Data Loading...
HERE FROM THERE (COMPILED VERSION SEPTEMBER 2019) Flipbook PDF
HERE FROM THERE (COMPILED VERSION SEPTEMBER 2019)
1,779 Views
52 Downloads
FLIP PDF 13.66MB
[Type here]
1
2
Contents HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE ************** PART ONE Chapter 1 The Sperm and the Egg 1-21 Chapter 2 School House 22-37 Chapter 3 Pasture 38-40 Chapter 4 A Child’s View of Farming 41-47 Chapter 5 Over Town 48-58 Chapter 6 Remembering Paddockwood 59-67 Chapter 7 Section Gang 68-73 PART TWO Chapter 8 Vocation Quest 74-100 Chapter 9 Four Summers 101-116 Chapter 10 Laying the Groundwork 117-131 PART THREE Chapter 11 Uniform and Wheels 132-143 Chapter 12 A Wing and a Prayer 144-153 Chapter 13 From this day Forward 154-170
3
Contents HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE ************* PART FOUR Chapter 14 Rooky Rector 171-189 Chapter 15 North of ’60 190-234 Chapter 16 Crabapple Jelly 235-259 Chapter 17 Maple Syrup 260-291 Chapter 18 Unto the Hills 292-313 Chapter 19 Into the Valley 314-359 PART FIVE Chapter 20 Holy Serendipity! 360-383 Chapter 21 Coming Home 384-389 Chapter 22 Far Away Places 390-394 Chapter 23 And Here We Are 395-399 P.S. 400-403 ***
4
[Type here]
INTRODUCTION AND WELCOME
I never asked my parents much about their personal histories. After all, they were just my parents, so why would I even think about that sort of thing? They were great people whom I loved, and I was certain that they loved me. They were respected folks in our community, but not celebrities… After they both had died, I realized that their lives as children and young adults, and the time after I left home, were largely unknown to me. There were some old photographs – those little black-and-white Brownie camera pics – of which many were unidentified and blurry. Mom and Dad did occasionally recount a story of their earlier years, but not often, and I often had a short attention span. I wish I had listened more closely because now I will never know the stories of those first two genuine “celebrities” in my life.” This book, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE, is the story of my life from conception in 1933 to 2018. Ruth, my partner of 60 years, said the “We” in the title should be “I” because the book is my life-story. The “We” remains because my personal journey was/is not mine alone. I am not a celebrity nor a famous person. I am a spouse, father, grandfather, friend. (No doubt, there are others who would use different descriptions of me, but I choose to ignore them.) This book is for my family, and others if they wish, to enjoy, laugh, weep, as they read of my journey. Like all stories, sex plays a part in my tales. This is never explicit or described apart from its role in the story. Most often you will need to use your imagination, read between the lines, and see yourself in the situation. The sexual stuff is always playfully and lovingly told. I hope you will discover and enjoy those moments. One thing more. Wherever details in my childhood memories were a bit vague, I examined the options, used my imagination, and filled in the blanks. The essence of the tale remains a true story of my life from start to finish…of the book, that is. The sequence of the story is simple. Chapter 1 starts with my conception, and following chapters continue the story till the end of the book. Along the way I hope you will find that you know me better than when we started together in the first 5
chapter. There is nothing particularly profound in these pages. Maybe you’ll have a few laughs along the way at my silliness and general enjoyment of life…Please do. I have used the real names of persons throughout the book. My reason is that each one mentioned had a genuinely positive affect upon my life. I remember them with thankful heart that for a time we walked together in our journeys. I am also thankful that, notwithstanding my age, many I mention are still very much on the road of life. The P.S. at the end of my book includes a few personal reflections that are not in the text of HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE.
**********
Ken Genge March 2019
6
The Sperm and the Egg
CHAPTER 1 The Sperm and the Egg In 1932 my Mom and Dad, Grace and Nat Genge, built a little log house in the bush. Each log was cut from the forest, hand-hewed, notched, and put in place – all by hand. As the story goes, I was conceived in that little log house. And that’s where I lived till I went to the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon in 1952. * Our farm was 1.6 kilometres west of the village of Paddockwood, in the province of Saskatchewan. In the early 1900s a settler from Paddock Wood, Kent, in England, had named the settlement. The immigrant from England has long gone, but the name stuck. Paddockwood is about 45 kilometres north of Prince Albert, a small city on the banks of the North Saskatchewan river. Back in the day, as they say, the roads in the area were often no more than trails, and the surveyed roads were not graveled, and certainly far from black-topped. * The Paddockwood Red Cross Outpost Hospital was the first of its kind in the British Empire. It was located on a small piece of land on our farm, about half a kilometre from our little log house. Most births in the Paddockwood district were in the Red Cross hospital. That’s where my two younger siblings, Wendy and Gary, were born. All went well with their births. But in my case, if my Dad had not taken Mom to the hospital in Prince Albert, I would have died…and perhaps Mom, too. Sometimes, over the years, I have thought a bit about why I am actually alive… When I was old enough, I took bottles of our cow’s milk up the lane to the hospital for the nurses and whomever else were in the wards. Sometimes I did a few chores in the hospital grounds. I actually fell in love with one of the nurses. Perhaps she didn’t notice…Nothing ever came of it.
