and of course the like minded social contacts. At the time, peace was closely linked to the civil rights movement and the fight for desegregation. The irony of fighting for peace never occurred to me. I was a peacenik in the true spirit. I became the Wikipedia definition of "Someone who opposes armed conflict in general, or a particular conflict; or who publicly opposes the proliferation  of weapons."

My father volunteered for the Canadian Army Reserve Unit in November 1942 at the tender age of 27. Leaving his wife and one-year-old baby girl behind, he joined the Perth Regiment for initial training.  His active service began two months later in January 1943 when he joined the Royal Canadian Ordinance Corps in Barriefield, Ontario, just north of Kingston. He became an ammunition examiner: trained to inspect, repair, test,  store, and modify all ammunition. His voluntary nature was exploited when he was stationed at #3 Depot in Ottawa where he volunteered for "physical test". It is estimated that approximately 3700 members of the Canadian military volunteered to participate as human subjects in secret chemical warfare agent experiments. Tests were conducted  in Suffield, Alberta (from 1941 to the mid-1970s, but mainly in the Second World War era) and at Chemical Warfare Laboratories Ottawa (1941-45). The secret "physical test" lasted a month after which  he returned to his unit in Barriefield which was preparing to be shipped overseas.

This photo was taken in England sometime between May 7th 1944 and October 1944 when he arrived in France. Thereafter he was promoted to Corporal in charge of ammunition storage facilities and transferred to Holland.

Dad's personal stories  were difficult to withdraw and sparse in telling; in keeping with the attitude of the times. His brother-in-law and fellow enlistee, William Bond in the advanced age of his late 90's was more forthcoming. He told me about ammunition dumps, and delivering ordinances by truck to the front lines. About night bombing raids and the harsh reality of the casualties that surrounded him. The kind of war stories that were void of valor and heroism and rich in fear and suffering. Those who experienced the worst of the war shared no illusions. Death had been the backdrop of their lives. The depths to which fear can mark the soul was illustrated to me in an observation of Dad's driving habits. He always drove big cars and I noticed that he would continually accelerate then coast, accelerate and coast, in a most annoying pattern. My explanation came later, when my Uncle Bill  explained that the unusual pattern was adopted to vary the speed of a supply truck so a sniper would be unable to predict a clear shot through the trees or buildings. That pattern was so very deeply imprinted in his mind.

My father's discharge certificate is dated March 5th 1946. In it he is to "return to civil life on demobilization with a 1939-45 France and Germany Star, and a Canadian Volunteer Service Metal and Clasp". He was 30 years old and a troubled veteran.

I write this in an effort to understand my father.  My parents divorced when I was 11 years old. Dad returned to a land socially and politically dominated by those who had not served. I believe he found it difficult to communicate to such people, let alone cooperate with them. Between him and his society was a dark screen of horror and violation instilled by the knowledge of the reality of war. Across that screen it was difficult to communicate.  An experience shared by all his friends, who could only stand on the sidelines like exiles in a strange country. With death looming at all times , each soldier was granted license to deal with it as he saw fit. If there was decency to be found in war it was this private sphere of dignity, respected by all. A coping mechanism  that each soldier cultivated within himself, as he anticipated his own end and that of his friends and brothers. My father dealt with it like many  ...alcoholism.

We couldn't understand the night terrors, the nervous jitters, the poor health, the decent into alcoholic haze. As my research revealed a more complete picture I understood that my father didn't have the luxury of a peace movement. He was unable to sit around coffee houses and debate the issues of conflict. His attitude, nature, and culture insisted that he join the forces of good, and repel at all costs the forces of evil. A simplification for sure, but the way of the world in 1941. His volunteering for chemical testing reveals more about him than his inability to be a  father to his family. The war killed spirits as much as it destroyed men and women, and we all stand on the outside of that reality when we look into the eyes of a veteran.

Old Cars

     The year was 1963.  Dad was taking me for driving lessons in his 1952 Chev 2 door sedan with “three on the tree” gear shift, and no power steering.  He was down on his luck and the car reflected his decline. We started in shopping mall parking lots where I could make wide turns.  I recall getting excited one day when I saw a cardboard box dead ahead and I couldn’t wait to  line it up and crush it with my new found power.  Dad saw my thoughts straight away, and calmly said that I couldn’t really ever tell what might be inside the box, and that maybe I should go around it….a cautionary tale that has stuck with me through the years.  I got my drivers license on the second attempt just as I  turned 16.

   That year is of great significance  because my Mother, who had a license but didn’t drive, decided to buy a car. Her first and only.  She chose a 1962 Chev Impala with double blue leather interior and a white rag top. It was a dream car, of jaw dropping beauty.

“John, would you mind running me down to the Dominion store for groceries?

"Sure Mom, when you wanna go?”

“John, you can use the car to take the laundry over.”

 “Sure Mom, be back soon.”

“John, drop me off at work and take the car to school. Afterwards, could you  drive the girls to lessons and pick them up at five.”

 “You betcha.”

   I was 16 and driving around in a convertible, that definitely turned heads.  A convertible in those days was exciting and dangerous, open and carefree.  To own one guaranteed, a devil may care attitude in the driver.  A rakish risker taking chances, testing fate.  The car took me from responsible to perilous with all the lessons in between.

