I Am A Long Way From Home

   This afternoon, I received notification from a cousin that one of my aunts was ill and in hospital out on the west coast.
   If I wasn't thousands of kilometers away here in Ontario I could visit her in the hospital and if there was anything I could do for her I'd also be more than happy to help out.

On the Trans-Canada, leaving Calgary, headed to the mountains.
I want to be able to do this all the time.

   This, of course, is an impossibility.
   I was born in Calgary, Alberta back in 1953 and for the first eleven years of my life (apart from a couple of years in Youngstown, Ohio) I lived out west---in Calgary, Edmonton and Vancouver.
   In spite of the fact that I then moved to London and, essentially, grew up here, the west was still very much imprinted on me. The prairies, the foothills, the mountains and the ocean all have this undeniable hold that I continue to feel to this very day.
   When I moved east, I left all my cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents behind. Occasionally I was able to make the trip back and see one or two of them and occasionally they were also able to make the trip this way. But get-togethers were few and far between.
   

Through the mountains and on to North Vancouver.

As happens in life, my grandparents and almost all of my aunts and uncles eventually passed away. For me, though, they passed away in absentia---they might as well have been in a different country. Most of those times I was likely too young even to make adult connections with the remaining family members. In truth, if you asked me, I would not even be able to give you the years most of them passed.
   I have always found this pointedly unfair.
   We moved east following my Dad and his work. He'd been sent to London to help set up an office for the insurance company he worked for and had been assured that it would only be a two-year stay. Forty-nine years later and I am still here.
   As much as I enjoy living in London, much of the time I find myself feeling very displaced. I feel strongly as though I am supposed to be out west. Many times people I know post pictures of their travels to the mountains and the ocean and it is difficult to describe the way this eats at me. 
   I've been fortunate enough to have been able to travel through the Rockies to the coast with Doralyn and we've both remarked at how we could understand people going there for a visit and then just staying there. There is something about the beauty of the place and, for me, I suspect there is something in my genes which connects me to it.

Gibsons, B.C., pretty well my favourite spot in Canada.

   As it happens, Doralyn and I are both at different points in our careers, by about fifteen years. Because of this, retiring out west is likely an unpractical thing to consider. More importantly, all the people we love are here in Ontario and moving away from them all would be more than difficult. At this point, even an extended holiday out there would be hard to manage.
   So I sit here in London with a little bit of an ache in my heart. It's an ache that I got used to a long time ago, though,  and is mitigated by the fact that I actually like where I live. It's good to be here, it's just that it feels so far away from home sometimes....

End of an Era

   Almost three weeks ago, in a trailer park near Port Franks, Ontario, there arrived an end of an era.
   After much soul-searching and deliberation, my mother-in-law, Marlies Buren, decided to sell the family trailer. It was a trailer in name only, however, and is only referred to as "the trailer" because, in its humble beginnings, that's what it was.

On the deck of the trailer...

   A little over twenty-five years ago, Marlies and her husband Cays procured a parcel of land at the top of a steep and winding gravel road in a section of the Oakridge Resort. They moved a small trailer there and began to use the spot as a summer retreat. The smaller trailer was then replaced by a fifth wheel, to which a  sun-room was added.

....and then on the deck of the fifth wheel!

   

Then, in its final incarnation!

Eventually, the trailer disappeared and with a combination of vision and keen craftsman's ability, Cays then transformed the sun-room into what it eventually became---a very modern, non-rustic home in the woods.
   As a relative newcomer to the trailer, it was very difficult for me to envision the place in its beginning stages. Old photographs have helped in this regard and I've tried to post a few of them here.
   Part of the appeal for me is that this is a family home-away-from-home. It's not as if Marlies and Cays scoured the

Definitely a place...

countryside looking for a cottage or a trailer and finally found a place that already had its own history. Rather, it was built by the patriarch of the family from the ground up, with much love and care. This makes for a better kind of place. The family pictures adorning the walls only confirmed this.
   In 2002, after a long battle with cancer, Cays passed away. There have always been bits and pieces of him, however,

...for family...

