Well, it has been a while since I did a post here, other than a memorial post when a Canadian dies in Afghanistan. I’ve been rather busy and for the last couple of weeks have been suffering with bronchitis. The upside to the bronchitis is that it gives me time, although not necessarily the energy, to think through some things in my life.

Some blog posts are coming and soon.

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Breaking the Silence

When a Canadian soldier dies in Afghanistan, or any where else they are serving in the world, the Legion branch I belong to lowers their flag to half staff. The usual protocol for a period of mourning is 10 days or the day of the funeral, which ever comes first. On this blog and one fo my other blogs, Out of the Shadows, I post a memorial entry which stays at the top of the blog for the same period.

The month of May has been a bit difficult to get that flag back to the top of the pole. In fact, we haven’t succeeded yet. We’ve had four Canadians killed in Afghanistan, which for my American readers is a very small number, spaced out so that 10 days has not passed without a death.

As some American friends have noted, if the Americans lowered their flags like we do, they would never fly at full staff. As much as I wait and pray for the day when the flag can be returned to the top of the pole, it flying at half staff reminds me that Canadians are putting their life on the line for me every single day.

Each of those ten days of flag flying at half staff means that I’ll be making a trip to the bridge to honour our fallen Canadian. As the motorcade makes its way from CFB Trenton to the coroner’s office in Toronto along the Highway of Heroes, I’m among the hundreds of Canadians who turn out to show the families, Canadians care.

The waves and acknowledgement from the military escorts mean a lot to those on the bridges but it is when the hands of the family waving as they pass by that we know, at least for this part of their journey, they know they are not alone.

Join me in prayer that the flag reaches the top of the pole and no more families will have to make that long journey.

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Praying to Get the Flag Up the Pole

On Tuesday of this week what used to be called the Royal Canadian Navy, now known as Maritime Command, turned 100 years old. I take note of this milestone for two reasons.

The first reason I took note on Tuesday was I rose to the news that the first sailor to die in Afghanistan had fallen on Monday afternoon, the victim of a roadside bomb. He was returning from diffusing another bomb at the time.

As I write this, I’ve just returned from having been on a bridge on the Highway of Heroes as the motorcade carrying his body, the military & police escort and his grieving family travelled to Toronto. He is the 143rd Canadian to make that solemn journey as Canadians fill the bridges to honour and show our respect to him and their families.

The second reason I took note of the naval milestone is my late grandfather, Cyril Instance, served in the RCN during both world wars

Grandpa came from a sailing background, his own father, my great-grandfather was serving as a fireman on the Titanic on its fateful voyage in 1914. Grandpa was active duty in WW1, wounded in battle, which one I’ve forgotten the name of. During WW2 he served in Halifax, attaining the rank of CRPO, Chief Regulating Petty Officer, he was in charge of training and discipline.

Somehow that rank suited him, my memories of him was as a stern disciplinarian who loved growing flowers. He had a greenhouse at one time just west of where I now live. I remember visiting there and the long rows of flowers he would carefully tend to sell to local gardeners.

Unfortunately my more vivid memories of grandpa was as he descended into the hell of Alzheimer’s disease. We didn’t know what it was at first, he was several years into it before there was a diagnosis. What we knew was the way it was manifesting within him.

We didn’t know that when grandpa turned every conversation to talking about being in the navy it wasn’t him being fixated on having been in the navy. It was that disease robbing him of other memories. He would occasionally speak of the years he spent as a driver on the street cars in Toronto but as time went on, those memories were too recent for him.

We didn’t know when grandpa couldn’t remember where the ash tray was beside his hand that it wasn’t him but that damn disease. We’d bring him and grandma out for a visit from their apartment in Toronto and within a day or so grandpa was anxious to get home. He needed more familiar surroundings, that disease made him unsettled in the less familiar surroundings of our home.

On one of those visits I took my grandmother out for an afternoon to give her a break from his constant need for her to be close by. She enjoyed herself. I had some errands to do in Belleville and we stopped into the branch on the way back. I made her a cup of tea and coaxed her into playing a few pieces on the piano. She was a wonderful pianist but difficult to get her to play.

I agreed that the next day I’d take grandpa out for the day to allow mother and grandma to have a visit uninterrupted. Grandpa reacted to the news he was going out with me by refusing to go. I put on a very hurt air and told him that I was hurt that he’d make a date with his granddaughter and then stand her up. Too proud to admit he didn’t remember, he decided he was going.

It was a difficult day. It was hard to watch over someone who had reached a point that even hearing him talking about the navy would have been preferable to hearing him ask the same question over and over as he searched through the increasing fog in his brain to find the familiar.

