Wonderings

Hockey morning in Canada

Odin has been patient, waiting quietly until we rolled out of bed a little later than usual. He noses the back door, exits quickly in order to conduct his business before a yelp to open it again for re-entry. Odin swallows his breakfast; time for play.

The temperature is warmer than most mornings this week, -8 Celsius, having risen from a low of -14 overnight. I flooded the rink for a second time yesterday at dusk in anticipation of the cold, hoping to smooth out the last wrinkles. The expectant precipitation was supposed to be nominal, snow showers, according to Environment Canada, one of those moments happening as I ponder the conditions. No time like the present.

Odin bounds out the door, florescent vest strapped around his body – better to see you, my boy – following me to the basement to fetch my equipment and eventually to the edge of the rink, excited to begin. The past week has been in preparation for this moment. I have shovelled and watered and coddled the ice each day hoping to reach the point of skateability. I am not expecting Maple Leaf Garden quality, lake rough will be an accomplishment.

I prop the boots upside down on the bench to prevent the snowflakes from nestling at the bottom. The extra thick socks require more push into the skate as I lean back, stretching the lace taut before securing them with an especially tight knot on each foot. My skates have not been sharpened in years, assuredly dull from the hardness of outdoor ice, so my strides are strained, an ache in my lower back, my feet hurting.

Without thinking, I circle the rink withershins, bouncing the puck off the boards, picking it up for another round, repeating slowly. Odin decides he wants to join in and gingerly crosses to intercept me on the other side, sliding past with my sudden stop. Undeterred, Odin scrambles back, persists with his nose close to the surface, pawing at the black biscuit as I slide it between his legs, an intermittent bark in frustration before his head pops up and he parades the puck in jubilation. His success acknowledged, Odin plops the puck at my feet to await the reward, a doggie treat, before the game begins again.

Olga, my loyal and faithful fan, ventures out to her seat, quietly cheering, laughing at the antics, commenting that the ice looks good. The scene is idyllic. Snow blanketing the landscape, gently fluttering from the sky, the serenity of winter morning interspersed with the sounds of pond hockey on this Canadian morning.

After an hour the game is over. Olga has since returned to the cottage to get breakfast ready; Odin is ensconced in the snowbank on the sidelines, knawing on the spare puck. The first skate complete, hot oatmeal and some pure maple syrup awaits.

Ever since we rebuilt the cottage, winterized for twelve month usage, I have made the effort to construct a skating rink on the frozen waters of Loon Call. The challenge with weather and inconsistent visits have made each year an adventure, sometimes without success. I have learned from mistakes, experimented with improvements. This year I have plunged the manual auger at centre ice for the submersible pump and focused on thinner layers of water deliberately dispersed to build the base. And a new piece of equipment, the battery operated, self-propelled snow blower has saved this aging body.

The snow is falling more steadily, heavier now. The weather network warns of 5 to 10 cm by tomorrow with the temperature rising to 1 degree. There will be a good chance the combination will make for slush once the snow is removed, which will require a few waterings before the rink becomes skateable again. The next hockey game with Odin is probably a couple mornings away.

No matter. The effort will be worth the joy.

Bricks and Souls

We had gone around the table, asking each of my cousins from the van der Wiel family for one word to describe Uncle Kees. Finally coming to Margaret, she proclaimed, without hesitation, “modern ideas”.

Olga and I were in the Netherlands in part to meet with my relatives and to conduct some research into the life of Fr. Kees de Cock. The van der Wiel siblings are older and in one of the best positions to remember him, everyone with a story, many with a photo or an artefact of significance. My cousins and their spouses gathered in Trus’ home, the eldest, in Tilburg, for some coffee and drinks and pastry. It is a family which loves the opportunity to get together and a visit from a Canadian cousin seemed as a good a reason as any. Most answered the describe-in-one-word question with predictable adjectives – integrity, modesty, humility. Margaret’s words did not truly resonate until last year when I was reviewing the material in preparation my visit to the Mill Hill archives and our return to the Netherlands this past spring.

In advance of our arrival, I wrote to Margaret to ask what she meant, could she elaborate. Not surprisingly she could not recall her answer eight years earlier. Thinking back, Margaret wrote she may have been attempting to express the notion, open mindedness. “He was not a missionary who started preaching strict rules of the Catholic Church. Of course he did preach the Christian faith. And he put the Christian faith into practice, literally rolled up his sleeves himself. And that appeals to people. Anywhere in the world.”

In April, the family was again gathered, this time at Margaret’s house in Waalwijk. And as per these reunions, there was plenty of stories and laughter, remembering the past. The topic of conversation inevitably led to Uncle Kees. Geert addressed me directly, wanting to expound upon Margaret’s response to my inquiry. Clearly they had been talking about my question. Geert viewed Uncle Kees as a missionary more concerned with work that contributed to the lives of the people, supporting them with the development of buildings and schools and hospitals rather than focusing on saving their souls. The explanation was aligned with my own understanding.

Recently, I was reviewing material from my week in the archives. The discoveries included reports on the conditions of Uganda for the clergy and the people. I did not read them in detail at the time, instead electronically scanning them for future reference to help place the life of my uncle in context. One such report for the Diocese of Tororo in 1956 by the Society Superior, spent several paragraphs briefing the Superior General on “Spirituality”. In his opinion, many of the Fathers were lacking in the spirit of piety, not deriving inspiration from spiritual exercises such as community prayers, meditation, or mass; rather, they gave preference to external activities, not properly priestly, such as building. As one piece of evidence, the Society Superior observed priests, both old and young, “rarely entering the church for a short visit to Our Lord despite passing the church several times in the course of the day’s work”.

“To put it rather bluntly, some prefer bricks to souls, finding perhaps the former more pliable than the latter.”