...and friends!

nestled away in the trailer's nooks and crannies---a picture, the cap he always wore, a walking stick. I never actually had the opportunity to meet the man but particularly whenever I was at the trailer he always felt close.
   One of my favourite trailer memories was when the aunts and uncles and other family members used the trailer as a gathering place to commemorate the fifth anniversary of Cays' passing. I spent most of that afternoon at the BBQ, flipping burgers and dogs. At the same time, I used it as a vantage point to watch all the different family members, many of whom I had only met once or twice, spend time together, swapping stories and sharing fond memories. I, unfortunately, had no stories to swap but was content enough to stand there and watch and feed them all!
   

Marlies and Cays

Over the years, the trailer has always seemed like the ideal place for the following generation of aunts and uncles to get together, with their kids. Every year, it seemed, cousins were able to come together under Oma's roof and enjoy their time with one another. As happens with time, however, getting families together becomes more and more difficult and as time progressed, maintaining the cottage became more than Oma was able or wanting to do.
   As a getaway kind of place, it was pretty well ideal. It always seemed quiet and pretty well secluded. There was nothing but forest behind the cottage and I can't recall how many times I just stood there on the deck, elbows on the railing, gazing out into the woodlands. The deck had a fire-pit built right into it and this always provided a wonderful end to the day. It was also the kind of place where you could rest easy with a book or sit yourself down to a card game. Pretty well perfect.

Out of the "oldies", my favourite pic....

   In later years, Marlies used the trailer as a meeting spot---grandkids, kids, brothers, sisters and friends all showed up from time to time, to enjoy both the solitude and the time together.
   

Kind of bittersweet.

So there has been a tinge of bitter-sweetness in the air these days. As much as we knew in our minds that this day was coming, likely sooner than later, the fact that it is now here has taken some of us, I think, perhaps a little by surprise and found us somewhat unprepared. As I write this Doralyn and the boys are there with Oma for one final visit. Other cousins have already had the last visits. Tomorrow, the trailer will switch hands for the first time and by the time you read this, it will belong to someone else.

Quin, Callum, Doralyn and Keenan, on their final visit to the trailer.

   Most endings, however, generally lead to some kind of new beginning. The sale of the trailer will open up some new possibilities for Oma. Of course, there'll be the money from the sale but also an increase in time available, away from all the travel and upkeep involved. She has already talked about the possibility of a newer and nicer apartment here in London.

The same kids--surrounding Oma this time!

   For the rest of us, visits to the trailer have ended. I imagine this will take some getting used to---regardless of how often we actually went there, it was always there in the back of our minds as a possibility. One can only hope that the new owners somehow or other come to value all the love and the history in the place.  
    

So what's it like, suicide bomber?

   I find myself wondering quite often what it's like to wake up on the morning of the day which has been chosen for you to end your life, along with the lives of as many other people as you possibly can.
   Believing that heaven awaits you at the end of this task, I wonder if the air you breathe has already begun to smell a little sweeter and the food you taste just that much more delectable as you begin what you know are the final steps to this glorious outcome. I wonder if excitement broils in you.
   If there was a time when you doubted you could perform this task, how long ago was that and who or what intervened in such a way that you had now become fully resolute in your lives-ending mission?
   Does it feel as though you've become something more than a man? Do your insides pulse with what you can only imagine to be the sown seeds of divinity? 
   What is your ability to actually fail at your task? What if it just doesn't feel like a good day to die, or maybe even the right day? Are there do-overs, do you get to go back to your friends or associates and say something like sorry, guys, just having kind of an off day here but I'm gonna give her another go tomorrow? Or could it be that they will kill you, regardless, so why not aim for that heaven thing while you're at it?
   Are you allowed to say goodbye to anyone, apart from the group who has helped you along this path?
   What if you are in the exact spot you're meant to be in order to set the bomb off and all of the sudden your sister appears beside you? Or your uncle? Or an old school chum and what kind of small talk do you engage in with that old school chum anyway? Would there be any attempt to ward off these people, should they appear?
   The more I consider suicide bombers, the more questions I have.
   Occasionally you hear about the target being missed, the bomb seems to detonate accidentally and the only person who dies is the bomber himself. You almost want to cheer when this happens, one of those in your face, sucker kinds of moments. Is it possible, though, that some of these failed attempts might only be the end result of last-second changes of heart? Could it be that reason took over? Or maybe even a little bit of humanity? And, if so, how awful to know you simply cannot return where you came from without detonating a bomb, even if you are the only one who will die from it.
   Whatever the motivation, whatever the reasoning behind it all, there will continue to be instances of individuals insinuating themselves among crowds of people and letting death and destruction ensue. There will not be a plethora of pictures with this blog post. A quick search on the internet provided no suicide bomber pictures which were suitable to publish here---nothing but mayhem and body parts.
   Out of all of this, then, who ends up in heaven and who doesn't? My own personal belief is that anybody who dies ends up somewhere heaven-like. This would apply as much to the bomber as to the ones killed by him. Nobody knows, of course but what we do know is that there is this little bit of pointless hell left behind for the rest of us to deal with.
  
