Remembrance Day

Today the Hanna Lodge hymn sing was canceled. It was a stat, I was told. No activities were scheduled. 

I attended no service. Driving by myself to Hanna last night in the cold and the dark and the unknown had wrung me out.

At exactly 11:00 a.m. this morning I stood at attention for two minutes, a silence broken only by the stertorous breathing of Gunpowder, the dog born with misaligned hips, who dozed at peace on the sofa.

And I thought about Maynard, as I often do on this day. His birthday is November 16; I remember him on the 11th, and I think of those who never quite made it to serve their country.

Maynard went to high school with me. We became friends in standard 8, and he was unfailingly kind to me. I was short, stout and self-righteous. I earned some nicknames. Maynard never called me them. He called me Tinhead, a play on Ironside. He chose "head", he said, because my head was smart and pretty and could hear the music. He told me to listen just to the music.

As happens when you go to boarding school in another country, we graduated and went our separate ways. I enrolled in university; he enrolled in his Uncle S's navy.

It wasn't a good match for him. He was a TCK - a Third Culture Kid - a strong, gentle, young man who was somewhat adrift and was looking for a place to call home, for people to call family.

The navy proved not to be that place.

And one day he just showed up at my university.

I was attending a spiritually and socially conservative university, and this was in the early '80s. Visits from friends of the opposite sex had to be pre-arranged and approved in writing by parents. My parents and his parents were in India.

With trepidation we approached the Dean of Women. We explained the circumstances to her, and she kindly gave Maynard a permission slip for meals and a place to stay in the men's dorm for five days. He attended classes with me, lunches and dinners, and he walked me back to my dorm in the evenings. We got caught up on the two-plus years we had not seen each other since graduation. He told me how tough the navy was for him, how he had made a mistake, how he was afraid to go back.

On the fourth evening we attended a basketball game, and the team I was cheering for won. In his exuberance, he flung his arms around me and hugged me.

Hugged me at a no-physical-contact-between-men-and-women university, in front of everyone I knew there.

We were summoned by the Dean of Women that very night.

I was given a stern lecture and put on social probation. No talking to boys for a month.

Then she turned to Maynard. She asked him more about his leave of absence from the navy; to my shock, he confessed that he had gone AWOL. He told her something of his childhood, of his experience as a frightened cadet. Something had snapped in his brain and the only thought he had was if he could reach a friend, maybe he would be able to get his bearings again.

The Dean of Women was silent for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was husky. "Young man, this school takes loyalty to our military very seriously. Your duty is to report back to your base and to bear your punishment like a man. You will need to leave here now. May God give you strength."

He threw his arms around me again and we clung together for a moment while she gazed at a painting on the wall.

And then he was gone into the night and I crept back to my room. Everyone was silent; but Michelle squeezed my hand.

I heard from him a few years later. He had indeed returned. He had been courtmartialled and thrown in the brig. What happened there was so awful for him that he spoke of it to me only once. And then he was dishonourably discharged.

He had spent time as a day labourer, picking up odd jobs. He had spent time on the streets. His arsenal of alcohol and drugs helped combat the pain. 

And so his story went. A couple of marriages, a pretty little kid. She had his eyes. 

Jail time.

Rehab.

Still searching to belong.

He checked in with me every so often. 

We saw each other for an afternoon in the late '80s when a friend and I were driving me back to Canada from the States. And he came to visit me once for a fortnight in Calgary in the mid '90s in the bleak midwinter. 

In 2005 I got the email from his brother. He had been found in a cheap motel room, the kind you pay for by the day. Apparent overdose.

Two days earlier he had called me and said he had completed the latest stint at rehab and had saved some money and was wondering if he could get on a Greyhound to Alberta for a visit. He was desperate to see a friend from a time when life was easier. 

I demurred. Things were tough right now. It wasn't a good time. Besides, he should go see his family, his little girl, his pregnant wife. They needed him. Maybe another time? 