Uncle Kees would likely have been considered amongst the young at the time of this report. Freshly ordained, Fr. Kees de Cock arrived in 1947 at the age of 25, and similar to other new priests, he moved around among the various parishes as a temporary curate, replacing those on scheduled or medical leaves. Whether he would have been amongst the ones who preferred “bricks to souls” may not have been evident to the Society Superior. Uncle Kees was on home leave in that year and given his “spare part” assignments, may only have been involved in the ongoing projects started by the residing pastor.

In 1957, Fr. Kees de Cock became the pastor for Kamuli Parish where he remained until his untimely death January 2, 1981. Uncle Kees was responsible for a long list of accomplishments in those 33 years many of which were provided to me with much enthusiasm and pride during my very brief visit in 2017. The “Late Rev. Fr. C. De Cock’s Profile in Kamuli Catholic Parish” described him as possessing “many practical skills”, including, Engineer/Mechanic, Builder, Plumber and Hunter. He was responsible for the Lubaga Boys Primary School, St. Pius X Junior School, St. Francis block in Kamuli Mission Hospital, the water pipes/system for Kamuli Mission Hospital, the Headmaster home for St. John Bosco Secondary School, and the De Cock Memorial Hall so named in his memory. His talents were utilized to establish churches at Nawanyago, Matuumu, Kidiki, Balawoli, and Bugulumbya. During my visit, Stephen Dhizaala and Fr. Wijnand Huis guided me on a tour to a handful of examples of the local development.

Simultaneously, Fr. Kees de Cock was revered as a priest and a person, one who was an integral member of the community, a spiritual leader remembered for his generosity, his humour, his quiet demeanor, his dedication to the people. Mention of his priestly obligations were numerous although his willingness to work with them, his effort to be one of them, his respect for them comprised the sentiments they wanted to impress upon me on that auspicious day.

Uncle Kees appeared to be a priest in mind and practice consistent with the words of Herman Hofte, a classmate and fellow missionary in Uganda. In his depiction of the work, Fr. Hofte attended to the priestly functions – mass, confessions, baptisms – but thought missionary work was mostly about Christians living as an example, as part of a “welcoming church” for those who became interested. Fr. Hofte spoke about people working behind desks, who invented the rules, whereas he found the practice of daily life much more important.

In my estimation, the Society Superior misread the activities of the missionaries he observed. Rather than preferring bricks to souls, they won over souls in tending to the bricks.

An academic interpretation of missionary work would suggest that the act of building was a tactic for the long-term strategy of conversion to Catholicism. Indeed, the intent of the church in Uganda would follow this logic. And it would be naive to believe this goal wasn’t their aim.

My reading of the individual priests and brothers, however, suggests the experience of living amongst the Ugandan people converted many of the missionaries, a transformation of their own souls to a personal destiny to support the needs of the communities they served. The schools and the hospitals were built for the community regardless of religion. The inadequate infrastructure was not being addressed by the government or any other social agency, so the missionaries stepped up and were able to contribute. Yes, the churches they built were Catholic although I can speculate with confidence that credentials were not checked at the door.

Uncle Kees happened to be in the Netherlands when Idi Amin staged the military coup to attain power. The gravity of the situation would have handed him an easy excuse to delay or cancel any return to what would become several years of terror. Instead, he made arrangements immediately to fly to Uganda, to the diocese, to the people. Francis Isabirye related this story during my visit as evidence for Uncle Kees’ love for the people. From the outside, Francis emphasized, he could be conceived as a mad man or a very foolish man; yet, he defied conventional logic so he could be with his people.

In an earlier letter exchange with Cees van Deursen, I had asked what he recalled as my Uncle’s approach to Catholic theology. Dr. van Deursen couldn’t answer directly except to compare Fr. de Cock’s approach to his own uncle, a Benedictine monk who preferred working to praying, adapting St. Benedictine’s adage, “ora et labora” (pray and work) to ‘my working is praying”. My Uncle, according to Cees, operated in the same manner.

I am reminded of the words written by Bishop Willigers in memory of Fr. Kees de Cock, a tribute which continues to shepherd me in this journey of discovery: “Those from Kamuli recognized in Cees what a true priest really is according to the model of our Lord.”

Margaret remembered Uncle Kees as a serious student of the faith with a deep understanding of the Bible. She recalled a story whereby Uncle Kees greeted a Jehovah Witness couple at the door where he was residing while in the Netherlands. The pair cited passages from the Bible, largely Old Testament, which portrayed a foreboding of doom and the need for salvation to which Uncle Kees listened and responded with other quotes on the same subject that contained a positive message of hope. “In any case, he was an intelligent, wise priest. It was always very nice and easy to listen to him, for everyone. He also was an ordinary and modest man; close to the people and I think open minded in his time. Maybe that is why I called him “modern”?”

Uncle Kees helped build a community with bricks and shaped the people’s souls. The buildings may crumble but his soul will be remembered.

Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone. Yea, a man may say, Thou hast faith, and I have works: shew me thy faith without thy works, and I will shew thee my faith by my works. James 2: 17-18. King James version.

Blood Lines

Are you feeling well today?

An easy one to begin the online eligibility questionnaire. Heck, if I wasn’t felling well, this blood donor appointment would have been rescheduled to another time. It will be the only question to which I answer “Yes” today.

In the last month have you taken Toctino, Hanzema or alitretinoin?

I don’t even know what those medications are for? Nor Proscar, Propecia or finasteride, Avodart, Jalyn or dutasteride. I seldom succumb to Tylenol or Aspirin and certainly not within three days of donating.

In the last 6 months have you consulted a doctor for a health problem, had surgery or medical treatment?

One of the reasons I have been able to give blood continuously is my good health. I have been fortunate, rarely visiting a doctor, using these blood donor appointments to track my blood pressure, at least when that testing was part of the procedure. The nurse would strap the device to my upper arm, pump in some pressure, then slowly release. 120 over 80. Pulse 63. I had no idea what the numbers meant but the nurses never appeared alarmed so I assumed all was good. The pulse has always been on the low side, a nurse asking once if I worked out because I had the count of an athlete. That comment made me smile. I don’t know why they stopped.