   
   

Béliveau!

   For the better part of the last fifty years, I have hated the Montreal Canadiens.
   I have admired them for the wonderful teams they produced and I have envied them for all the records they hold. At the same time, though, I have hated them for the roadblock they always presented to just about any and every team I had pledged my allegiance to.

Béliveau and his favourite accessory.

   For the first decade or so of that fifty years, the player that personified the Canadiens mystique was Jean Béliveau, a center and captain of the team. Both in stature and playing ability, he stood the tallest among a team of very talented and driven players. In this way, he could and should have been the lightning rod for all my distaste and anger. It was, however, impossible to hate the man.
   I, begrudgingly, adored Jean Béliveau. He was the epitome of grace, style, ability and quiet leadership both on the ice and off. It was hard to see him almost perennially lifting the Stanley Cup and not think to yourself that this was simply the way it was meant to be.

Two of my faves--Béliveau and Sawchuk, the goalie!

   As Canadian hockey legends go, none stood much taller than Jean Béliveau. On December 2, however, Le Gros Bill, as he was known in Quebec, passed away. Most Canadian hockey fans went into a variety of forms of mourning with his passing and nowhere was there heard a negative word, indicative of our admiration for both the hockey player and the man. Such was his stature that a state funeral was held for him in Montreal. The city was in the middle of a blizzard the day of the funeral and yet there was still an overflow crowd. Many dignitaries attended, including the Prime Minister of Canada, the premier of Quebec and the mayor of Montreal along with many former and current players.

Béliveau---at center one final time.

   The pallbearers were all former Canadiens players and I was reminded of the Crash Test Dummies video for "Superman's Song", wherein all of Superman's pallbearers were aging super heroes. Beliveau was as close to a super hero as you might come in the real world.
   I am one of the fortunate ones who are able to say that they saw Jean Béliveau play. A younger generation than mine might compare him to Mario Lemieux---the size, the reach and the stick-handling ability were similar. Béliveau also had the ability to take younger players under his wing.
   Part of his mystique was that he was revered by anglophone and francophone alike and, in the dressing room, he could get his message across well in both languages. Invariably, his message centered around the players' duty to themselves but, much more importantly, also their duty to the Montreal Canadiens and all the former greats who'd played before them.
   Béliveau was worth buying a whole league to the Canadiens. In the fifties, he played in the Quebec Senior Hockey League, an amateur league, and was quite content to do so, having no great interest in playing in the NHL. The Canadiens had tried to sign him to a pro contract as a teenager but his family balked at this idea. Instead, they signed him to a a contract stating that, should he ever turn professional, he would then be the property of the Montreal Canadiens. Montreal then bought the Quebec Senior league and turned it and all of its players into professionals! At this point, they were then able to sign the young Béliveau.
   In his professional career, Jean Béliveau won the Hart Trophy (MVP) twice and the Art Ross Trophy (scoring leader) once. Along the way, he won the Stanley Cup (league champions) 10 times. As an executive with the team, his name was engraved on the Cup another 7 seven times for an astonishing total of 17 times, a record. He played on the All Star team 10 times and was the first recipient of the Conn Smythe Trophy for MVP in the playoffs. The year after he retired in 1971 he was inducted into the NHL Hall of Fame.
   An ardent family man, Beliveau graciously turned down offers to sit in the Senate and be considered for Governor-General of Canada after his playing days, so that he could be with his family.
   It is sometimes hard to explain to non-Canadians the hold that hockey seems to have on us. America has its football, basketball and baseball and much of the rest of the world has its soccer and I suppose those sports are held in a similar regard. The thing those other sports have in common, though, is that they involve having their players firmly grounded, on grass or a court somewhere. Hockey is played on ice, for goodness'sake, and its players are only connected to this ice by narrow, almost razor-sharp strips of steel. We are the best in the world at this sport and Jean Béliveau was one of our best, both as a man and a hockey player. There will almost certainly never be another one like him.

