A Surface Well Scratched

Before departing on our present venture I took a red highlighter to my provincial maps, marking all the places having a war memorial featuring a soldier statue. The contrast in the marked maps is striking: at the extremes, Quebec and British Columbia have a paucity of marks, Ontario looks like a bad case of the measles. It might take a long while and many miles to see all of Ontario’s; on this trip we could only scratch the surface. We picked a route that yielded a fair sample, and a diverse one.

To date we have visited 44 cities, towns and villages to contemplate and photograph cenotaphs. That is just the tip of the iceberg – a couple of hundred ‘statued’ memorials dot the country – but enough to understand and appreciate some of the variety. If you ask Jan the best part of the quest is the ancillaries that accrue as we wend our focused way across the landscape. At tiny Eugenia ON Jan pronounced the game plan brilliant. Not of course because she’s suddenly become as enthused a student of Great War remembrance as I am, but due to the pleasant surprises arising from going to places we would otherwise never have seen in our lives.

The Eugenia epiphany occurred in the lively Beaver River Cafe where we tucked into troutburgers and scored a boxful of pickled asparagus and other locally produced specialties. We went to Lindsay to admire the Emanuel Hahn sculpture topping the cenotaph but our memories of Lindsay will probably be commandeered by the ‘ribfest’ we joined across the street. Ribfest purveyors from far and wide compete loudly and colourfully to provide a quarter, half or full rack for a few or perhaps more than a few dollars. Local intel led us to the Camp 31 stand. We were entirely content with our proceeds.

We chat up people along the way. At diminutive Kenora ON – where the Thistles won the Stanley Cup in 1907 – we conversed with a small gang of people gathered on the steps of the cenotaph. One woman pointed out a name – M. Land – on the bronze tablet listing Kenora’s war dead. The M is for Moses, her grandfather; Moses, an Objibway hunter-trapper, enlisted barely out of his teens in 1916 and died a year later in the mud of Passchendaele. Our memorial guidebook – and essential companion on this trip – led us to Grunthal MB. It turns out that Grunthal is populated by the descendants of Mennonites – German pacifists. If there is a war memorial statue at Grunthal no one knows about it. We reaped rewards anyway – an excellent lunch of boiled perogies and farmer sausages, and the acquaintanceship of Ron Robbins who spends his retirement worthily: making low-power FM radio transmitters for African villages.

A sad moment interrupted an otherwise sunny morning as we made our way across Manitoulin Island ON, past groups of migrating sandhill cranes and turkey vultures. Jan’s CBC Radio app informed us that NDP leader Jack Layton had succumbed to cancer. After Jack’s shocking press conference of July 25 I had expected this outcome but the news nonetheless packed a wallop, and the wallop lingers. I am one of millions who grieve the loss of a great, big-hearted Canadian.

Now we are in Winnipeg, 5,000 km behind us, paused to visit Steve and Elizabeth. I spent most of Friday on familiar ground, helping with a construction project. On Friday evening we all went to watch minor league baseball. On a perfectly blithe summer evening, in a jewel of a ballpark, we saw the last home game of the Goldeyes' regular season. The hometown boys won handily over the Fargo-Moorehead Redhawks. I got peanut shells all over my new Goldeye tee-shirt. Regular season champions, the Goldeyes celebrated as though they’d just won the World Series. Players spilled Gatorade tubs on manager and GM, just like they do in The Show. The team owner thanked loyal and supportive fans by way of an impressive fireworks show.

Today being Saturday we’ll look to get into some suitable trouble with the kids. Tomorrow we’ll saddle up and follow unfamiliar back roads toward more memorials – and maybe a few more happy surprises.

Like a Dog with a Bone

Early morning near Sandbanks ON in Prince Edward County, Ontario. Our seventh day on the road, only a fifth of the way across This Great Land of Ours. I was once accused of travelling with ‘too much focus’. So be it. The focus this time is Great War memorials. The quest for interesting cenotaphs is real enough but l admit that it’s also an excuse to see new territory.

After stopping at Pugwash NS to gawk at the war memorial statue we dropped in on Amherst Shore friends Garth and Carol and were received just about a warmly as Steve Nash would be if he showed up at my door. On the Northumberland Strait folks boast that the waters are warmer than anywhere else north of the Carolinas. We finally took our first dip of the summer and were inclined to endorse the claim.

At Dorchester NB I communed with great-uncle Wild Bill Livingstone, MC & Bar, who morphed from war hero and youngest member of the Nova Scotia judiciary to a two-year resident in the federal penitentiary. It is a long story, and a sad one.

Woodstock NB is a charming old town on a bank of the Saint John River. We stopped to look at the town’s fine war memorial then went to the library where archivist librarian Greg Campbell went above and beyond to find answers to my question, ‘Who designed the memorial statue?’

Quebec has relatively few war memorial statues but the Eastern Townships boast a small concentration. We found splendid, sometimes over-the-top, specimens at Richmond, Sherbrooke, Magog, all by the same man, skilled Montreal sculptor George W. Hill.

Before setting out on the present adventure I used a red highlighter to mark provincial maps with the locations of every war memorial featuring a statue. My Ontario map looks like a bad case of measles. We can only scratch the surface but we’re already impressed with Ontario’s dedication to remembrance. Morriceburg, Brockton, Gananoque, Kingston, Picton: all attractive towns with fine monuments in the heart of town.