Every few minutes he would ask me if he’d been down this road before. I’d tell him yes. He had lived in the area years ago, he likely had been on those same roads and somewhere in that fog was something familiar. There was a few lucid moments as we’d pass flower beds and he’d recognise what was planted there and tell me what they were.

On the way home, I also took grandpa into the branch and made him a cup of tea as the guys tried to politely chat with him. When we got home, he told grandma he’d had a really nice day and we’d stopped into the Legion for a beer. At that stage alcohol and grandpa didn’t mix, which is why I made him a cup of tea.

The murderous look grandma shot me quickly subsided when I told her that he had exactly what she had the day before. Man was I glad of that, that sweet little soul was deadly when angered.

When I think about grandma and grandpa; the long years of his descent into that soul robbing disease and how painful it was for grandma to watch helplessly as it happened; I remember how fortunate I am that even though both my parents were taken from the family with cancer, they didn’t suffer long.

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Canada’s Navy Turns 100; I Remember My Grandfather

You ever hear the phrase “can’t see the forest for the trees”? That has been me for the last while. You see, any material I have explored about being in business, either online or off, tells me I need to identify my passion and then run with that as the base for my business.

Great idea, but, my problem has been, I have so many areas which has my interest. I felt like I was thrashing about trying to find something to set my hat on. For a while it seemed like I had taken on mission impossible. I just wasn’t single focused enough to do this. I should just throw up my hands and run off into the proverbial forest.

Ah, the forest… suddenly I saw the trees. My passion quite simply is — information. My nature has always been that I get a subject in my head, I will explore it almost single minded. So, why wouldn’t I share that information in this the information age?

I’ll need to break what I’m exploring down into various niches and may have to start new sites to keep myself somewhat organized. Since my interests are, and always have been, limitless I shouldn’t have any problem finding topics to explore and share.

I know, sage wisdom is that I should narrow that passion down a whole lot more. Did I ever claim to follow sage wisdom or narrow paths?

Now I can have fun and develop a business(es). Who would have thunk it, me having a passion for information? Man those trees are big in that forest. I’ll be they are at least 50 years old.

Stay tuned.

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Finding Passion

Last Sunday evening I attended a Legion tribute for Comrade Helen Horne, a member of the Trenton Branch. She died last Wednesday following a massive stroke. Considering she had beat four bouts of cancer, there is almost an irony that it was a stroke who took her away from us.

Comrade Helen was the much beloved wife of our Chaplain at the Zone, District & Provincial levels, Padre Sid Horne, a retired Anglican cleric, had served in the military amongst his various ministry posts. Sid & Helen were a study in contrasts — he as tall as she was short; he every bit the extrovert, her very much an introvert; he enjoyed the limelight, she enjoyed the shadows. What the two of them shared were hearts as big as any could imagine, faith as strong as God himself and compassion which encompassed all who came within their loving embrace.

One never had to wonder what the two thought of each other, their love and mutual devotion was clear to anyone who chose to look. I don’t believe in all the time I had the privilege of being around them I ever heard a cross word pass between them. They would readily share the stories of the other’s exploits and foibles but always with a perspective of the humour.

I remember some years back when Sid was still the incumbent at the Royal Chapel on the Tyendinaga Reserve near Belleville. They parish had redone their memorial plaque honouring those of the reserve who had fallen in service to Canada. Sid had announced the date of the service at our District convention with an open invitation for all Legionnaires to attend. Helen told me after the event that when they were setting up and Sid had been asked how many Legion people to expect. He had replied “we’ll be lucky to see 50, it is a church service after all”.

The day arrived and 200 or more arrived to parade from the park to the Chapel for the service. It was one of those rare occasions I ever saw Sid at a bit of a loss for words. The chapel was packed to standing room only and many others had to stand outside for the service. Sid found his voice at the offertory though, and I noticed the broad smile from Helen as the first round of “Onward Christian Soldiers” finished and Sid thundered, “Sing it again, those guys outside aren’t getting out of giving their share”. She knew her husband wouldn’t be at a loss for words for long.

Helen loved her cats. In recent years she had up to four of them at home at a time. Sid had a dog, a small to medium size one of course, couldn’t have it intimidating the cats. I also love my cats and Helen made a point of learning about them as they came into the house, either personally or through pictures.

When we would meet, usually at Legion events or conventions, she would greet me with a very enthusiastic “How are the girls?” raising more than one set of eyebrows from people who knew me as a single person with no children. She’d then follow that with “oh yes, and how are you?”. We’d laugh and chat back and forth about what our respective animals were up to. It never really mattered that ‘my girls’ was actually two queens and a tom and those raised eyebrows would eventually figure it out.