                                                                                                     

   

   
    
   

Our Trip To Eldon House

   I have lived in London for fifty years now. For most of that time I have been aware of the existence of Eldon House here in the city but had never visited it.

The rear of Eldon House.

   Eldon House is the oldest residence still in existence in the City of London. It was the home of the Harris family and has been around since the 1830's. The family donated the house and almost all of its belongings to the city in the early sixties. It is now a museum and, obviously, open for tours.
   Doralyn and I had been talking about heading downtown this aft, just to look around and spend some time together and we ended up at Eldon House.

Beautiful, quaint gazebo. It stands
at the back of the grounds, near
the edge sloping down to the river.
Branches rise up out of the forest
in behind, providing all the greenery
you see here, likely many decades'
worth.

   We decided to wait until one of the tours started so we walked the grounds for a little bit and took some pics. While we were doing this, a tour actually started but we were able to catch up to it.
   Ninety per cent of what we saw today was all original Harris family belongings. Any time that the museum has found it necessary to make alterations, they have obtained the family's permission first.
   It was hard to walk through the many rooms and not feel as though you were absorbing history.

World travels.

   The Harris' were a family of great wealth and also were the social hub of London back in the day. The opulence is everywhere. Fine dining and big-game hunting. Artifacts from foreign countries. Silver- and ivory-inlaid furniture pieces. Servants' quarters. You name it, really.
   Our tour grind, Brenda, did a wonderful job of taking us around and giving us a history and an account of each room ( there were many), nook and cranny.
   

The main dining room. The table
setting are changed regularly, to
reflect the different seasons.

An elderly woman was there as part of our small tour group and at one point she declared that her aunt had once been a servant there. Brenda was then able to sit down, go through an old photo album and find a picture of the aunt from the 1930's! Awesome stuff!
   It was difficult to imagine life back in the mid-nineteenth century, Certainly there was more attention to class and manners than these days. The servants' quarters were minuscule compared to the size of the family rooms. Brenda told us a tale of one overnight guest who had the audacity to appear for breakfast in his slippers and then dinner later on in a narrow tie, as opposed to a bow tie. Apparently the gentleman was never asked back!

   We know of tales like this because the Harris women kept almost daily diaries. Brenda explained to us that she is able to take any date on the calendar and find a corresponding diary entry from a variety of different years. So complete were the Harris diaries that they have been published and can be found in the local library! What a window to the past!
   As I mentioned before, Doralyn and I both remarked how easy it was to feel as though you were actually soaking in the history of the place---you could almost sense the spirits at play there. I have also heard that there are "real" spirits which inhabit the building---the ghost of an ancient suitor of one of the Harris girls, a suitor who mysteriously drowned in the Thames below the house has occasionally been spotted by the museum staff. Not that I believe in that kind of thing...
   

The library room.

At the end of our visit there, we discovered that the museum has plans to run a special tour of both the attic and the basement of the old house. Apparently both areas are crammed with artifacts and Doralyn and I have made plans to return for that!
   Also at the end of the visit, we ended up talking to Brenda about how the museum was staffed, how long she'd been there and that kind of thing. At that point, she mentioned that they were shortly going to be hiring three more tour guides. At this point, Doralyn did everything but put in an application for me! For some reason she seems to think I would be perfect for this kind of job and I can only surmise that she's aware of my love for history. Well....I guess we'll see!
       

It's A Good Age To Be!

   In just a little over three weeks from now, the world will mark the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy.


JFK, moments before his assassination and one of many
similar images you will see in the coming weeks.