"Maybe another time," he echoed, and his voice caught in his throat. 

"Always your friend, Tinhead."

https://youtu.be/tsX7Gv1GhTc

The Day John Wayne Came To Breakfast

Last Friday I dressed with special care: black long-sleeved shirt, knee-length tasseled vest, green silk wild rag tied around my throat just like the Good Rancher does each morning, scuffed riding boots, and my white George Strait stetson.

And black jeans.

I never, EVER, thought I would wear jeans to a funeral.

But when one is going to John Wayne's funeral, how else would one dress?

The first time I met Fred was at our Hanna church's Remembrance Day service in 2018. He came with my friends Debby and Gaylene. He was Debby's cousin; of course I had heard of him because Debby had picked up several of Dad's items of clothing for her cousin when he was preparing to move to Three Hills. She and Gaylene had gone to BC to meet him and had taken him on holiday several times. And now he had moved to Three Hills.

I was at the front of the church helping with the service when I spotted them; at the end I hurried back to the foyer to greet them. Hugs all around, and a comment about a new white hat, which had been Fred's seventieth birthday present a couple of months earlier.

The three of them had to leave soon after, but not until I had extracted a promise from them that they would come visit us at the ranch very soon.

With real horses.

That Fred could pet.

And wear his white hat.

And have pancakes for breakfast.

Just like John Wayne.

We shook on it, because a man's handshake is his bond. 

And so, a week later, our VIP guests arrived.

Who are you? Fred asked the Good Rancher. My name is Fred. But you can call me John Wayne. Are you a real rancher? Why aren't you wearing a cowboy hat? 

The GR tipped his baseball cap to Fred. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Wayne."  And he stuck out his hand. 

Debby, Gaylene and I froze: Fred had no reason to trust men, on the whole, and he usually responded badly to the slightest sign of anything that might smack of forcefulness or threat to him. 

John Wayne looked way up into the Good Rancher's face for a moment and then grasped that extended hand. He smiled. Where are you going? Can I go with you? 

"I have to go back to work. But first I am going to go get Ed for you to meet."

As the GR set off briskly for the corral, the rest of us more leisurely donned coats and went outside toward the barn. 

There, in all her beauty, stood Ed. Fred took a deep breath and one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen bisected his face. 

 

The Good Rancher made the introductions: "Fred, this is Ed. Ed's a girl. Ed, this is John Wayne."

Can I pet Ed? 

"OK with you, Ed? I think she says it's OK."

Just at the time the GR had to leave for more chores, Glen, a retired Mountie who was working with him at that time and is one of the great treasures associated with the ranch's story, showed up in the yard.

"Glen, this is Fred."

"Hello, Fred."

You're not going to hurt me, are you?

"Fred," I said quickly, "Glen is an RCMP officer. He will protect you."

Will you look after me?

"Yes sir," responded dear Glen, extending his hand. "Shall we go in the barn and get some treats for Ed?" And, just like that, Glen had a new friend for life. Fred took his hand and the two men, much the same age, walked over with Ed to explore the barn.

Debby and Gaylene went to check out the other horses while I got breakfast ready. Pancakes and sausages and bacon, fried eggs, hash browns, strawberries, butter, syrup, whipped cream, juice, and coffee. "Real cowboy plates" from the bunkhouse.

Everyone gathered at the table. The Good Rancher asked God's blessing on the food.

Fred ate and ate. Then he did a little visiting. And then he ate some more. 

So comfortable was Fred that when the Good Rancher went to the kitchen window to yell at the dogs who were annoying the horses, Fred walked over to him, reached up and propped his elbow on the GR's much-taller shoulder, and proclaimed, Arny, you are a flippin' idiot! He brought down the house. Pleased with himself, he let the GR try on his most precious cowboy hat and told him he looked like John Wayne in it.