As the long line of Legionnaires formed up in columns of three for the file past, moving slowly through the funeral home and through the receiving room to where Helen’s coffin sat complete with a line of stuffed cats perched on top of it I wondered what memories of Helen each of those comrades were thinking about. I could be pretty certain they were warm and caring, just like Helen was.

The girls are doing just fine Helen. I’ll miss you my friend.

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How’s the Girls?

I’m starting the year off with a new look on the blog. Seems to freshen it up. Now, it is time to get down to posting more regularly.

Let me know what you think of the new look.

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New Year; New Look

One surely wonders where the time goes. I look at this blog the other day and couldn’t believe how long it has been since I have updated it. Things have been happening in my life. I just haven’t taken the time to write about what has been going on.

Most recently, I spent a few days in London, ON. A couple of reasons took me there, the most important one being I needed to attend the funeral for my friend Scott Hickson who passed away on October 22nd after a long battle with cancer. The secondary reason for the visit allowed me to spend a few days with my youngest sister, Lynn. When the spirit wills her, she blogs at Artemis North.

Scott leaves his wife Kim, who was my 1st Vice President until she had to leave that post to move back to London in order to walk with Scott through his last days. His funeral truly was a celebration of his life. Scott lived with passion, his greatest passion after his wife was his family. He also had a passion for music and a wonderful sense of humour. His service was heavy on laughter and light on tears. He’s at peace now, it is Kim for whom my thoughts and prayers are most centered.

She’s a stronger woman than she realizes and she will get through this time of grieving. She has family and her friends to draw on for now. Her life has she has known it has been turned upside down but in time, that stubborn Irish woman will land on her feet and once again make her own path in life. She’ll be a bit uneasy at first but I have every confidence she will develop her confidence before she even realizes it is there. That has been my experience of her and have no reason to believe she wont get there again.

I stayed at my sister’s while I was down there. She had her grandson (my grandnephew) Apollo visiting when I arrived. What a cute, smart, confident little guy. He adores his Nana, Poppa & Aunt Megan who return the adoration. Megan is a great auntie, she plays with him endlessly — quite proud of her ability to wind him up and then turn him over to his mother to calm down again. Time honoured Aunt’s privilege, although I don’t recall winding Megan up much. I do recall us having some fun together though.

Arriving back in town on Monday I reviewed what’s coming up. I’m about to enter a rather busy time of year. Monday the applications for Christmas Hampers are starting to be received and at the same time we are busily into the annual poppy campaign at the Legion. The campaign will culminate with Remembrance Day, the most important day of the year in the Legion.

November & December are the two busiest months of my year and that is before I even think about anything like Christmas for myself. So, hopefully, I will try to take time to type a few words here over the next few weeks instead of deserting this space.

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Time Waits For No One — Least of All Me

If they were still alive, today would mark my parents 60th wedding anniversary. So what does that have to do with the Noronic? For that matter, what is the Noronic? I grew up with an awareness of the Noronic, a Great Lakes steamship which burned in Toronto harbour on September 17, 1949.

The fire remains Toronto’s worse ever disaster, taking the lives of 120 people, mostly Americans. The Noronic was docked at pier 9 on the night of September 16th, the fire was discovered about 2:30am. The cause of the fire was never determined. The 30 year old luxury steamship’s woodwork, well maintained with years of oil polish, served as an accelerant for the fire which quickly engulfed the ship.

My parents were married the day the Noronic burned. My mother’s maid of honour never made it to their wedding as she was called back into work at the Royal York Hotel in downtown Toronto. The hotel was one of dozens of buildings turned into temporary morgues and medical centres. My aunt filled in for the maid of honour and the Noronic entered the family history as a point of interest just as my great-grandfather going down on the Titanic has.

When my mother died in March 2000 I asked the then interim priest of the Anglican church I attend to conduct her service. When Roy Shepherd met with dad they discovered that in many ways their paths had crossed even though they had never met. Roy was sent from a university in Montreal to Toronto look at the socialogical implications of the disaster, later was rector Little Norway Anglican church in Toronto where my parents were married and had been a Legion chaplain. Dad was a Legion member.

Recently I mentioned the anniversary to a member of the branch and was surprised to learn he had been a 19 year old cab driver in Toronto at the time the Noronic burned. He was one of dozens of cabs who volunteered their time and cabs to shuttle the injured and the dead to medical care and morgues. He spoke briefly of the lasting impact that experience had on him. We never know the paths we cross.

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The Noronic Sixty Years Later