   The date is November 22 and, coincidentally, it is also a Friday, as it was back in 1963. There have already been ads on T.V. for planned specials to commemorate the event and you can be certain that the media will be inundated with Kennedy images.
   I am one of the older of my peer group and because of this I am one of the few who can actually remember that day, with clarity.
   At the time, I was in Grade Five and was attending Braemar Public School in North Vancouver. We were all sitting at our desks when the intercom came on and the principal informed us the Kennedy had been killed. We were stunned but we were stunned in a ten-year-old kid sort of a way---it was more of a holy cow kind of a moment for us and the true solemnity of the situation was, I think, lost on us. One of the girls in the class broke into tears, however, and was excused. Why this had happened rather perplexed us until our teacher told us that the student was actually an American and that the awful news had much more import to her.
   As the weekend went on and we found ourselves glued to the black and white images on our T.V. screens, the holy cow feeling I'd had in my classroom totally disappeared as the gravity of the times sunk in.
   I am pretty well able to remember every little image from that weekend. Many of them became iconic and I can only imagine that in the lead up to the fiftieth anniversary they will be everywhere you look. I, however, feel privileged to have seen them as they happened.
   This is one of the things I treasure the most about being the age I am. I am able to say that I was witness to much of the history we now have venerated, analyzed, distilled and

Armstrong steps on the moon.

fashioned idols around. Occasionally I was witness to it as it happened---I watched as man first set foot on the moon and I watched as Paul Henderson scored the winning goal against the Russians in '72. If I didn't happen to be watching when the event actually occurred then I was immediately afterwards immersed in its wake and denouement.

Henderson in '72

   As much as history books and T.V. can attempt to recreate an historic moment what they generally cannot accurately recreate is the emotion of the time--the looks that might have been passed back and forth by total strangers, the utter joy or the total dejection. At some point in the next few weeks there will likely be a replay of Walter Cronkite, the famous CBS newscaster, announcing to the world President Kennedy's death. The words he used were straightforward. It was the look on his face that was harder to describe. It was the same look that many people had those days and if you weren't there to experience it then you cannot know it accurately.
   I like being able to say "I was there", even if only as viewer and from far away. As terrible or as joyous as a world event might be, when you are my age you are able to place it within the context of all that has gone on before. When you have lived through as many monumental events as I have, the monumental events of today are somehow greatly lessened and I envy the clear-minded eighty-year-olds who are able to remember back even farther than I am.
   This, then, is my little window--I am at that age where there is much to remember but I am edging closer to the time when there will be much to forget. For now, though, it is a good age to be! 
    

The King Dies In Battle

Skeleton of Richard III

   This past week, much was made about the apparent discovery of the bones of Great Britain's King Richard III. It was particularly big news here in London, Ontario because they were able to ascertain that this particular set of bones were indeed the king's through DNA testing which combined a sample from a former Londoner whose mother was a direct descendant of Richard.
   The injuries on the skeleton were consistent with the historical account of how Richard III died--as the result of taking an axe to the head in the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. The skeleton also showed signs of scoliosis, a curvature of the spine which would produce a hunchback. Richard III is said to have been hunchbacked.
   The Battle of Bosworth Field marked the end of the Wars of the Roses and was the last time a British monarch was killed in battle.

Canadian Michael Ibsen, DNA provider, and a computer-generated 3D likeness of Richard III

   I found this whole story to be quite fascinating but the aspect of it that I found most thought-provoking was the fact that a reigning monarch had been engaged in a battle in the first place.
   Granted, these were medieval times and wars were carried out totally differently but how odd that the most important person in your country might be subjugated to an actual battle and all its obviously inherent danger.
   The death of Richard III and the end of the Wars of the Roses is regarded as the end of the medieval period, as well. I can only imagine that future monarchs, when faced with the possibility of having to take part in an actual battle, likely declined, on the grounds that doing so seemed so...well...medieval.
   It's interesting to ponder the future of war if the leaders of the various factions involved were required to physically participate. Barring that, would a war even begin if the leaders' family members were required to be the first to enter the fray. I think not.
   I wonder what Richard III was thinking as he rode off to battle that day. Did he know he would end up in the fiercest part of it? Did he begin the march far back at the rear of things or did he bravely (stupidly) affix himself to the forefront? Was he so enamoured of his own sovereignity that he imagined himself invulnerable in battle? Or was he as scared as any of the foot soldiers?

Depiction of the Battle of Bosworth Field--Richard III in a slightly better moment...