Fred was moving into his own little apartment in Three Hills and so we gave him a few household things for his housewarming. He prized the "cowboy" items, like the ceramic boot with a verse on it.

I never really got to talk with Fred after that until the awful day of Debby's funeral, about one year ago. He was devastated. After the funeral he came to me in tears and said, I told her, 'Don't die, Debby, don't die!' But she died.

Loss was the theme running through Fred's whole life story. 

He was born with some challenges, too great for his parents to be able to cope. The doctor finally told them when Fred was 4 years old that the best thing would be to institutionalise their little son. He arranged for admittance to a government institution named Woodlands School.

Fred endured 17 years of horror there. Atrocities is not too strong a word for the evil this particularly vulnerable child was subjected to. (Of course, he was not alone in this systemic abuse; the institution was finally shut down in 1996.)

He was then moved through various group homes - at least 10; he stayed at the last one for 26 years.

And this is where Debby, his cousin, heard about Fred seven years ago. For the next five years she and Gaylene took Fred on vacation on Vancouver Island. 
He was eventually brought for a visit to Three Hills, where for the first time he met other cousins who lived in the area. After that he desperately wanted to move to Three Hills - having finally been able to claim family, he wanted to be near them. Oh, he remembered his great losses: his mom and dad, his grandma and grandpa, Aunt Delores, cousin Joy ... he knew he had had two elder siblings, but he had no idea where they were, what had become of them after he was taken away.

Debby arranged for Fred to be taken into the Rehoboth Christian Ministries community, where he was lovingly cared for. In addition, he was welcomed with open arms at the Trochu Baptist Church. The last two years of his life were for the most part happy. He finally felt a sense of belonging, of home.

Fred was very quick witted, and managed to sustain a dry sense of humour. As he was being interviewed for Rehoboth, the director said to Fred, "I like your hat. Where's your horse?"

Immediately Fred fired back at the man, Where's your head?! 

His basement apartment was named the Whitford Ranch, complete with sign in the entry way ... 

After Debby passed away, Gaylene and Debby's sister became Fred's guardians. Due to a complete botch-up in some government office, Fred's stipend was cut off: when they received notice that Debby had died the agent marked down that it was Fred who had died. The next few months were spent trying to prove to the satisfaction of the agency that Fred was indeed still alive - a comedy of errors, except that this was for real and Fred's funding was cut off until they were reluctantly persuaded just who was alive and who was dead ...

When the diagnosis of leukemia came shortly before Christmas, Gaylene reported that Fred got angry. He didn't want to die now, now that he was just getting settled and happy. I am not going to die, he proclaimed. When she suggested that he would be able to see Debby again, he retorted, I don't want to see her YET! 

This time the loss would be himself and his new-found, hard-won contentment. The greatest loss of all.

But his Pastor Alan from Trochu, his dear Gaylene, his new friends and caregivers rallied around. They told him about Jesus, who would never leave him or forsake him. Jesus, who loved him through everything. Jesus, who is the greatest helper of all, as Pastor Al spoke of at Fred's service.

Pastor Al told us all that, like Fred, we all have limitations. We all have struggles. He made these two points:

- Jesus, our greatest of all helpers, sets us free from sin, which is anything I say, think or do that falls short of God's holiness, goodness and love.
- Fred opened himself up to the love of God, which made him equal in God's sight to everyone else.

And when Fred trusted in Jesus for his very life, Jesus did not let him down. Going through treatment and care for leukemia would have been extremely difficult for Fred. And so, in the providence of God, he developed double pneumonia, which took him in a matter of days.

God knew that His cowboy had had enough suffering. And now that Fred wanted to see Jesus, Jesus called him home to his permanent ranch in Heaven.

"He didn't go into the dark," Gaylene said, delivering the eulogy. "He had no questions; he had no more fears - he told his Pastor Al so when they went for lunch the Saturday before he died." 