1
The Sperm and the Egg
The little log house was square, and the roof came to a point at the top, meeting the central chimney – the only chimney. Windows on all sides. Foundation logs resting on the earth – no cement! Earth-walled cellar – no cement cribbing. A door on the east side, and a door on the west side. The little log house was heated by wood-burning cook-stove, and wood-burning air-tight heater. In winter there was thick frost on the windows, and in the many really cold nights (45 below zero) frost at the base of the interior foundation. In the morning, before the tin heater really got going, you could stand facing the little heater and be warm but freezing on the backside! Keeping a small fire going in the heater and kitchen stove was a demanding task during the night. My parents had to be vigilant, too, in avoiding too much tar/creosote residue build-up in the stove pipes from the burning wood. Chimney fires could cause a building to burn down. In summer, every so often, Mom would close up the windows, usher us outside, spray anti-fly insecticide throughout the house, dash outside and close the door. Later, we would open the doors and windows, and sweep out the dead flies. Flypaper, hanging strips of sticky paper, were hung about to catch flies, too. An extension to the house was added on the north side after Wendy and Gary were born: Kitchen, entrance to cellar, bedroom, and north-facing door. An oil heater took the place of the tin heater, so the house was more evenly heated. Our toilet was an out-door “biffy” forty metres from the house, hidden nicely in the trees. For inclement weather, we had a “honey-bucket” in the cellar. Odor was not a problem because of judicious use of lime… Water for drinking, cooking, washing, etc. was brought in by bucket from the pump at the well. In winter, snow was melted for baths. In spite of all the work, my Mom was a fastidious keeper of the house. Cleanliness vied very closely with godliness.
*
2
The Sperm and the Egg
Paddockwood was at the end of a CN spur line from Prince Albert. The train brought freight, mail, an occasional passenger, and other supplies. It carried away grain, an occasional passenger, mail, etc. You could hear the train whistle from our little log house. The engines were still steam and coal in those days. Train arriving! Big event! But as the roads improved, the spur line was used only for taking the grain away from the two village elevators. And eventually the elevators were closed. It was the beginning of the “vertical integration” of farming across the West, and subsequent demise of small farms. Grain production, with “futures” selling and buying by huge international agra-business companies, essentially ended the small family-owned mixed farming. * The 1931 Canadian census counted 921,785 Saskatchewan residents. Of those, 630,880 were on farms. Two thirds of the population lived as farmers. Like everywhere else in Canada, the shift to urban living became a tidal wave. I have not lived in an agricultural setting since 1962, and we are now well into the twenty-first century. But I have never regretted growing up on a farm. Though I left the farm after graduating from Grade 12, my feelings for the land remain strong. A ruralraised person can become urbanized, but an urban-raised person will never quite comprehend a birth connection with the land. The land north of Prince Albert was bush, streams, and lake country when I grew up there. The fields were hacked out of the bush. A man and horses’ enterprise, with little or no mechanization. It was a beautiful and powerful land. Over the decades since the ‘30s much of the land in the central northern part of the province has been cleared for ever-increasing cultivated areas, with much less bush, forest and ponds. Whether north or south in Saskatchewan, many people driving across the prairies fail to see the powerful beauty and grandeur of the land and sky. *
3
The Sperm and the Egg
Of course, the little log house is long gone now… But sometimes, in my memory imagination, I think I can hear the old logs speaking… “Do you remember the time that….? And the memories come flooding back. They tell about me and life in the days when I was young… * Naturally (a slight pun with that word) I don’t remember when I was conceived. If my parents were here, they could pin-point the moment…or two…or three…or… But because I am now very old, they are not here. And anyway, I have some doubts that such a conversation would take place… What do you think? My interest in the event was stimulated first when I was about two and a half years old. I was playing in the yard outside our little log house on the farm. A sound, coming from inside the house, caught my attention…. I went in. My Mom and Dad were naked! Unusual at the time of day. They were very close together. Seemed happy. A little startled by my entrance. A little kid notices things. But from my angle of vision I did not see anyone else there except Mom, Dad, and me. They hurriedly urged me to go back out and play. Everything was OK, they said. We’ll call you later. I went out and forgot about it – almost. The thought crosses my mind that maybe God was there blessing the event. Even in the wild imagination of a child, I had not seen Him or Her or it, or, if you are a triune Christian, Them. After all, life is holy regardless of who is watching. Upon reflection in later years, I realize that I might have witnessed the conception of my sister. My brother came later. I missed the interesting part of his “start” in life… I guess I was outside playing with my sister, and a bit further from the little log house. However, I have been very present at three other conceptions…after I left home. *
4
The Sperm and the Egg