   After his death, Richard III's body was apparently subjected to all sorts of abuse and humiliation before it was unceremoniously dumped in a grave, without benefit of a shroud, coffin or even clothes. How demoralizing this must have been for his followers, to not only lose their king but then to have their noses rubbed in it, so to speak. Perhaps this is reason enough to leave your leaders out of the fray.
   As a combatant, I wonder what it must be like to have your leader, king or general fighting right along beside you. Would this be an uplifting and inspirational thing? Or a distraction? In the middle of a battle do we all become simply soldiers with nary a regard for crowns or rank?
   I have never been interested in soldiering. Were I to find myself in that situation, all I might want from a leader is to demonstrate that he or she was aware of my sacrifice and was prepared to go to the ends of the earth to enable me to fight and protect myself in the best way possible. In a perfect world, though, this sacrifice would be shared from top to bottom. In an even more perfect world, there would be no need for it.

The Mountains, my Sweetie and Me

Moraine Lake

   I recently returned from the Rocky Mountains. Each time I am there and then need to return to Ontario I am reminded of the visceral hold they seem to have on me.
   I was a young boy when I first started visiting the Rockies, back in the late fifties to early sixties. On an almost yearly basis we made the trek from Youngstown, Ohio or Edmonton or North Vancouver to visit my grandparents who lived on the Sunshine Coast of B.C. in a little town called Gibsons.
   What I was familiar with when I wasn't in the mountains was either prairie or city. The mountains, then, became a total place of wonderment for me when I was in them the first time. It might have been the way they towered over us. It might have been the bears and the deer and the mountain goats. It could have been the cascading waterfalls or the thundering rapids. It could possibly have been the air.

Where many of my relatives need to be.

   I am sure that all of this, combined with the fact that we were headed for Gibsons at the end of it all, made these times of our lives so memorable.
   My feeling as I travel through them as an adult has changed only little. There are still wondrous things to see and the fact that it is not the first time I am seeing them makes little difference. Not even the adult responsibilities of finding hotels, gas stations and highways provide a damper--they just seem to add to the adventure.
   My ancestors were true pioneers in these same Rocky mountains a hundred and sixty years ago--my great-great grandfather arrived in the Fraser valley looking for gold way back when and eventually settled in the area that eventually took his name-Agassiz, B.C. I often wonder if this in any way contributes to my strong sense of belonging when I am in the mountains.
   "Belonging" really is the feeling I get when I am there and it is very visceral and difficult to ignore. I have had this kind of feeling once before--when I realized I was in love with the woman who is now my wife.
   Over a period of time several years ago I realized that Doralyn's presence near or around me had started to evoke a strong and undeniable sense of "belonging" as well. Then, at some point, the feeling that somehow or other we were supposed to be together simply became too strong to ignore and this then led us to where we are now. Much had to happen before we arrived here, though, many painful things had to be survived by many people. In some sense, mountains had to be moved. Mountains were moved, however, and nothing has transpired since to convince me this didn't need to happen.
   So here's a little bit of the dilemma that occurred to me while in the Rockies and then again on the west coast--I feel certain that this is where I am supposed to be so why not be there? If I was willing to go to great lengths to be with Doralyn then why not the same with Western Canada?


Someone I'm supposed to be with, somewhere I'm supposed to be

   Doralyn herself has admitted that the West would be a wonderful place to live. We both can understand why a person might go west for a visit and then just...stay there.
   We are faced, however, with the conundrum I think many Canadians must deal with--balancing where they think they would like to be with where all their loved ones are. This tears at many of us.
   We ran into many "transplanted" Easterners when we were out there. Some preferred the climate and as many simply enjoyed the lifestyle. Doralyn and I both picked up on this undercurrent of creativity which seems so prevalent out there. It was the type of undercurrent which made you want to stick around and dip your feet into it, maybe even drown in it. This was particularly true in Gibsons and then on up the Sunshine Coast. The pace seemed so much slower and, well, hard not to appreciate.
   Still, there is that aforementioned dilemma. To be where we would like to be would mean being thousands of miles away from our loved ones and family members. I saw this predicament wear away at my Dad and Jean, after they had settled on the coast. Eventually, the distance between them and their family brought them back east. And, in the long run, this was probably a better place for them to be as they aged and then became ill. So much more was facilitated for them, being surrounded by family, here.
   Realistically, here is probably where we need and have to be. At the same time, though, the mountains will not disappear in any of our lifetimes and will be there for us, someday, waiting.  
     
  
  

Pics

How we did it back in the olden days...