Pastor Alan said that the last words Fred said to him were I love you. "We should all leave people we care about with those words," he said softly. 

A verse out of one of the songs sung at his funeral says this:

Who brings our chaos back into order
Who makes the orphan a son and daughter
The King of glory ...

As Fred put it to Pastor Al that last Saturday they were together and the pastor was making sure Fred was at peace, Here today, gone tomorrow! 

Sounds like something John Wayne would say.

On Fred's coffee mug:

"Beneath the grumpy exterior beats the heart

of a dashing hero"

Certainly!

One of the wonderful, unpredictable benefits of living just off the 855 is my friendship with Leslie.

There's no real logic to our friendship: she's a couple of (okay, three!) decades younger than I am. She is related to, or friendly with, almost everyone in the county; I'm a newcomer, an outsider. She loves horses; I'm scared of them. She rises to new challenges; I take a few steps back in trepidation. She'll take on anyone; I shrivel at the anticipation of confrontation.

How I met her was a little unusual. There was an election, so the Good Rancher, our friend Malcolm and I headed to the local polling station. After we cast our ballots - the GR "solemnly affirming" that I was who I claimed to be - we went to the one remaining local eating establishment for a burger.

Her folks had bought the place the previous year, and she was our waitress. We discussed voting for a few minutes and I discovered she was eligible for the first time to vote. She was uninterested.

I launched into lecture mode, using phrases like "privilege and responsibility" and "civic duty" and "women fought for this right." Probably to shut me up more than anything, she capitulated and said she would vote if I would go with her.

Her aunt registered her; she cast her ballot; by the time we walked back to the restaurant, our friendship had been launched.

Two years later, I realise we do have a few things in common: we love our dogs; we like reading; we text at all hours; we wear our hearts on our sleeves.

And now, this: this past Friday, January 26, at 2 pm, we attended the Celebration of Life for her Dad.

Last year, at the same time on the same day, the Memorial Service for my Dad began.

We both miss our Dads from the centre of our very beings ...

She seems to float just above the ground when she walks; I lumber like my favourite pachyderms. 

She calls me Momma K. I call her My Girl.

Something else about Leslie: she is living proof of what a preemie can grow to be.

Here's her story in her words:

"I was born at 24 weeks and I had heart surgery then eye surgery then I had pinholes in my intestine because they fed me milk to soon so they removed some of my intestine and put a ileostomy bag on me and I came home with oxygen and had it for 3 months and then I had to go get the ileostomy bag taken off and closed back up."

She as much as anyone is following Levi's story, is loving him and caring for him and rooting for him.

She, more than most, understands.

Our little Levi is now scheduled for neurosurgery to insert a shunt tomorrow morning, Monday, January 28, at 7:20 a.m. (Mountain Standard Time).

His mum updated us a couple of days ago: "He's so strong and even continues to try to breastfeed. Earlier he was having lots more events with clusters of heart rate and oxygen drops. His eyes strain to open with the pressure ..."

As I was contemplating the journey that Levi has already taken, the accomplishments he has achieved in his short life, the joy he brings, I was trying to speculate what God might have in mind for Levi. I was trying to bear some of the burden of his exhausted Mum and Dad. And I wrote a note to the Rev David McIlveen, the minister who conducted the graveside service for my Dad's body's committal to the earth. I thanked him for the word of hope he offered from the Bible that day, certain knowledge that we will see our dear Dad again; and for the comfort his presence brought us in the days following the funeral - he stayed with our family, bracing us up through the initial pounding waves of bereavement, always pointing us to God, who has promised to be "a Father to the fatherless."

He wrote me back promptly. And in his letter he offered this reflection, which I passed on to my family:

"Recently, I found great comfort in the words of Exodus chapter 3 verse 12, where God said to Moses, 'Certainly I will be with thee.' I have thought much about that word certainly. God could have said, 'I will be with thee,' and that would have been exceedingly precious. But to supplement the message with the thought of certainly is most reassuring to us.
In thinking about Moses, I thought of my own heart in that Moses was faced with,
The uncertainty of his faith.
The unreliability of his flesh.
And the undercurrent of his fear.
Each one of these challenges God addresses with the word CERTAINLY providing the preface.
Regrettably, life and time brings its changes, and with those changes we must look to the One who changes not."