What are your clearest memories from your early childhood? I have several. How accurate…how clear…? They are true recollections, and I am sure they happened. And, anyway, who’s to say they didn’t? I am so old now that there is no one around to contradict me… * The first is having my diaper changed. I was on a large bed, near the edge. My mother was doing the changing. I can’t remember the smell – though I presume it was not pleasant. I was washed, re-diapered, and picked up. That’s the end of this “snap-shot” memory. Not an unpleasant experience, as I recall. But I do admit the slight possibility that I had witnessed a diaper change of one of my siblings…However, that is quite unlikely because if I was simply a witness, I would have remembered the smell. * Another – and very vivid memory – is a meal-time experience. There were many around the table. Sitting in my highchair, I was not happy. Why? Because everybody else was eating, laughing, talking, and I could not talk like they did! But I could think! And I knew from experience that my voice-sounds were attention-getting… I wanted food like they were eating, not the mushy stuff in the child bowl on my highchair table! Their food smelled good. Mine did not! I finally got their attention…How? My voice! My words! And volume! I wanted some real food! (My memory of this is completely clear.) My mother handed me a chicken bone. Success? No! There was no meat on it! How humiliated and angry I was being treated like a baby! No one seemed to understand! * When Wendy, my sister, was about five years old, she was definitely a show-off. That was my unbiased opinion at the time. Let me tell you a story, and I’m sure you will agree.
5
The Sperm and the Egg
One of our aunts brought Wendy a knitted two-piece skirt and sweater. That it was my sister’s birthday was irrelevant… She did not bring me a present! Wendy put on the outfit. That was bad enough… Then she pranced and danced her way past me, just flaunting her gift! Of course, I was angry! Jealous, you say… Wouldn’t you be the same in a similar situation…?? But then came a turn of events which seemed to me only just – and hilarious all at the same time. As Wendy bounced around the living room, the skirt fell down…exposing her little bum for all to see. She was embarr-assed (if you will excuse the slight pun). Mom and my aunt rushed to comfort Wendy. I laughed till my sides hurt! As it turned out that was not a good move. I was sent to bed immediately after supper! No play time! Parents don’t always see things clearly! (From my current ancient perspective however, I admit to seeing things a bit differently now.) * I loved to follow my Dad around as often as I could. I tried to walk like my Dad walked. I tried to do what my Dad did. And he did interesting things. Dad repaired farm machinery, took care of the farm animals – cows, pigs, horses – worked in the blacksmith shop near our garden, cultivated, sowed grain seeds, harvested in the fields. And he slaughtered cattle and pigs once a year to have meat to eat throughout the year. By the time I was just turning a teen I helped in the butchering process, including the killing of the animal. My Dad always did this in as humane a way as possible. I certainly knew in detail exactly where our meat and vegetables came from year-round. * In the blacksmith shop, Dad heated, pounded, fashioned, and repaired farm equipment. There was a forge, like a campfire on legs, which burned coal. It was fanned by a crank on the side to keep the fire at just the right temperature to heat the iron or steel. A stove pipe took the smoke and fumes out through the roof. The hot metal was pounded into the required shape on an anvil.
6
The Sperm and the Egg
A bucket of water was by the anvil to temper the hot metal. But that’s not all… there was a drill-press to drill holes through thick and hard metal, and a work bench with an amazing array of tools of all kinds, including wrenches. It was a wonderful place for a little boy to work with his Dad! And a wonderful place to get into alone, when no adult was looking… * When I was little, I slept in a room on the southwest corner of the old log house. One night my Auntie Toad and Uncle Fred were visiting. The adults were in the living room – just outside the bedroom door curtain (used for a door to let the heat circulate better.) My cousin, Glen, and I had been put to bed and told to go to sleep…Parents always say that! I was interested to eavesdrop on adult talk. It was strangely interesting, sometimes mysterious, and sometimes funny…The best parts were about things we instinctively knew we should not have heard… On this particular night we had picked up some interesting tidbits of adult life. Sleep was creeping up on us. But just as I was drifting off to sleep, I was startled to hear a rustling inside the wall – very near my left ear. The inside of our old log house was covered with stiff building paper, glued to the plaster on the interior of the logs, and white-washed (a cheap way to paint in those days). Mice were scurrying around just the other side of the building paper! Would they chew through, attack and eat my ear? … But I fell asleep. Next morning both ears were intact. * Death. What do you do about it? Aunt Abby was my uncle’s wife. Uncle Ed and Aunt Abby lived about fifteen kilometres north of our farm. They owned and operated a general goods store in Forest Gate. My Aunt had cancer. Each night Mom or Dad listened to my prayers. “Now I lay me down to sleep; if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” I added prayer for Aunt Abby to get better. But she died. My parents taught me that sometimes prayers are not “answered” as we wish. I did not give up on praying…or God, for that matter. I don’t know why. Because I was considered too young, I did not go to Aunt Abby’s funeral. What do you think about that?