In the last 3 months, have you had a new sexual partner?
In the last 3 months, have you had more than one sexual partner?
In the last 6 months, have you had sex with a sex trade worker or anyone else who has taken money or drugs for sex?

What happens if a donor answers “yes” to any of these rather personal, seemingly intrusive questions? I have never found out, happily married for 41 of the 46 years in which I have been donating.

I donated my first pint of blood at 18, the minimum age in 1978. My dad drove me to a permanent clinic at the London Health Centre on Commissioners Road. He would roll up his sleeve regularly when the Red Cross set up a clinic at the 3M plant where Dad worked. He would boast that the workers from the plant would outnumber the donors from the office, as a testimony to the superior virtues of those in the working class. I don’t know how many units he donated or recall how long he continued to give.

My volunteering in the early years was scattered, relying primarily on King’s College at the University of Western Ontario to host a clinic which occurred in the Spring and Fall semesters. The waiting time in between donations was three months (now two), amounting to four possible donations (now six) in a calendar year and only if the first occurred in very early January. When Olga and I moved to Toronto in 1984, the nearby shopping mall, Sherway Gardens, regularly held a clinic in the round court in front of Hudson’s Bay. I attended inconsistently, depending on how the timing intertwined with my schedule.

In the last 3 months, have you travelled outside Canada and the US?
In the last 8 weeks have you travelled outside Canada?

Answering “yes” to these questions over the years has prevented me from giving more blood, accounting for some of the gaps in my donation history. Nurses would consult binders to ascertain the trouble spots, looking at each city I visited on trips to China. My excursions to African countries almost always lead to an additional three or six month wait, depending on the prevalence of malaria. Our yoga retreat vacation to India in 2019 had me sidelined for a full year afterwards.

A few more questions to answer.

I have not taken any illegal drugs with a needle, handled monkeys or their body fluids, have not been in jail within the last six months, or attempted a donation at Hema-Quebec. Check off that I have answered all questions truthfully. Done.

Now the nurse begins the next step: determining my hemoglobin count.

She pricks the tip of my left middle finger, squeezes a couple drops onto the plastic slat before sliding it into the tiny medical unit. Below 130 and males are unable to donate on that day, something that has tripped me up a couple times, the last in April. Not enough iron in the blood, sometimes a function of giving too often so I decided to take a break. Being a statistics guy who loves charts, I was excited to discover these numbers get posted on MyAccount, in a graph, so I can detect patterns. My hemoglobin bounced back in September. Today the count is 135. Good to go.

I am escorted to the next station and get comfortable in the reclining, lazy boy chair.

Would you like to use your left arm or your right arm?
“Whichever one you can find a vein?”
Audrey laughs.

She begins reviewing my particulars and realizes I have reached a milestone donation. Audrey gets excited…. and nervous, so she says…. because she wants to make sure the needle finds a good vein the first time. I never look. I just wait for the stab, then look over. Success. The blood snakes its way through the line to the waiting plastic bag oscillating up and down and up and down.

When Nicholas and Olena were young teens, I had attempted to generate interest in donating by asking them to accompany me on a few evenings at Sherway Gardens. The space was open so they could watch every step including the size of the needle shoved into the crux of the elbow. It is wide and imposing and if you are afraid of needles, as both my kids are, then this procedure will definitely scare you away. Neither have gotten into the practice.

At university, I had convinced Olga to join me at a clinic, you know, like every other dating couple. The nurses had difficulty finding a viable vein. Olga felt unwell through the process and needed help off the bed. She had such difficulty the nurses suggested not giving blood again as I supported Olga down the stairs to the parking lot for the drive back to her apartment. She has not attempted to give blood since.

I chit-chat with Audrey about her day, the weather, the news; all the while she draws several samples into glass tubes for testing, checks the flow, checks how I feel.

Seven minutes later and my 100th donation is complete.

Time for some salty snacks, the one time I can eat potato chips for health reasons.

My blood type is O negative, one of the more rare possibilities, found among only 7% of the population. Those with O negative blood have been dubbed, Universal Donors, because 100% of people in Canada can receive it, a fact especially useful in an emergency. O negative donors represent “a small percentage with a huge impact”.

I don’t recall ever knowing the blood types of my parents. My dad had black hair and brown eyes. I am the only one of the four boys with black hair and brown eyes. My three brothers are all O positive, so given my other features, it stands to reason I had also inherited Dad’s blood type. Or maybe it was my mother’s blood passed down the line. It doesn’t matter.

I volunteer to donate because I can. The process is simple, involving an hour every couple months. My next appointment has already been scheduled for January. And given the rarity of my blood and its universal usage, I feel obligated.

Donating blood is one way I can be of service.

Imprints

The Ones Beatles show began with three questions for the Roy Thomson audience:

Where were you when John F. Kennedy was shot?
Where were you when man first landed on the moon?
Where were you when the Beatles played the Ed Sullivan show for the first time?

November 22, 1963. I have no clue, the tragedy not registering for at least another decade.
July 20, 1969, 10:56 pm. I was asleep on the floor in front of the television. My parents had allowed us to stay up to witness the historic event except I could not keep my eyes open, relying on replays on the CBC news in the following days.

However, images of the Ed Sullivan show which aired February 9, 1964 flash into my head, the four lads from Liverpool, live, barely heard above the din of screaming fans. I would have been only 3 years, 9 months, most likely in bed, an improbability that I could remember anything from such a young age. Yet, the visual persists. Was the memory a function of repeated broadcasts years later? Did we own a television given that my parents took out two mortgages to buy the house on Kostis Avenue? My mother had always been a woman fascinated with gadgets, interested in acquiring the latest, particularly in appliances. The infancy of mass television programming would have been the experience she craved as a stay-at-home mother of three boys under four, the proof of succeeding in a new land, what her siblings back in the Netherlands would not have owned.