And God reminded me that as He was with Moses, so He is with Levi.

This evening I read Levi's dad's post on Facebook:

"... We are so thankful for how far he has come, and know that we are never beyond the reach of God's love, even when our feet can't feel the bottom. We've seen so many miracles through Levi's life so far, from his conception to now. We've also seen them through the hands and hearts of the incredible team caring for him.

"Unless God intervenes this weekend, we believe that Levi needs to have this pressure relieved and the only way to do so at this point is with a shunt. Of course we pray for steady hands, clear decision making, no bleeding or infection now ... or in the months and years to come, and a clean uncomplicated recovery. We know that God is able if He is willing, but more so, He is CERTAINLY with us, and with our little boy, and that will not change. Through this all, our Lord continues to still our storms and remains the same, yesterday, today and forever ..."

God is for Leslie, for Levi, for us. He is with us. His plan for Levi's life will unfold in due season - He has promised to make all things beautiful in its time.

And He will.

Certainly.

Remembering: A View From the Platform

This year I had a tiny glimpse into what goes into putting together a Remembrance Day service - I had been asked to play the piano for O Canada and God Save the Queen at the Royal Canadian Legion Hanna Branch #25. I made my way to the front of the room and was greeted by the Legion member in charge of the service; I was introduced to him, but not he to me so I never learnt his name. But I did learn that I was to sit on the platform on a chair tucked right up to the piano and try to keep myself out of the way when I was not playing.

As I waited and observed people filing in before the service, I got to renew my acquaintance with Sean McCormick, the force behind Radio Hanna. Someone who would much rather be behind the scenes than perched on a chair on the stage, for this occasion he stepped out of his comfort zone "because it's important for us to keep what this day represents in our consciousness."

An RCMP officer came onto the stage with the officer who would command the Colour Party. They were going through the logistics of safely delivering flags on full-size poles through the low-set doorway, across the modest stage and into position. All had to be done without any person crossing the path of the flags from the point they were marched onstage to the time they were marched off again. "Protocol."

I was hooked. For the rest of the service I kept one eye open to see if that was even doable. I am gratified to report that not one person, even those entering and exiting the stage, crossed the path of the flags!

I took a second look at the two men: The RCMP officer was none other than Jim, kind, patient Jim who comes to my rescue repeatedly at the Hanna UFA store when I don't know what it is I am looking for. He caught my eye and nodded. "Hello," he said with a twinkle.

After Sean left to perform any last-minute tweaks of the technology before he launched his live broadcast, I sat quietly waiting until I became aware of someone waving to me from the front row. Sergeant Charlie Fielding, a spry 99-year-old, tapped his watch at me.

It was 10:48.

We were supposed to start at 10:45.

Fortunately the familiar wheeze of the pipes could be heard moments later and the Colour Party started up the aisle following the opening remarks. At its helm was piper Stuart Somerville, a neighbour from Endiang. He performed his part in perfect tune and with the aplomb befitting the occasion. As the Colour Party approached the stage, the pipes went left and the flags, right.

Every flag was carefully delivered through the door and the party executed their march, halt and turn in perfect synchronicity.

From my vantage, I realized that this feat is much harder than it appeared when I have observed from a distance ...

Caught up in the moment, I almost forgot why I was on that stage. I quickly moved to the piano and struck up the introduction for O Canada.

As the last notes faded away, the officiant flipped on a recording of the trumpet's somber Last Post. The lfinaltrembling note led us into two minutes of silence, broken only by a tiny child's sweet voice asking a question of her daddy. And it reminded me of why we were here, why these men and women on the front row now stood, propped up on walkers and weighted down with medals.