7
The Sperm and the Egg
I think kids of any age should be taken to funerals of family members and friends. The adults who are responsible for children, and keep children away from the realities of death and rituals that surround the final farewells, are likely demonstrating their own fears and uncertainties. What do you think? * An eclipse of the sun is easily understood based on our knowledge of movement of planets around the sun. But from time immemorial this amazing phenomenon carries signs and portents of mystery and meaning. The total eclipse of 2017 was no exception. When I was a little boy I experienced a total eclipse. The mix of mystery and science still frames my memory of that extraordinary event. * When I was little, my parents hired someone to help in the busy spring and fall seasons. The hired man stayed upstairs in the pump-house. The pump-house was next to the barnyard, a few metres from the barn in one direction, and forty or fifty metres from the old log house in the other. The ground floor housed the well and pump – which supplied water for both the livestock and our family. The pump house was also the garage for the tractor. My Dad rigged up a “one lunger” engine to pump the water for the animals. Dad was very good at improvising and inventing things. One year, Dad hired Pete Wilkes to help with the harvest. Pete lived in the small room upstairs in the pump house. He took meals in our house. My Mom was chief of the old log house, and fed many a person wandering through our life in those days, including family and friends. Pete Wilkes taught me to yodel. *
8
The Sperm and the Egg
There are other stories I want to tell you before I focus on my “school days”. The ways in which these others impacted me in my journey from there to here, I leave to your imagination. They are significant for me – each in their peculiar way. * One day my Dad went into Prince Albert to buy a tractor. We needed a new and stronger tractor to pull the cultivator, seeder, combine, etc. in the fields. This was a major financial undertaking! At the time I did not think about that. Life was just fun! Looking back on it, I don’t know how my parents handled the cost.. The next afternoon Mom, my little sister Wendy, and my little brother Gary, and I, kept our eyes on the driveway into our farmyard… Finally, we began to hear an unfamiliar engine sound. We dashed out of the house to see Dad wheel into the yard driving a new bright red Massey Harris tractor! Dad was pleased-as-punch with this new toy, necessary though it was. In the years that followed, I would drive that tractor in the fields many many times. The clutch was a lever on the driver’s left side – pull back to go, push ahead to stop. The speed was regulated manually near the steering wheel. I once ran into a willow bush and nearly tipped the tractor over backwards… I was not paying attention. Fortunately, I pushed the lever ahead in time. I also do not remember mentioning the incident to anyone… There were no mufflers on tractors in those days. I think the noise of the engine over the years contributed to Dad’s deteriorating hearing. The Massey Harris rubber-tired machine was miles ahead of the old steel-lug tractors. The rubber-tired machines soon became the norm. But this was the first in the area. * When I was very young, my parents owned a 4-door Ford Model A car. It was black. Ford had not gone into any other colours in those years. In spite of the primitive quality of the Model A, it was durable, and easily and inexpensively repairable in contrast to 21st century vehicles. Some haywire, a pair of plyers, and an adjustable wrench, could handle most emergencies.