As the program proceeded, nostalgia overwhelmed me. The band performed, in order, the songs of the Beatles which reached Number One on the American Billboard Hot 100. Photographs displayed on the screen accompanied the note-for-note rendition beginning with “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” which vaulted to the top spot on February 1, 1964, remaining there for seven weeks. I recall the song being a favourite for Mom.

I could hear her voice singing to each subsequent hit.

She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah

Say you don’t need no diamond rings and I’ll be satisfied
Tell me that you want the kind of things money just can’t buy.

When I’m home everything seems to be right,
When I’m home feeling you holding me tight.

Baby says she’s mine, you know
She tells me all the time, you know
She said so
I’m in love with her and I feel fine

Hope you need my love babe,
Just like I need you.
Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.

After 1966, it was time for intermission. Her voice continued to play in my mind. We have a tendency to forget our parents were young once. Mom listened to the radio, and she loved to sing out loud to the latest, and the Beatles were the band of the 60s. I don’t recall her being as fond of their studio albums from 1967 onwards. Those songs I eventually discovered on my own.

It was her recitation of the words while engaging in the necessary tasks of parenting, focusing on the lyrics of love, of family, of home, that evoked the memory of that historic Ed Sullivan show.

I watched it, I remembered it, through my mother’s voice.

Baseball and Popcorn

We were delayed in leaving for our very first trip together.

Not thinking, our car was left unlocked, exposed to the shenanigans typical of weddings at the time; confetti jammed into the air vents, Vaseline smeared on the steering wheel, the door handles, the gas tank. It all had to be cleaned before we could drive away for a five day honeymoon. A resort in the Caribbean or a European vacation was not in the cards. We did not have the money for that kind of a trip, nor could we afford the time away from work and from school.

We left without concrete plans except to stop briefly in Ottawa before our destination, Quebec City, because it was the closest we could experience that old world charm. It would be a trip we could manage given our constraints. We did not confirm any reservations in advance, thinking we would find something at each stop. And those were the days without the luxury of GPS, necessitating a reliance on paper maps and signs and intuition to guide our way.

We decided on a scenic route to Ottawa in order to view as much of the fall landscape as possible. A picnic along the route meant we needed to find a motel in Renfrew.

In Ottawa, we hoped to meet with Fr. De Witte, a friend of the family who helped my parents and other Dutch immigrants in the London area. He had moved to the nation’s capital to continue priestly work comforting patients in hospice care. When we finally arrived at the home of the Priests of the Sacred Heart, we were greeted with joy. Fr. De Witte was a priest who understood life beyond the strict doctrine of Catholic church rules and blessed our marriage in the accompanying chapel. Our wedding ceremony was complete.

We found a motel in Ottawa, outside of the downtown, which appeared suitable on the surface only to exude a cold and dank and gloomy atmosphere on the inside. At three o’clock in the morning, Olga insisted we could not stay any longer, there was something spooky about the room. She needed to leave immediately. I did not think it possible to check out at such an ungodly hour. By 3:30, we were back on the road, navigating unfamiliar streets until we escaped the city limits. The highway sign proclaimed 250 km to Montreal when I looked across the bench seat. Olga was asleep. It was a quiet drive, mostly highway, until 7:00 am. I waited until we were on the other side of the island before nudging Olga awake – “Good morning, Sunshine. Time for coffee and breakfast.” Next stop: Quebec City.

The Chateau Frontenac was beyond our price range, so we settled for a boutique hotel within its shadow. The room was typical, albeit on the smallish side, queen bed, dresser with a television, overlooking a small park, where we watched the miserable weather on that first day. No problem. There is a ball game on the TV – parlez-vous francais – and we brought our own popcorn maker.

Bombs bursting in air, first pitch, rain delay – want some more popcorn – seventh inning stretch, extra innings, home run for the victory.

We wandered the streets the next day, taking in the shops, sampling the delights, surveying the crafts for an appropriate souvenir, toured the Citadel, and strolled the Plains of Abraham. It did not matter what we did.

Off-season meant much fewer people, no crowds to battle, easier to get a reservation at a fancy restaurant. I don’t recall the name or the location, but I distinctly remember that it had more waiters than customers, each one performing a specific function. They did not come back with the change when I handed over the cash. I guess they were accustomed to generous tippers.

Our time was up by Saturday, back on road home at 6:00 a.m., for a non-stop drive to the Toronto Airport to wish Ron safe travels to New Zealand. Then, the last stretch of the 401 home to the apartment on Victoria Street.

The trip came to an end, the honeymoon would go on.

It would be 14 years before our next adventure, this time to Europe, with some semblance of a plan – The Netherlands France and Belgium; Tilburg, Paris, Bruges; the Efteling, the Eiffel tower, the Normandy Coast – by car, with our kids, just a map, and only one reservation.

We haven’t stopped traveling since – lounged in the Caribbean on the French side of St. Maarten; bounced around the islands of Greece; toured the golden triangle of India; safaried in Tanzania and Botswana; rode the San Francisco trolley cars. Halifax, Puebla City, Barcelona, Washington D.C., Cape Town, Budapest, Amsterdam.

We are anticipating a train ride through Italy, a walk along the Camino Primitivo, a cruise through the far East.

We may finally set forth on that California road trip to watch baseball.

Or we will spend another night at the cottage watching the sunset and eating popcorn.

The only place I want to be is lost with you.

Happy Anniversary, Olga.

With love always,

Good work if you can get it

“I am going to work. Some of us have a job, you know!”

I suppose that is an excuse to rush into a left-hand turn while someone is crossing the road on a green. I had just stepped into the intersection as the walk signal began its countdown. He saw us. How could he not; I was with Odin, our big fluffy white dog in the lead. I am sure it was an intimidation tactic. He was thinking I would relent to let him zoom past. He didn’t know he was dealing with a college boy who once patrolled the picket line as a faculty member. Just keep walking. They won’t ram you. Most of the time.

The window was open of the non-descript car, a 30ish driver staring in disgust. I looked at him directly and pointed to the illuminated signal, “You know that is a walk signal,” His angry retort followed. I kept walking.