They served to ensure that our "home and native land" remained "strong and free" despite the attacks from those who would have taken that freedom from us in both the World Wars. That little voice asking a question was as fitting as the silence.

Then the Reveille, signifying the breaking of the dawn, and the powerful voice crisply commanding the flag bearers to Deposit Colours.

Two young girls read In Flanders Fields. (The link will take you to Leonard Cohen's poignant recitation.)

And then the part for which Hanna's service is renowned: Debbie Corry's labour of love, the slide presentation "Veterans of Hanna and Beyond." As music plays in the background, the screen gives an image and Ms Corry reads each name aloud.

I had previously attended this service upstairs and so had never seen the video. Earlier I had congratulated myself on being asked to play the piano, thereby ensuring I had a seat on the main floor. However, remember the little directive to stay seated and out of the way? That included during the presentation! I saw the back of the screen ...

Charlie Fielding ...

Dick Bruner ...

And the other names followed.

Somewhere in the middle of the roll call came the six names I brace myself for:

Ivor Greenslade

Charlie  Greenslade


Hugh       Greenslade



Lloyd          Greenslade




Roy               Greenslade




Tom                  Greenslade

As the last name is read, I find my throat closing with emotion. My friend Julie, whose uncle is Lloyd, assured me that all with the exception of William Roy Greenslade returned home.

But can you imagine the mothers, the sisters, the wives as man after man in that family announced that it was his turn to sign up?

When the last name was proclaimed, and the screen creaked to its closed position, I looked up from my tiny corner to see this beautiful sight:

And then it was the Legion Chaplain's turn. Paul Warnock, who I am privileged to call my pastor, entitled his remarks "Personal Responsibility". He made four observations:

1. Personal responsibility requires maturity
2. Personal responsibility requires a willingness to make commitments
3. Personal responsibility requires more than talk
4. Personal responsibility will require sacrifice

He quoted Winston Churchill, Neville Chamberlain, Mahatma Gandhi and Elie Weisel, to name a few. He talked about his father, a stretcher bearer in the Medical Corps who landed on Juno Beach and worked right behind the front lines.

As he was closing, he said this:

As we take time today to remember those who gave so much, and at such great cost, let us not devalue their sacrifice by failing to shoulder those responsibilities which come to each of us as members of our community and our nation. Rather, let us, with that maturity which only comes as we make and keep our commitments, keep faith with those we honour here today. And likewise, let us, like those whom we now honour, be willing to give a service to others which, even if it is costly, makes this land in which we live a better and more blessed place.

(Sean McCormick extracted Chaplain Paul's remarks from the full broadcast; if you would like to listen to them in their entirety, click HERE.)

After a hymn, the Ode of Remembrance:

And then the laying of wreaths.

The first wreath of all was placed by Charlie Fielding. A Royal Air Force Cadet marched up bearing the wreath and stopped next to Charlie's seat. 

With the weight of 99 years and a World War on him, our hero pushed himself to the front, saying quietly to the cadet, "Now, don't you worry about me. The important thing is that we lay the wreath properly." And with a few more words of murmured encouragement, the job was done.

The pause of respect; I wondered what memory crossed his mind? And then he was seated. And our other hero, Dick Bruner, rose to lay the second wreath, followed by the mayor and various other dignitaries.

After announcements, God Save the Queen, and then the Colour Party retired:

 And we were all free to go.

But somehow we were slow to leave this building that we all recognized was, in this moment, sacred ground. 

What an honour to play a small part in the service! Thank you to the Legion members who pulled together a wonderful Remembrance Day morning. 

What a privilege to live in Canada!

God, keep our land glorious and free.

O Canada, We stand on guard for thee.

O Canada! We stand on guard for thee.

(If you would like to view the entire service, Sean's broadcast can be accessed HERE.)