9
The Sperm and the Egg
And it was exciting and fun from a little kid’s point of view! Especially on the day I was invited (allowed) to accompany my Dad and a couple of uncles for a trip to Prince Albert in this big – by my age standards – beautiful black sedan! The dimensions may be a bit exaggerated because we did not have a lot of leg room. The road west from our farm to Provincial Highway 2 was just a little over 11 kilometres of dirt, occasionally graded, mostly narrow, rough, and almost impassable in heavy rain. In early years there were some sections that needed corduroy laid down for vehicles to get through. (Just use your imagination.) The day started well. We navigated the 11 kilometres to Northside on Highway 2, turned left and headed south. P.A., I thought, Here We Come!! The highway was primitive compared to main roadways these days. But it was passable, even in rain…usually. There was very little traffic, so pretty safe. However… Just a few kilometres outside of the city, we were passed – not by a car or truck – but by a car wheel, all by itself, no car attached…A kind of break for freedom, I suppose…if it had not been one of our Model A’s wheels… The escaping wheel veered off the road to the left into the ditch…Fractions of a second later our Model A took us into the ditch on the right…The car stayed upright. No one was hurt. The wheel was recaptured, attached to the car, and we were off again to the wonderful city of P.A.! Apart from the excitement for me, there is no particular moral to this story…except, perhaps, “Make sure your wheels are properly attached before leaving home.” * Profundity lurks in every nook and cranny of the ordinary. That’s what makes my life journey so deeply interesting for me. I find it rather difficult to be bored very long. Some people I know seem bored a large part of their days. I’ve found curiosity is an effective antidote for boredom. It might be fun to compare our list of things that make us curious…What do you think? *
10
The Sperm and the Egg
As I write we are closing in on the second decade of the 21st century. If I were to say “dangerous projectile”, you might think North Korea or USA, or any number of other nations able to go crazy in a moment’s provocation. What follows is a “How to” story of a much earlier stage in the life of the little boy called Ken. No communities were unduly threatened. 1. Get a wooden shingle, an old bicycle inner tube, a foot-long stick, and a jackknife. 2. Split the shingle from the thicker end to the thinner end. This should yield 3 to 4 “arrows”. 3. Near the thicker end of each arrow use the jack-knife to carve a notch. The notch should angle towards the thin end, perhaps 3 or 4 inches from the thin end. 4. Attach a piece of the inner tube to the stick, making a loop with the two ends of the tube attached to the stick. 5. To launch an arrow: Hold the stick with one hand; Hook the loop of rubber inner-tube in the notch in the arrow while holding the arrow in your other hand; Pull back, stretching the rubber; Let go of the arrow. Warning: The arrow will fly a long way, depending on how hard you pull back the rubber before letting go of the arrow. If an arrow were to hit a person or some other animal, severe wounding could occur. Also, property could be damaged if hit by an arrow. For example, a window in your house… Mature common sense is required at all times when operating this equipment. The inventor of this instrument is not liable for either intended or accidental misuse.
Have fun. *
11
The Sperm and the Egg
Bees are nice. They make honey. I have always liked honey. Bees will not bite you unless you roughly invade their hives. And they are extremely important to agriculture because they pollinate plants as they move among plants and flowers collecting pollen to take back to their hives. Bee-keeping is an important industry. Hornets, on the other hand are not nice. (OK, they pollinate, too, I know.) But a hornet will attack you on the slightest provocation. Hornets’ nests are a beautiful and unique structures particularly symmetrical when found hanging from a branch of a tree. Look from a distance, but do not come too close. And at all costs, never touch the nest. You will not be able to outrun a buzz of hornets that think you have invaded their territory. Some people are so allergic to hornet bites that they could die… In my younger years, I used to hunt hornets’ nests. Yes, I know that’s a dangerous sport… But I guess the danger was the irresistible attraction. Some of us are born to risk. The essentials for the hornet hunt – in addition to a degree of fearlessness – were: (1) a well-made sling-shot. (I preferred a custom-made sling-shot, though my adult son, Mark, gave me a commercial model a few years ago. I don’t use a sling-shot much now…but it is good to have one on hand, just in case.); (2) a bucket of rightsized stones (important for accuracy); (3) long pants and long-sleeved shirt are optional. Novices tend to dress this way, but I preferred the challenge of hunting shorts and T-shirt. When you know your sling-shot well, it is easier to judge the distance between your shooting point and the nest. Miscalculation in this matter can be lethal. Too close, and it’s game over. Of course, if you are too far away, you waste ammunition. Scouting the territory of the hornet is vital. The terrain around the target nest needs to be open for rapid retreat. Hit the nest, and you had better be running at top speed immediately! That is the great adrenalin rush that cannot be equaled in any other hunting. In those years that I hunted I modestly note that I was not stung once. Northern Saskatchewan is the territory in which I hunted. That area Is widely considered the most dangerous and demanding Hornet Hunting anywhere.
12
The Sperm and the Egg
But I must tell you about a family phase in my past Hornet Hunting career. Any of you with younger brothers may enjoy this. (Although, I suppose, you with older brothers might have some bad memories…) My cousin, Glen, was a Hornet Hunter too. We each had a younger brother. The young’uns, as we called them, wanted to come with us on the hunt. Glen and I made a deal with Gary and Kim. If you come with us, we said, you must carry a bucket of ammunition, stay with us as we fire at the targeted nest, and when we make a hit and start to run, you two must carry the ammunition buckets and under no account leave them behind. They agreed. It worked pretty well – for Glen and me, at least. But Gary and Kim lost interest after a couple of Hornet Hunts. * Walking in a forest is magical. Wherever trees get together, my imagination starts working overtime. I know two other names for places where large numbers of trees are found. Woods is one. Bush is the other. Though I have never lived in a jungle of trees, I remember how Tarzan could swing through the jungle forest. When I was little, the ability to travel through the trees high off the ground, like Tarzan, was very attractive. Unfortunately, there were not enough vines in my part of the world. Actually, there were none. But I also had read the story of the Swiss Family Robinson. (I think that was the name of the book.) I don’t remember them swinging through the trees on vines, but they did have a tree-house! That was the answer. My cousin Glen, and I, found four strong trees spaced in a square, more or less, just the right distance apart, in the bush along the lane from the barnyard to the pasture. The location was far enough from the old log house so that parents could not see the site. They were aware of our hopes to build a tree house, but they did not know the secret part of our plan.