   I spent a little time the other day with a pile of old pictures dating as far back as the thirties, digging through them and posting to Facebook many of the ones I thought my friends and family might be the most interested in seeing.
   When my Dad passed away recently, several boxes of old family photographs ended up at my house. Only recently have I had the time to give them any more than a cursory glance.
   Many of them were pictures from my childhood, generally when I was on vacation, either in Calgary or Gibsons, B.C.
These pictures always evoke a visceral response, a strong longing to be in those places once more, as a child. I've been able to go back to many of those spots in the pictures as an adult but, obviously, they are not the same and never will be. It would be preferable to simply crawl back inside any of those pictures and just resume my life all over again. It is apparent from talking to some of my relatives that they wish this was a possibility as well.

How it's done these days

   Up at the top of this blog is an old Brownie camera. We had one that was essentially identical this one. These were one of the most popular types of camera back in the 40's, 50's and 60's. This camera took many of the photographs I found among Dad's albums.
   There is a difference between the black-and-white photos of yesteryear and the digital ones of today. The old ones can be held. Having to take them somewhere and get them developed produced something that could be arranged, collected, written on, stored and moved. Sometimes this meant they got tattered around the ages, or creased. Often this did little to deter from their value, much as laugh lines give a face personality.

Old photo albums

   Of course, old photos are more difficult to share. That is the blessing of today's digital world, wherein it is possible to instantly convey images from person to person and group to group. The problem with digital pics, however, is that they are almost too easy and convenient. There is virtually no need to make sure that a picture has purpose or composition, it is easy enough to simply snap away with abandon and then discard what you don't like.

Digital picture frame

   It was a marriage of these two technologies that I was engaged in the other day, finding old photos and taking pictures of them with a digital camera and then sharing them. To the vast majority of my Facebook friends, I'm sure the pics were pretty insignificant. To the chosen few, though, I hope they provoked some of the same feelings they did for me. If they did, it was something  I was happy to do. 
  
  

When-abouts

   A couple of days ago, somehow or other I found myself having a talk with someone about time travel. The subject had arisen out of a comment my friend made about how cool it would be if hovercrafts took over from cars as being the principal way of getting around in the future. And, while you were at it, what if there was a hovercraft that could go back and forth in time! He quickly envisioned and then made reference to the DeLorean in the movie "Back to the Future".
   We talked about this and I asked him the inevitable question--if you could travel back in time where would you go first?
   His first stop back in time would be the night the Titanic sank and the task at hand would be to warn them about the iceberg. His next stop in time took him back to the baby Jesus, at which point he would rescue the baby and his parents. I asked him why he didn't want to go back when Jesus was a man and "rescue" him then. My friend replied that he would then have to deal with all the Romans and their weaponry. I left it at that....

   So where would YOU want to go, if you could travel back in time?

   I've pondered this many times myself and I suspect that many of us have. I find myself generally wanting to go back to monumental moments in history. Coincidentally, when my friend mentioned both Jesus and the Titanic he touched on a couple of my time travel wish list items.. Far from "saving" the baby Jesus, though, I would have wanted to travel back to the crucifixion and the surrounding events. Firstly, I would want to know if it even happened. Secondly, was it what it has been described as in the Bible, with all the accompanying significance? That would be cool to know.
   Going back to the night the Titanic sank is also hard to resist. The story of the Titanic was ingrained in me long before its discovery and movie made it so much a part of the everyday culture it is now.
   In thinking about it, most of the moments in history I'd want to go back to involve historical deaths.
   I would have wanted to have been there when Kennedy and Lincoln were assassinated. I would have wanted to have watched the gunfight at the O.K. Corral and the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Bonnie and Clyde receiving their dues. George Reeves of T.V. Superman fame meeting his end (suicide or murder?)