We do other stuff too. We went to Sutton, a beautiful area of southern Quebec, to see Jan’s Aunt Ruth, our first stopover in twelve years. Ruth has a new pal, Pepe, a year-and-a-half Pekinese dustmop who provided a highly entertaining floorshow. At Kingston we found Aunt Evelyn, still ramrod-straight, enjoying better health than most folks in the 92nd year.

I plead guilty to the charge once laid against me: that I am a heatbag, a high-strung and volatile hothead. At Johnstown ON another minor explosion elicited something choice from Jannie: ‘You debase the anger coinage.’ Hmm, perhaps it’s time I learned to count to ten. Satchel Paige, a wise, wise man, counseled that cooling the blood is good policy.

This morning we are off to visit Coburg and Port Hope, both important scenes in the later life and times of Canada’s greatest soldier, Sir Arthur Currie. Yeah, I know, there’s the focus thing again, but the old dog is locked on to a choice bone.

Black Rock Bliss

The Cape Breton sojourn is over. We departed Boularderie Thursday, kissed off by the usual fog and drizzle. Jan’s dad has serious medical issues back in Victoria; she of course wants to do what she can to help him back to normal.

A year ago my mother was in hospital, down to 85 lbs, looking no better than an even-money bet for survival. Mom looked terrific two months ago; she shines even brighter now, enjoying new friends at Edinburgh Hall in Truro, admitting she no longer misses her former digs in Halifax. Of all the elders I care about, Doris is now the least of my worries. Long may it be so.

Now we are with Don and Nancy at their Black Rock Shangri-la at the mouth of the Shubenacadie on Cobequid Bay, as fine a spot for watching the world pass by as you are likely to stumble upon. A kestrel and harrier patrol the marsh across the road, warming my birder heart. Since it is high summer Nelson’s sharp-tailed sparrows still sing from their grassy domain.

The first night I left the camper about 0300 hrs and went for a walk about the neighbourhood. The night was cloudy and perfectly still. In forty-five minutes I heard not a single man-made sound, but plenty from other creatures, most unidentifiable. I got nose to nose with a porcupine, heard a raccoon or two, a night-calling bird or three. A sudden break in the cloud cover delivered two full moons, one in the sky, a second mirrored in a puddle in front of my boots. Why hadn’t I brought camera and tripod?

Friday morning delivered something strange and remarkable: sunshine. Nephew Michael, just in from Toronto, materialized for a few hours, supplying me with something valued: good conversation about the state of the world beyond the immediate neighbourhood.

The Mahone Baysians – John, Naomi, Hannah, Sara – joined the fray yesterday afternoon. Six-year-old Sara press-ganged us into a game of Memory then whacked us at it, showing me in spades how superior a young brain is to one as antiquated as mine.

August 12 is shower night, as in the Perseid meteor shower. Moonshine obliterated prospects for a great night of dark sky viewing but never mind, the night was balmy, dry and windless. I felt like a lottery winner.

Now it is early Saturday morning. Still not a cloud in sight. Shortly we shall water up the camper and get the roadshow rolling. We have miles to go before we sleep; adventures beckon.

Dogless Days of August

Monday delivered that rarest of events in 2011, a sunny day. Big Jim Troke persuaded a few pals to spend the day sheathing the walls and roof of his 24x16 personal warehouse. Some might imagine that a stretch in the swimming hole might have been a preferable option on a semi-hot day but, truth to tell, I still get a kick out of productivity and I was just about as happy seeing the results of the day’s labours as Jim himself.

Jim’s project delivered a jump start. The next two days I fired up the generator and put the saws into action for the first time this summer. As a consequence the sunroom has a few additional bookshelves including some face-on units providing improved easier access to the cabin’s atlases and a few oversized books.

On Monday evening Lynn and Louise invited us to join them and Dad George for a musical event at the Highland Village in Iona. The Musique Royale Festival presented the Best of Boxwood 2011 at the 137-year-old Malagawatch church. The old church pews offer the last word in discomfort: a hard wooden seat barely a foot wide, and an unforgiving hard straight back. The music made up for the spartan seating. Boxwood features traditional Scottish and Irish music – some of it 250 years old – delivered by flute, harp, small Scottish pipes et al. In Cape Breton ‘Traditional Scottish music’ typically brings the fiddle to mind but, no, on this occasion there wasn’t a fiddle in sight.

Superb though the music was, the most memorable moment occurred just as intermission got underway when Boxwood director Chris Norman dropped his flute and made a beeline for the twins. Like a hummingbird swarming a pair of fresh fuchsia blooms, he made no bones about finding Lynn and Louise more fetching than anyone else in the building. The maestro declared his ardour for a hug – and got what he wanted. What must it be like to be so irresistible?

Wednesday was highlighted by a typically protracted breakfast with pal Donald Dunbar. Even in his 91st year Don is a wunderkind of engagement and ideas. Once a month in Victoria a gang of Victoria pals assembles at Swans Pub to discuss and debate the big issues of our time. I miss the Swans lads when I’m in Cape Breton but Donald provides a worthy substitute.

And finally, for those dead keen to know about such things: yes, Cape Breton’s weather continues to set new standards for unseasonable cold and wet. No, I have yet to screw up the courage to take a dip in the old swimming hole. No, Old Man Nagel still declines to cut his hair. Over and out.