13
The Sperm and the Egg
To work. Old lumber from behind the barn and by the blacksmith shop, hammer, saw and nails from the tractor shed, and a ladder from the garage…All dragged, lugged, and lifted to the building site. We sawed, hammered and nailed all afternoon. Only miss-haps – one hammer-hit thumb, and minor rip of jeans. Four strong boards connected the four strong trees. The floor was on! It was getting dark. Supper time. Next morning up early. Breakfast quickly. Back to the building site. Ladder up. Walls nailed on. Roof in place (a very dangerous part of the carpenter work). Cut three windows in three walls, and an opening left for the door. (I guess I’ve just given you another “how to” story…) The tree house was beautiful! The secret plan I mentioned earlier was our next step. After the tree house construction was completed, we intended to construct a network of connecting board paths from the tree house through the trees in the bush. It would be well off the ground. We could move through the trees silently and invisibly, spying on passersby… A bit different than Tarzan, but similar – just without the vines. The nights we spent in the tree-house… Well, that’s for another story. But I must admit that we never did quite get the elevated trail through the trees built. However, the tree-house remained a centre for our (imagined) clandestine operations for pasture probes and other forest exploration. * The “Pasture” is the scene of many stories. Most are happy. Some are scary. But two stories are sad. The first sad Pasture story is about Rex. Rex was our dog – in a very long line of dog pets on our farm. He was an outside-only dog and never came into the old log house. Rex’s coat was long white fur. Though not a big dog, Rex did enjoy chasing the occasional passing car on the road…a very dangerous sport. Many dogs were run over as they barked and bit at the tires of moving vehicles. I loved Rex. One day we noticed Rex staggering, and unable to properly use his hind legs.
14
The Sperm and the Egg
This was a certain sign of an incurable distemper. In those days the nearest veterinarian was in Prince Albert – about forty-five or fifty kilometres away. And besides, we did not have the money to pay a vet, even in the very unlikely possibility of a cure. Rex would only die an increasingly agonizing death. Therefore, the only question was how to put Rex out of his misery. The only humane solution available to us was to help him die as soon as possible. But who would do it? My Dad just could not. Neither could my Mom. Certainly, my two young siblings could not do it. Rex could hardly move at all. His whole facial expression begged us do something. So, I took my Cooey 22 rifle and a shovel, and slowly walked with Rex down the lane to the pasture. Rex had an extremely hard time walking, but he seemed to want to come. We walked together. Once inside the pasture, we turned to the right-hand trail, and a moment or two later, stopped. …. Rex slumped down, looked up at me…and waited. He seemed to know what was to happen. …. One carefully placed shot. …. I gently buried Rex there in the pasture, shed a tear, and returned home alone. I didn’t talk with anyone for a while… My second death experience. * The second sad story from the Pasture concerns a fox. One day, on one of my explorations in the Pasture, I came across a fox that could not move because his back was broken. I have no idea how its back got broken, but he could not move. He just looked up at me and snarled – a kind of last challenge of self-protection. This happened on the path that went straight from the lane into the Pasture on the way to the gravel pit, just west of the Red Cross Outpost Hospital. There was no alternative. I could not leave him there to die in agony. So, I picked up a solid piece of fallen tree limb. I quickly struck the fox’s head with one powerful blow. *
15
The Sperm and the Egg
The hay-loft of the barn was a place of great adventure. A hay-loft is the upstairs of a barn. The loft had a large door opening in both the front and rear of the barn. These openings were to allow hay to be stored above the stalls of the animals on the ground floor. That was the mundane and practical use of the loft… The real value of the loft was for other purposes: for example, it provided a good look-out and hiding place in our games of “guns” – a version of Hide and Seek with cap pistols! The loft was the best place for defense and attack as I and my friends dashed in and out and around the other buildings, shooting left and right. * When I was a kid, those wee ultra-light one-person airplanes were still more of an imagination than common. I dreamt of owning and flying one! Mechanics Illustrated magazine was full of wonderful ideas of flying… Not possible for me, of course. Flying remained a stimulating imagination for me – it still does… The idea of floating in air…seeing things one could not see from the ground… For some, reality is the end of seeking and imagination. For me, reality has always been a challenge. I had to accept the fact that I could not get an ultra-light aircraft. But as I sat in the loft, looking out, seeing the sky, wishing I could fly, I took a step around the limitations of reality…I was sitting on a perfect launch pad for a parachute jump! Yes! Attach heavy strings to each of the four corners of a bed sheet; knot the string ends together to form a hand-hold; hold firmly to the hand-hold; leap out of the loft door and float gently to the ground. If this worked, and I had no doubt that it would, then I could move even higher – say to the roof of the barn! I would have a longer experience of glorious weightlessness. Seemed quite logical. (But a WARNING! This is not another “how to” story. Do not try this from your barn hayloft!) I changed from string to a stronger cord on the premise that when the ‘chute opened the string would break. Finally, it was time for the first jump.