   Canadian winters eat automobiles.  What was once a dashing joy in summer became a salt crusted, leak-sprouting frozen shell of its former self in  the final winters on the road.  The beautiful '62 Chev rested in the garage for awhile then it was quietly hauled away.  From the Chev I stepped  almost immediately into a white 1959 Dodge De Soto that was called “Blanche” (people named cars readily back then).  It was a friends Mother’s car who had recently passed away.  It was badly rusted  but it ran pretty well at first, and it was free.  I narrowly dodged a roadside vehicle inspection station one day and decided to drop the car off at the Wreckers. 

   I had a brief encounter with a 1967 Olds 98 convertible. It was flaming red with a black interior, but with no weight on the rear wheels, one day  she slid along a telephone pole.  Dad had it fixed, but we decided to sell it and buy something less expensive and much less flashy.  In some kind of a finance/trade deal, that I don't fully recall, I wound up with a 1958 Ford Custom, 2 door white and blue….and the "Shaker"  became my new ride.  The "three on the tree" and direct steering took me back to my roots, and the car's modesty was refreshing.  

   I don’t think people love machines, but I often hear it.  I loved that old car…you hear it all the time.  People certainly love their car experiences.  We all look so fondly at our milestones.  Taking the car on its first date, its first holiday, its first day at school, all so important.  Have you ever heard yourself thanking the car for getting you home on a stormy night, or pulling through in a snowstorm.  We thank cars for looking so good after their yearly simonizing polish, or for looking not so bad after surviving a head on bump.  All my life I have  owned   older used cars  and I can honestly say that I’ve never been stuck on the side of the road.  Almost no vehicle has ever let me down.Today I drive a 2003 Tracker with a new/used engine.  I thank the little bugger every time I think about deep snow. 

   So I guess there is love in cars.  I can feel it more deeply in the older designs. The Volkswagen Beetle oozes with  personality, practicality and modesty. We bought our "Bug" in 1983 and since then I have been captivated by the simple design, compact engineering, and remarkable endurance.The Volkswagen Beetle is regarded as one of the best produced vehicles of the century. The car has its origins in the 1930s where it was designed mainly by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche during that decade. Porsche had had dreams of creating an economical car for the masses in Germany since he was a young man.  Our Bug had well restored surface features but the mechanics required a great deal of work. I spent many nights laying on the garage floor looking up and I was amazed to find out  that the entire engine could be removed with only 4 bolts. Once restored it ran like a charm.

That Volkswagen, and so many since have been a source of artistic expression. From hand coloured black and white photographs , to collages in Photoshop  the bug has captured my imagination and I guess, my love.

books

    I really didn't learn to read until I started high school.  That's quite a statement to make for a career librarian.  In my first year of grade nine at Etobicoke High School, the guidance councillor, during a very brief interview  asked me if my interests were more along the lines of manual labour, specifically working with shovels.

   All my problems with early education stem from a belief that as long as I was present, silent, sat still, didn't distract others, and didn't raise my hand, I could slip through the grades unnoticed...no problem.  This practice worked well until Grade 9 where it was expected (unbeknownst to me) that it was actually necessary to read. I didn't know how.  My experience with books was limited to listening to Hardy Boys stories read to me by my cousins during summer holidays in Muskoka.  I have no memories of being read to at younger stages in my life.  I don't recall any childhood books beyond one that my mother read to me; The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins by Dr Suess.  In all likelihood the story wasn't read very often  since it was necessary to check Wikipedia to recall the plot.

   It was in my second year of grade nine that books began to slowly enter my consciousness.  I began to understand not only, that to succeed in school required reading, but also, that books held answers to  burning teenage questions like, what are girls, and how do I fix my motorcycle. For some unknown reason the school Librarian took me under her wing and offered me a quiet back room reading space that I could use at any time during the day. The status of having a special room, and the solitude it offered, contributed greatly to my developing reading skills,  life-long love of books,  and the futuristic career choice.

   There is nothing that you cannot learn from a book and there is not a book from which you cannot gain something. The vast compendium of fact, meditations, commentaries, opinions, and fantastical re-imaginings, created in books, have nourished the roots of civilisation and human achievement for some four thousand years.  Early manuscripts collected in Summer Mesopotamia became scrolls in Alexandria; and Constantinople in the 5th century, had 120,000 volumes.  Today the Library Of Congress is the worlds largest library with an unbelievable 145 million items on 745 miles of shelves. The totality of the human experience is well recorded.

   Most people learn about life by experiences in the real world of love, death, friends. Others, first experience the same lessons in books. To learn about life we cannot rely solely on experiences.  I ask. What firsts do you experience in books rather than life?  The answer can be as varied as your library. Words can make experiences real because imagination and experience are grounded in language.  You remember experiences in words and you can imagine new experiences with words.  

   For me, books bridge the gap between what I see about life, to how I understand those perceptions.  Children grow up asking the question why.  The stories they read give a shape to these questions and their answers are a language for that experience. We read stories to understand what we want to know.  Life becomes all about the questions. Words in context, allow us to  understand experiences,  while many life experiences often remain confusing in their interpretation. I can easily follow an author's reasoning for how a protagonist reacts to situations in a plot but often I have a devil of a time analysing the reactions of loved ones. 

   I pondered these thoughts as the picture above arrived in my emails.  My daughter (a teacher herself) captured this vital experience she arranged for her children.  It may be that the book is upside down, and it may be that a 3 month old finds some confusion in printed words, but attitudes are shaped by even the most misunderstood experiences and I wish for them a world full of books.