   The list goes on and is not always limited to the moments of people passing. I would have loved to have listened to the Gettysburg address. The driving of the last spike in the CPR tracks in B.C., connecting the east and west of Canada, would have been marvelous. Being there when my great-great grandfather, Lewis Nunn Agassiz, after sailing down the Fraser River, beached his raft at the point of land which became Agassiz, B.C. would have been personally remarkable.
   All of the above are historically significant, insofar as they impacted large groups of people and were regarded as turning points, of sorts. I wonder, though, how many of us would choose to travel back into our own pasts and watch events we are already intimately familiar with re-unfold, right in front of our eyes.
   This begs yet another question--would we visit the past in order to spectate or participate? Do we warn the Titanic, do we raise a huge fuss in Ford's Theatre? If we are visiting our own past, do we attempt to change the course of our lives?
   I can look back at my own life and think of many times when even the slightest change in what actually happened might have totally re-constructed the direction I took. All the times I didn't get what people were really saying, all the times I missed seeing people by half an hour, the many times I was just too shy or awkward to act on what I was feeling. Any of these could have been a turning point. The sum total of every move I ever made or didn't make, though, has led me here. And here is where I am happy.
   My friend made mention of the time-space continuum he'd heard about in "Back to the Future", wherein the theory lies that certain actions by someone visiting the past could be catastrophic. You had to be very careful you didn't run into yourself, for example. In general discussion around time travel, mention is also made of the "butterfly effect''. This is a theory stating that from the tiniest of actions (the flapping of a butterfly's wings, as an example) could set off a chain of escalating events which finally might produce a tornado in a completely different part of the country. All of this to point out the hypothetical danger in messing with the past.

   I suppose that "hypothetical" really is the key word in all of this. To date, time travel is impossible and can only be conjectured on. The fact that Einstein himself offered up that time travel might be one day possible, theoretically, is simply a tantalizing carrot on a stick. Unless we have people from the future walking among us...
  

Heritage

   I was born in Calgary, Alberta. For most of my first 11 years, I lived out west, as well, in places like Edmonton and North Vancouver. My grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all lived out there and I was able to see them reasonably often, usually on holidays. In 1964, however, we moved to London, Ontario, the result of my Dad accepting a transfer. We were only supposed to be in London for two years and then move back to North Van. Well, that was 47 years ago....
   In the meantime, I have been faced with hearing about my relatives' lives mostly from a distance. In later years, unfortunately, this mostly meant news of grandparents, aunts and uncles passing away, without me realistically being able to be there at those times. I have regretted this many times. As an adult, I have had more opportunities to go back and visit and these have been wonderful and memorable times, just way too few. I have often wondered at fate, and why it was that I ended up here in London, so far removed from relatives.
   Fairly recently I started to become more aware of my family history. As a child, I imagine that I would occasionally hear snippets of conversation amongst my elders pertaining to the great aunts and their antics and the places they came from and the lives they led. It was only as an adult, though, that these stories became something I was totally intrigued by!

   Many of these stories came from my father and pertained principally to his mother's side of the family. Her grandfather was Lewis Nunn Agassiz, a pioneer settler who arrived in B.C. back in the mid-1800's, looking for gold. He didn't find any but settled in the Fraser Valley with his young family and founded what is now the town of Agassiz, B.C. I found all these details fascinating as an adult and went about doing a little research, mainly on the internet. What I discovered was that Lewis Agassiz' story really began in London, Ontario! He had been a member of the British military and his regiment, the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers, had been garrisoned here in London. He married a local girl, Mary Caroline Schram, and had several children here in London before he headed for B.C. They eventually were able to follow him, they settled there, and had more children.
   This whole story amazed me! For the past thirty years or so I have been working in downtown London, only about 200 yards away from Victoria Park. Where Victoria Park is now, right in the heart of London, used to be the British garrison. I have been that close to land my great-great grandfather used to walk on! I have known this for several years now. Recently, though, I started doing a little research on the Schram side of the family in the London area. What I then found out was that my great-great-great-great grandfather, Jeremiah Schram, was one of the first settlers in Lambeth, a village that used to be just west of London but which now has been incorporated. Indeed, at one point he owned the 200 acres of land at the southwest corner of the main intersection. He bequeathed two acres of it right at the corner to be designated as a church and cemetery and is, in fact, buried there along with several relatives. In the past twenty years or so, I have driven past this church and cemetery many times and not even realised I was passing by dead relatives!!

Headstone of Jeremiah Schram

   As I have discovered all of this, it now almost seems to make sense somehow that we ended up in London, after all. I no longer feel quite the same sense of detachment from my relatives as I once did. For certain, I have missed many of the living ones I could have had a better relationship with, while growing up so far away. Spirit-wise, however, there is some comfort in  knowing that I am more grounded here in London than I had imagined!