16
The Sperm and the Egg
Folding a parachute in just the right way so that it will open properly is important. I had never folded a parachute before… I finally bunched the bed sheet together, grabbed the hand-hold, and stepped to the edge of the loft door. Looking down is somehow different from looking up, especially when one is on the verge of leaping out of the loft window… Down looks a lot further. But I did not let the creeping nervousness get control. The time had come! The first parachute jump of my life…W0W! I jumped… As it turned out, this was both my first and my last parachute jump. No bones broken – luckily – but the impact was more than I expected. A few minutes to recover…Several refinements were needed. Actually, the project was put on the “sometime-never” shelf. My Mom was torn between relief and anger when I gave a brief account as to why the bedsheet needed to go through the wash. * Always eat lots of vegetables. They make you healthy. Kids hear that advice all the time. And it’s good advice. But not just for kids; same for 85-year-old geezers like me! When I was little, we had a huge vegetable garden on the farm. It was near the blacksmith shop. Mom was the chief organizer and boss of the garden, and recruiter of pickers and weeders. (Read: us kids) Among the many varieties of veggies there were tomatoes. As they ripened on the vine, my Mom (and we kids) picked the delicious red fruit. Mom canned many jars of the tomatoes. The canned tomatoes were delicious through the winter months. As the growing season went on, and the nip of the Fall was in the air, the green unripe tomatoes were also picked. The green tomatoes were placed between sheets of newspapers (The Western Producer paper) in layers in boxes and pushed under the beds in the old log house to gradually ripen. Some were made into pickles.
17
The Sperm and the Egg
Inevitably, quite a few of the green tomatoes were caught by Jack Frost on the vines, and were left to rot and go back in the soil. Thanks to the nippy weather, the frozen fruit made great “hand grenades”! In our many games of “guns”, my friends and I would lob these mushy frozen tomatoes at each other as we raced around the farm yard in and out of the barn, hiding behind buildings, holing up in the loft, hiding behind trees, and generally waging war on everything that moved. The results of direct hits produced a big green mess…not the least, on clothes and skin…with occasional bruises. Those grenades that missed human targets and hit the wall of buildings produced some very interesting designs. I suppose an early version of spray-can graffiti. But huge fun, as you can imagine… The supply of green tomatoes was limited, of course, so that phase of our “guns” game was short-lived. We returned to our arsenal of cap pistols – until the snow came, and we shifted our focus of attention to the snow drifts. *
“Dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh…” Almost everyone knows that old song. But these days not many people experience that thrill. I did, though…I remember it well. “Dashing through the snow…” Ah yes, I remember it well. We had a cutter. No, that was not some kind of knife that cut things. A cutter is a sleigh that carries people. Sometimes one horse pulled it, sometimes two. Some sleighs were quite artistic – sort of like Santa’s sleigh. Ours was “ordinary” – functional but not elaborate. Often, we used the sleigh to go to Grandpa and Grandma Genge’s house for supper. They lived about a mile away – on the shortest route, over the fields. In the midst of those northern Saskatchewan winters the temperature often dropped to -40 degrees or lower. Preparation for this winter-time dash through the snow was important. In the very cold weather, a person could freeze to death easily and quickly!