If only he had given some kind of warning to let me know he was on his way to work, a light atop his vehicle perhaps, lit up to declare his intention, I might have relented to shave off ten seconds from his journey. Mind you, the other vehicles behind were probably on their way to work as well, given the time of day. I would need to let them all pass and wait for the next light, hoping there isn’t another string of vehicles going to work needing to make a left hand turn. Serves me right for taking my dog out, crossing a busy street on a work day during rush hour. What was I thinking? I can venture outside at any time so as not to inconvenience this harried, poor working soul. I am guessing he has another 35 years of waiting for pedestrians to cross at the stoplight before he can barrel down the road, late again.

At first, I was peeved, thinking of missed responses to this entitled piece of…. But no. I am thankful. Later, when I needed to run an errand with my car, I found myself being more conscious at the intersections, watching for people on the corners, driving with more care, allowing vehicles to merge when they signaled, not cursing when my patience meant waiting my turn. His lack of consideration brought out mine.

I also want to thank him for the compliment. Clearly, my appearance is one of an able bodied male, working age, capable of being gainfully employed rather than living off the system. How was he to know I have been retired for four years, having put in my time, continuing to pay taxes, still using my purchasing power to keep people like him employed. I am thankful he didn’t view me as that stereotypical elderly man and his dog, biding my time. He made my day.

I am grateful for my good health, my wonderful life, and the means to engage in activities of my choosing on my time.

It’s good work, if you can get it.

Might as well be on Mars

The five of us were together again, dressed in different gear, celebrating the beginning of another journey, cherishing the memories of our previous adventure to the Yukon almost two years ago to the day.

Emily is the bride in the 2024 picture, and the person responsible for the planning of our Yukon adventure. Peter is Emily’s father, my younger brother by thirteen months. Zachary is Peter’s son, eldest of five other siblings. Rachel is Zachary’s partner. And by process of elimination: me.

I felt fortunate to have been invited. Peter and I had been musing about travelling to the north. He is more of a camper; I wanted to experience the environment before it was gone. They approached me after another person dropped out. I jumped at the opportunity. The plan was to fly into Whitehorse via Vancouver, drive to Dawson City, then up the Dempster Highway, camping in Tombstone and north of the Arctic Circle, back down to Kluane National Park, before heading to Whitehorse for the flight home. It would be a combination hotel/camping adventure by SUV. I brought a camera stand for those group photos of everyone together in places where there would be no one else to do the favour. It would be a trip to remember.

I remember arriving in Whitehorse and watching a beautiful red fox scurrying through the parking lot, thinking we are going to see four footed animals of all kinds in our journeys. We saw none save for that same fox who came to say goodbye when we left 10 days later.

I remember that first night at the infamous 98 Hotel, where the locals drink and hang out, a number taking their turn on the music stage and one noticeably drunk woman, tight dress, platform laden feet, tinkling on the piano, turning to me, pointing, “Don’t you f@&k with me red shirt”.

I remember the 98 had just two kinds of beer, draft, including our soon to be favourite Yukon Gold, purchased only in cash from a middle aged waitress who brought over a round, cleaned my glass and said “Now you can say you got your bottom wiped at the 98”.

I remember the night to be an excellent beginning to our Yukon adventure.

I remember packing the vehicle, crammed with equipment and people, thinking we will have a long eight more days on the road. I volunteered to sit in the middle and discovered the view to be one of the better and made for wonderful camera pictures through the front windshield.

I remember that first motel, the Bonanza, two levels, located on the outskirts of Dawson City because everything else was booked. The can for cigarette butts on the floor outside each door was the added feature one received for the inflated price of the room.

I remember Dawson City resembling a living museum with long abandoned buildings intermixed among local and tourist businesses on dirt streets lined with wooden sidewalks, harking back to the gold rush days to the turn of the 20th century.

I remember agreeing we must all participate in drinking the sour toe cocktail, overseen by the Captain who hailed from Orillia. He undertook his responsibilities seriously, repeating those same words to each brave soul, signing your certificate and posing for pictures with his pet shark.

“You can drink it fast, you can drink it slow, but your lips have gotta touch the toe”

I remember finishing the evening at the Pit, Dawson’s oldest bar, on the recommendation of a waitress if we wanted to drink with the locals, but warned us not to take any pictures if we intended to leave unscathed.

I remember the first time my tripod came in handy as we posed for the cover of our upcoming album, should we decide to make one.

I remember standing atop a hill, overseeing Dawson City, after the rain, above clouds parading around along the paths of the river, as if inhabiting another world.

I remember stopping to savour the world’s largest cinnamon buns enroute to our next destination. The leftovers tasted great with coffee three days later.

I remember the first wet and cold days in Tombstone, camping, cooking our gourmet meals of sausages and beans, eating out of cans because it saved dishes.

I remember walking up this long hill to a site which I no longer recall, in the pouring rain, heads down against the wind, determined because we might never come back.

I remember the drive up the Dempster Highway, hard gravel, wide open spaces, vast expansive skies, thinking to myself this was unlike anything else I had ever seen all the while listening to the Pukka Orchestra sing, You’re disappearing in the distance, Of this alien terrain.

I remember taking my turn behind the wheel just to be able to say, “I drove the Dempster Highway”.

I remember the excitement of reaching the Arctic Circle.

I remember that first cold night, camping, north of the Arctic Circle, staying up late because Rachel was convinced the conditions were right to catch the Aurora Borealis. We kept looking to the sky, trying to stay warm, eventually crawling into our sleeping bags without witnessing a flicker.

I remember standing in the frigid waters of the river, with just my shorts, shivering, saying to myself, “I can’t do this”, before finally dunking below the surface with everyone else because we all committed to go “swimming” north of the Arctic Circle.

Screen shot from the video – proof of our “swim”.

I remember lounging on the shore afterwards, sipping from my flask of Yukon gin, thinking, “We did it”.

