Be My Guest

In a house that no longer exists, near the end of World War II, my grandparents started keeping a guestbook. Even though they had been married for nearly 30 years and had ived in many houses in tiny prairie towns where my grandfather worked as a banker, the first entry in their book on December 25 1944 reads:

EDMONTON
10226 122 STREET

The first guest was Dorothy Mortwedt, a member of the family my grandmother's parents first met when they homesteaded in the Peace Country decades earlier. Her name is followed by the names of people who live on in my memory and in the stories I was told. My mom's high school friend Betty Murphy. Margaret Watt whose parents built the farmhouse where my grandparents later retired and my cousin Peter now lives.  Rowe Harris who married Margaret Watt sometime later-their married names reappear a few years later. Myrtle Melsness who writes "Who do you see more often?" Jean Mackie. The names of people who had come to the city from the north or from small towns where my grandparents once lived to shop or visit or receive medical care. Neighbours from just across the street. Soldiers stationed far from home during World War II.

By April of 1945, my grandfather was promoted to manager of the Highlands branch of the bank and they moved to 11215 68 Street in Edmonton's Highlands district. More names, like the Ingledews and the Dunbars from Halcourt, Pete McNaughton who "stayed the longest" according to his entry. The Hellers and the Funnells- more people i vaguely recall from my childhood. In a child's writing, Garner King's name appears. His mother was an old horseback riding friend of my grandmother. My uncle Sam's name first appears in 1946. 

Dinner parties, New Year's parties, Thanksgiving dinners, anniversaries. An entry from an engagement party where my mom's  friend wrote, "Evelyn Krantz- but not for long!"  An international dinner featuring Chicken Chow Mein and Crepes Suzette where the guests commented in French.  Visitors from Alberta and BC, but also exotic places like Nova Scotia and New York City and Jamaica and Seoul, Korea. 

In June 1952, there's a new heading. "BEAVER LODGE". 

That's when my grandfather retired from the bank and they moved north to be near family just outside Beaverlodge, where they lived until they died. 

I keep reading. My dad's name appears for the first time on Thanksgiving 1953 along with the names of a bunch of other teaching colleagues of my mom. More people whose stories I have heard but I never really knew. 

December 30, 1965 was my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. It seems the whole community came out. On that date I come to my own name in the careful printing of a 7 year old.  Above it, my cousin Sarah has neatly penned the names of my younger siblings. Younger cousin "Karen 8" has also signed.

The entries continue up until 1974. the occasion of their diamond anniversary. Both of my grandparents were gone soon after that.

Fans of Swedish death cleaning-that practice whereby you clear out all the sentimental items from your home so your kids don't have to deal with them when you die- would have tossed that book into the dumpster decades ago, perhaps when my grandmother died in 1978. But my mom saved it and passed it on to me- the family historian. 

Taken together, the book and it's entries tell a story. A story of not only a home that no longer exists but a way of life that is almost gone. A way of life where people treasured their guests and honoured their presence. I hope to carry that tradition forward, so I have put additional pages into this book. Next time you visit, remind me to have you sign it.

Sign my book. 

Sign it to prove you were here.

Sign it so our history is not erased.

Sign it so we can remember our time together.

 

Lucky Man

I recently discovered the text of a speech my dad gave at the Remembrance Day service in Tumbler Ridge BC in 2004.

Dad was a bomber pilot in World War II. He was a kid when he signed up. He said he "lucked out" by getting to fly. Lucky to be chosen to fly a Lancaster? The real "luck" was that he and his aircrew survived. Most didn't. But he was lucky. He believed he was lucky. Lucky to be born into a loving family. Lucky to find good, lifelong friends in his aircrew. Lucky to get an education and a job he he was good at. Lucky to find love ,lucky to have children and grandchildren, lucky to be Canadian.  And I know I was lucky to have him as my dad.

Dad didn't like to be called a hero. But he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. His citation reads that he "invariably displayed the utmost fortitude, courage, and devotion to duty".  He says he wasn't a hero. Not a hero then never was a hero. He was wrong about that too. He was my hero. 

Remembrance Day 2004 

My message is for anyone less than 80 years old. Those of you just a bit older listen and suggest corrections if you want.

Why are you here today? Your reasons are your own, but I thank you for being here and for permitting me to have your attention for a few minutes.

Just after the schools across Canada had reopened in 1939, this country declared war against Germany.

In 1914 Canada joined with other countries declaring war against Germany in was then called the War to end all wars. In 1939 that war was to be called the War to end all Wars again.

Think about it for a few seconds:

I was still in school in Vancouver at the time, but when I was still just seventeen years old I was given training to learn something about fixing planes so that, when I was eighteen I could join the airforce and start fixing them. In 1941 I did just that.

By then I found that I could be taught to fly aircraft and I was lucky enough to start training as a pilot so instead of fixing the planes I could fly them.

By 1945 I was returned to civilian life because that war was over. I was twenty two years old and had returned safely from what was, for my mother, an awful awful time for her to have been waiting for one son, in the Airforce, one in the Navy one in the Army to get out of uniform and return home.

One aunt had embarrassed me no end by introducing me to her friends as a hero! Never was one, and never ever wanted to be one, but what could I do to correct her viewpoint? I do believe there were people who could properly be called heroes, and there still are, but I was never one.

What we were told to do, we did, and I lucked out by getting to fly and to find really fine people to fly with. Yes we did have an enemy to fight, and when the invasion took place in Europe, we were in Bomber Command and flew to France just a few hours before the ground forces arrived from England to get the invasion underway.

However, this is 2004, not 1944, and you are here in this lively and exciting place we still call Canada. This is not the Canada recovering from a lengthy depression so long ago but we still have a neighbour country just South of us which still goes to war, so long after we went to war to end all wars, twice before.

If you are indeed Canadian, or believe in remembering your history, think about what is important to you and try to make wise decisions for yourselves.

Please, whether you are wearing a uniform, or not, our respect for you will be obtained by your actions as citizens in this ever increasing world of people of all faiths who genuinely are in love and charity to all.

Indeed, we need to remember the words of In Flanders Fields. Our cenotaph is a time for quiet reflection. Honour the dead and look to the future.