I remember the drive south, same route because the Dempster Highway is the only road, soaking in the same spectacular scenery, snapping pictures at every turn, because we could not believe our eyes.

I remember the beauty of Kluane National Park, the stark contrast of the Carcross Desert, the mountainous road to the British Columbia border. We had traveled the full length of the Yukon Territory.

I remember fishing along a quiet river, off the main highway, on a barely passable road, away from everyone and everything.

I remember a silent ride back to the airport.

I remember thinking Peter and Zachary and Rachel and Emily were the perfect companions for this Yukon adventure.

I remember wanting to come back, needing to come back, to drive all the way to the Arctic Ocean next time.

I remember the words to perhaps the most inspired tune on our Spotify music list, playing over and over in my head:

I might as well be on Mars
I’m already that far away from you.

A life of books…and books…and more books

The recent passing away of Alice Munro and the subsequent scandal reminded me of a story.

I was Chair of General Education, a department responsible for teaching English and Liberal Studies to students in all programs. The diploma requirements for graduation included completion of at least one literature course, a bone of contention for many, and the subject of numerous complaints.

On this particular occasion, a couple sat in my office to lodge a grievance against the professor teaching Canadian literature. They showed me a short story that depicted a sexual encounter. I read it, thinking to myself the passage contained vivid descriptions, not graphic, well written. Then, I turned to the beginning of the story to discover the author was the famous Alice Munro.

I attempted to explain how she was a well renowned author, not just here but around the world. (She had not yet won the Nobel Prize for literature.) They didn’t know and didn’t care. They wanted some action taken to stop the purposeful spread of perversion. The professor was eventually exonerated.

True confession: I have never read a complete book of Alice Munro despite owning ten first printings of her short story collections. It is not my favorite genre and besides, I have 1,265 other books, primarily novels, on my shelves, of which I have completed half. Maybe.

Ten of Alice Munro’s fourteen published works.

I have always been an avid reader of all genres. As a young teenager I was plowing through movie books – Jaws, The Toweing Inferno, The Omen; biographies of hockey players and hockey stories – Derek Sanderson, Bobby Orr, Hockey Showdown: The Canada-Russia Series ; true crime stories like Helter Skelter and selected political biographies such as The Northen Magus. In later years I began gravitating to literature, paperback classics I could pick up cheap at the second hand bookstore.

My foray into Canadian literature began with a used hard copy of Hugh MacLennan’s Two Solitudes, a primer of English-French relations in Canada. I kept searching for his other works, discovered The Watch that Ends the Night from my high-school English course, and eventually acquired every one published by the Governor General Award winning author. I did read them all.

Robertson Davies was next, although his early works were difficult to find and expensive. Margaret Atwood, of course, and Douglas Copeland and Alice Munro. The turning point to my near obsession happened in 1994 with the first awarding of the now annual Giller Prize. It became the largest monetary prize for Canadian literature, catapulting the winner to the top of the sales chart and rendering books as sexy. The Book of Secrets by M.G. Vassanjii was the inaugural winner. I managed to acquire only a second printing but the purchase was the beginning of a need to obtain the Giller winner each year and all the other nominated works.

I was aided in my “hobby” of buying books by two colleagues and friends, Mark and David, who consumed even more. They did not limit themselves to only Canadian, broadening to highly reviewed American and British writing. The discussion sometimes amounted to a series of one upmanships – “I have the first printing of Michael Ondaatje’s The English Patient.” “Yea, well, I have a signed copy.” “But do you have a signed British version where it was first released.” We also shared our love of reading, exchanging our discovery of new authors.

My jewel in the crown is a signed, first Canadian printing of Yann Martel’s Life of Pi, winner of the Man Booker Prize in 2002, turned into a movie in 2012 winning four Academy awards, translated into over 50 languages. I pulled it off the bookstore shelf, by chance, thinking to myself that I seemed to have read a review, didn’t recognize the author, but since it was signed, I should purchase it. Now I have the signed, illustrated Canadian and American edition and the American first printing. It is probably the single most valuable book on my shelves, should I ever decide to sell my collection.

The different versions of Life of Pi in my collection. The one on the left is the first Canadian printing, 2001

Did you know Lawrence Hill’s Book of Negroes was published in the U.S. as Someone Knows My Name ? Yes, I scoured American airport bookstores during my work travels. I have found the first U.S. printings of Miriam Toews’ All My Puny Sorrows and Alex Ohlin’s Dual Citizens. I have done the same in Dutch bookstores and was excited to stumble upon De Gebroeders Sisters by Patrick De Witt.

Dutch translation of *The Sisters* *Brothers*

Okay, if you are still reading, I can imagine your eyes rolling back, thinking Henry has a problem. He can’t read Dutch. This “hobby” had become an obsession. Where does he keep all these books? Olga would ask the same question, even stating we need a new house every time I returned home with yet another. It is cheaper to buy another shelf and leave money left over for more books.

Compounding my addiction, I taught Nicholas and Olena how to identify a first printing. The book may be a first edition, but still be a second or third or heavens forbid a double-digit printing. They wanted to buy books for me as gifts. The first step, I strongly suggested, was to peruse the bookcase before considering. There was a good chance it was already in the collection. In the month before Christmas, I was not allowed to buy any books. In the meantime, I pulled out the pages of the Globe with its top 100 books for the year, circling the ones that were not yet on my shelves.

Signed copies of the first printings are the most treasured. I would attend book launches so I could purchase one directly from the author. If a favorite author was reading at a book festival, I would bring copies of every title I owned for a signature. In the case of Helen Humphreys, I mailed a box of her books to an art store owner in Kingston, an apparent friend, so he claimed, promising to send them back….and he did!

Don’t think I am simply name dropping big time authors and their famous novels. There are plenty lesser known works – Douglas Ord’s Tommy’s Farm, Richard Scarsbrook’s Cheesburger Subversive, Margaret Sweatman’s The Players – bought because they could be popular some day. Maybe. Hopefully.

I have slowed down since retirement, deciding to focus on my favorite authors, understanding the limitations of this hobby, obsession, addiction. I have begun reaching back into the early years, cracking open previously unread novels. My interests now include memoirs, hoping to improve on my own craft, learning the art of writing, aiming to publish my own some day.

I have come to realize, in retrospect, how much of the world I have discovered and the people I have met, past and present and future. I have survived the slums of India, endured the Chinese cultural revolution, sailed the Drake passage, washed ashore on a Greek island, suffered the indignities of a reserve, scrounged for work during the depression, and marauded through an apocalyptic America. I have lived the life of a soldier, a mother, an artist, a boxer, a Mennonite, a miner, a cowboy, a refugee, a slave, and a priest.

“A literary work is thus a living and ever-fruitful text, always capable of speaking in different ways and producing an original synthesis on the part of each of its readers. In our reading, we are enriched by what we receive from the author and this allows us in turn to grow inwardly, so that each new work we read will renew and expand our worldview.”

_{LETTER OF HIS HOLINESS POPE FRANCISON THE ROLE OF LITERATURE IN FORMATION}

I used to be embarrassed to talk about the number of works in my collection. Not anymore. I view my books as a window into the lives of others, a reflection of my own, a gift to be shared.

Let me know if you are interested in a recommendation or wish to borrow one.

The blond guy and a girlfriend

My book collection became accessible again so I began a slow survey of those shelves which had been blocked for a couple years. I happened upon a thin memoir entitled, alfabet/alphabet, winner of the Governor General award in 2022. It reminded me of a specific passage forever stuck in my memory because it explained a particular image of my parents. I flipped through the pages in search of the exact words.

In the Dutch city of Tilburg, Ria van Dijk has made an annual visit to the shooting tent of the kermis, the travelling fair, for more than three quarters of a century. With unfailing aim, she has fired the air rifle, and activated a mounted camera that takes a portrait of her and whomever else is inside the frame. p. 113.

Instantly I understood the context of that endearing photograph of my dad engaged in the same activity, mom at his side, probably in 1956 or 1957, before their marriage. I sought it out again amidst the number of other photographs documenting my mother’s life in the Netherlands.

The author, Sadiqa de Meijer, a Dutch Canadian born in Amsterdam, continued to describe the series of photographs by Ria van Dijk, how they represented the change in fashion of those who “stand on the photo”, marked the passage of time and the aging shooter/photographer. I began a trip down a rabbit hole searching on-line for the book of images, hoping to discover the ones taken in the 1950’s to compare directly to this one of my parents. Eventually I uncover a few, and at least one from that time period, thinking the material would form the content of a blog posting. I abandoned the idea because I could not envisage the outline. There wasn’t a story no matter how you looked at it.

Nevertheless, I was enthralled by the kermis photo, staring at the screen, commenting out loud how little I know of my parent’s courtship. I know vaguely how they met; I know when they married; I know they left for Canada two weeks later; I know they landed in Montreal and rode a train to London, Ontario before departing for their first rented apartment in Belmont because a “girlfriend” of my mother lived there.

Is that couple standing behind my mother’s right shoulder in the kermis photo the same as the couple in the Belmont pictures? Were they on a double date at the Tilburg fair? I zoom in on the woman, the man, then scrounge through the “early years”, revisit the black and white photographs from 1958 to approximately 1963, starting with Mom and Dad’s arrival in Canada. A couple who clearly live in the same building are featured in numerous images, sometimes alone, others with my parents, sharing drinks and smokes and laughs. They are not the couple in the kermis photo.

The man, however, looks familiar. The blond hair, the angular nose, taller than everyone else. Is he the person standing behind my father, dressed in a suit looking directly at the target, looking more Dutch than Dad? A closer look at several more Belmont photos confirm the discovery; but who is this “blond guy”, what is his name, how is he related? I begin searching through my mother’s nursing years, looking for the face of the woman in the Belmont pictures thinking Mom’s “girlfriend” would have been a fellow nurse from either school or work, who had accompanied the “blond guy” but was outside the frame of the kermis photo.

I identify a few possibilities focusing on the short curly hair, the round face, the smile. Olga is my second set of eyes. Enlarge the picture, flip between the two time periods; nope, that is not her. The look is different, the face too thin, the mouth crooked. We cannot find Mom’s “girlfriend” among the nurses. Maybe the “blond guy” is really a bud of Dad, so I embark on another search through his photo album, the navy years and the handful of his twenty-something period. No, the “blond guy” is not there either. Maybe he is not the same person in the Belmont pictures; possibly I am scurrying down another rabbit hole, probably imagining a story that never existed. The pictures remain on the computer screen, left for another day, for another perspective, in need of a fresh pair of eyes.

A new day, a new look, and suddenly there he is, or more precisely, there they are. By chance I had been perusing my mother’s album and had left it open to a photograph used in an earlier post about the ubiquity of smoking. That photograph from Breda in 1957 shows my parents posing with an unidentified couple except now I recognize them as the pair in the Belmont photographs of 1958. It is the “blond guy” in the kermis photo and Mom’s “girlfriend”.

Immediately, I begin reviewing Mom’s pictures, yet again, but with a different set of eyes. The “blond guy” does not show up save for the two already identified. The “girlfriend”, on the other hand, is more prominent than previously thought. Is she the one in the wedding dress in between my parents? The makeup and the attire can be deceiving but the eyes and the mouth look like the “girlfriend”. The placement in the photo album lends credence to the possibility and now on closer examination, some photos which I had mistook for my mother are more likely her “girlfriend”. There she is peaking through the snowy branches, with that coat, which shows up again standing on the beach, looking at the photographer, staring out on the water. With clearer glasses I can see the vacation at Wiijkaan zee was actually a girls trip in 1953, not a secret rendezvous, repeated again in 1956 to Zoutelande. I now believe some of the images during Mom’s time at Nicholaas hospital in Tilburg, previously dismissed by me, include her “girlfriend”, laughing and smoking and drinking, sharing in the comradery of nursing colleagues.

A new story emerges and with it another mystery. Mom appears to have known this “girlfriend” since 1953 at least, attending her wedding, double dating at the kermis, leaving the Netherlands in the same time period, meeting up to share an accommodation in a new land. There are pictures at the Delaware picnic hosted by the Fathers of the Sacred Heart specifically to support Dutch immigrants. Mom and Dad are with the couple, the “blond guy” and a “girlfriend”.

Mom and Dad on the left. Father De Witte standing and Father Aliens crouched. The “blond guy” and the “girlfriend”. The third couple looks to be Janus and Joanne Gooyers, life long friends.

They appear to have been happy, joyful times. Olga and I even believe the “girlfriend” is pregnant given her attire and mildly puffy face.

And then nothing. There is not another picture involving the “blond guy” and the “girlfriend”. They disappeared without a name, without another mention, without a trace, except it was the reason my parents settled in Belmont in 1958. By 1959 Mom and Dad are in London seemingly without the “blond guy” and the “girlfriend”. How does a person who warrants six individual photographs in my mother’s album, kept all these years, vanish from a person’s history? Another story, another mystery? Or maybe not.

One could go down another rabbit hole chasing explanations. The couple could have moved back to the Netherlands, not an uncommon response for immigrants missing family, especially when you are starting your own. Witnessing my mother’s stubbornness and her ability to hold a grudge, there may have been a falling out which was never repaired. Or it may be as simple as moving away to another town, far enough to make excuses as life gets in the way with children and jobs and stuff. They may have unwittingly drifted apart, not knowing how to bring themselves back together.

Were one to look at my wedding pictures, the same questions could be asked about some of the individuals in the photographs.

It happens.

Remembering

On the last evening of our Netherlands adventure, it was time to recount the events of the two week trip. Glass of wine in hands, Olga, Bohdan, Danya, and myself, were asked to identify our highlight. The response was swift although difficult to reduce to only one.

The Keukenhoff with its magnificent display of spring bulbs in artistic splendor throughout a vast park of lush greenery topped the list. Our timing to the northern part of the Netherlands was intended to coincide with the accompanying flower parade during the prime of the annual festival. This year, 2024, was the 75th rendition of the 47 km. long extravaganza.

The pilgrimage to Vimy Ridge was next, site of Walter Allward’s stunning memorial to the 3,600 Canadian lives lost in a pivotal battle of WWI that helped define the country. Each step towards the massive monument induced another look upwards to the heavens, the destiny for the fallen, their names permanently inscribed at the base below.

Then there was the solemn visit to the Groesbeek Canadian War Cemetery, homage to the soldiers that liberated the Netherlands in World War II, just outside Nijmegen with its understated stones, personalized with the messages of grieving families. “Some Time, Some Where, We will Understand”.

I relished all of these places and more, enjoyed viewing them again for a second time, recalling earlier trips with Nicholas and Olena, with Dad, driving through the countryside from one site to the next. The cumulative experiences remind me of the history, the culture, and the beauty of this part of Europe. Yet, for me, the most memorable, the highlight of this trip, was meeting with a number of cousins over dinner and drinks and stories and song. For those able to attend, the conversation flowed in Dutch and English, picking up where we had left off eight years prior, everyone a little older, families growing up, parents since passed away.

Remember when? Do you remember? I remember.

Riet pulled out her parent’s photo album after dinner at her home in Tilburg. She had digitized the content to share with her siblings after their mother had passed away. I began flipping the pages, intently staring at each, attempting to recognize members of the van Rooij family, specifically scouring them for my mother.

And then I discovered this one.

Ages at the time, from left to right: Nico – 18; Jozef – 28; Ria – 23; Herman – 31; Piet – 21.

It is 1951, two years after the first flower parade, six years since the end of World War II; the country is rebuilding, dormant lives brought back to life. A time for hope, a time of youth, a time when the future is yours, when the possible was real.

Smiling faces of siblings relishing the moment, enjoying each other. Mom in the middle, Herman to her immediate left, the oldest of the surviving children, Joseph on her right. The youngest, Nico, is one bookend; Piet, Mom’s favorite, in uniform as part of the obligatory military service, is the other.

Mom would have been embarking on her nursing career, a secular vocation, never having considered service to the church, unlike all her other siblings.

A headshot of her in the nurse’s uniform, adorned with the medal, is also part of the photo album. She would have been in her 25th year when it was taken. Subsequent images suggest it was the year of graduation. Official looking, an outward pretense to seriousness, quietly restraining a smile, eyes of accomplishment, a look of achievement, The future was beginning.

I now have my own digital copy

My Dad’s side of the family was represented by the children of his oldest sister, the van der Wiel clan, and Henriette, from his youngest brother, hosted at Margaret’s house in Waalwijk. I strained to keep up with numerous exchanges across the table, loud and boisterous, full of enthusiasm. My rusty, limited Dutch enabled a general understanding, sometimes acting as an interpreter, occasionally responding with a butchered Tilburgs phrase. Suddenly Geert breaks out into song, explaining my Dad was the originator, a ditty he learned while in the Navy. Did I know it? Did I remember?

The past was further explored when I showed him the pamphlet, in Dutch, commemorating Uncle Kees’ ordination. Harriet was giving it to me as a gift. The others had never seen it before. They sang the tunes, laughed at the songs. They needed to have a copy.

This group photo captures the spirit of the afternoon.

I am very comfortable being in the Netherlands. Olga and I enjoy this part of western Europe so were delighted to act as tour guides for Bohdan and Danya.

I will remember the sites and family on our journey; moreover, I will cherish the small things such as the local pub in Haarlem, the friendliness of the people, grocery shopping for Dutch delicacies, playing card games in the evening drinking our favorite beverages. When we return….and I will be back…the memories will be fodder for the next conversation, remembering when.

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