18
The Sperm and the Egg
The horses had to be harnessed and hitched to the cutter. Dad took care of that. Other things took a bit longer. Fair sized stones were heated on the wood-burning kitchen stove. Everybody put on their warmest winter clothes. Mom helped with that. Each item of clothing had to be put on in the right sequence. (Sort of like putting on hockey gear…) With all of us bundled up in parkas, snow pants, toques, scarves over our faces, and mitts, the sleigh drew up to the door. Mom now wrapped the hot stones in woolen blankets, herded us out the door and into the sleigh. The hot stones gave off a wonderful heat through the blankets to keep our feet warm. Other blankets were wrapped over and around us – and we were off! Across the snowy fields we flew, with sleigh bells jingling, and the bright silver moon silhouetting the horses’ steaming breath in the cold cold air. What fun it was! I remember the great feasts at Grandma and Grandpa’s place. We kids loved those wintertime visits…I think our grandparents did too. Ruth and I are grandparents now. We delight in having our children and grandchildren come to visit and eat with us. They are more than a short dash through the snow with sleigh-bells ringing now. But the joy of those times we do have together are the same. But I digress a little... Our visit with our grandparents always came to an end too soon for Wendy, Gary, and me. The late evening farm chores had to be done, so preparation for the sleigh ride home began. Same procedure for going home as for the sleigh-ride to our grandparents. Team ready. Hot stones ready. Winter clothing on and ready. Blankets taken in when we arrived now warm and ready. Dad drew the cutter up to the door. Hugs all around. We piled in. We were off! Same snow, same harness bells jingling, same moon shining … We kids very soon sleeping. *
19
The Sperm and the Egg
We had many granaries on our farm. A granary was a simple building where grain was stored before selling the grain at the local Pool elevator. One of those granaries on our farm was named the “New Granary”. New because Dad built it when Wendy, Gary, and I were young. It was set on the brow of the hill on the east side of our farm, not far north of the road to Paddockwood. It was on the side of the hill so Dad could back up a truck or grain wagon on the ground level side and unload grain into the granary bins. The east side sloped away so that grain wagon or truck could back under to unload the bins by gravity. So, grain in on the west side for storage, out by gravity on the lower east side on its way to the Pool elevator. The storage and movement of grain was, of course, important. But what I liked about the location of the “New Granary” was that just to the north of the granary was a knoll in the field where a colony of gophers thrived. From the roof of the granary I could pot gophers as they sat up to survey their domain. They destroyed grain growing in that part of the field. “Pot” means “shoot”. And shoot meant using my Cooey 22 rifle. I lay silently on the west slope of the granary roof, with my head and rifle just over the peak. I had the choice of ammunition – 22 shorts, or 22 longs. The longs were a bit more accurate and so produced better results, but the shorts were cheaper, so I used 22 shorts mostly. My parents gave me my Cooey 22 when I was 12 – with very wise and oftrepeated instructions about rifles and their safe uses. In my very early years Dad still went hunting, sometimes, to augment our family food supply. Dad had an old 22 rifle. I had my Cooey 22, but I do not remember a hunting rifle anywhere in our house. * When I was 12, I also learned to drive a car. I practiced on the trails around the farm fields. Much and all that I wanted to, I could not drive on the public roads till I was 16. The practical side of this excitement of driving – even if just on the farm – was that I could take the lunches out to the threshing crews in the fields in harvest timed. That was a big help to my Mom. *
20
The Sperm and the Egg
My parents gave me piano lessons when I was in my early teens. Wendy and Gary, my younger siblings, took some lessons too. I cannot remember where my parents got the piano. It was a heavy upright, and a very good piano. It must have been a major investment, and, I think, symbolized Mom’s and Dad’s loving commitment to us. My piano teacher was Mrs. Norman. She was a good teacher. But I admit that, at the time, I was not overly sad that she had to stop teaching when she became president of the Saskatchewan Farmers Union. In fact, I really did enjoy being able to play. I sometimes played at school Christmas Concerts in the local Elk’s Hall. That was OK, but I enjoyed more playing pop songs of the day. I had many favourites. One of them was “Far Away Places”. I think that song was the seed of my early desire to travel. A book of world adventures by Gordon Sinclair also fed my imagination of going to distance places. Because of my piano lessons, I learned to read music. And I still fiddle around at the piano from time to time. Strictly for personal therapy, I hasten to add. I love music. My early piano lessons were the foundation for two major happenings for me: my meeting Ruth, who has ARCT degrees in singing and teaching singing; and my career in the Anglican Church – as a performer of liturgy, among other things. I feel the need to add that my singing voice still requires more discipline and practice than ever I gave it. *
21
The Sperm and the Egg
22
The Sperm and the Egg
23
The Sperm and the Egg
24
School House
CHAPTER 2 School House
I remember my first day of school. Do I remember! I did not want to go to school. I was shy and scared and I cried. I told my parents I did not want to go to school! I’m not going to school! But I went. One of the Avery twins, who lived in Paddockwood, came by that traumatic morning, and took me to school on his bike. I think this was a plan set up between my parents and the Averys. The school was not in the village. The little two-room building sat at the cross-roads of the grid roads, and on the south-west corner of the school property. It was less than a kilometer west from our old log house. I got used to it. Actually, it is the stage for a number of stories to come, after I had come to grips with my shyness. * I did manage to survive Grade 1…with four memories. I remember nothing else about that first adventure into formal learning. The first memory occurred in Grade 1 art class. My drawing of a dog looked just like the picture model. Teacher gave me high praise for that. I think this contributed to my interest in art, and pleasure in drawing and painting in the years since. It is amazing how little and apparently insignificant experiences in early childhood can impact a child’s future. The second memory from Grade 1 still mystifies me. At the end of the year, Teacher recommended that I skip Grade 2, and go directly into Grade 3. My parents and Teacher discussed this. Mom and Dad firmly insisted that I move into Grade 2. Probably a wise decision. Of course, I had little or no part in the decision. But I was happy enough with the outcome. I must admit that I sometimes wonder what difference it would have made to my future academic endeavours had I gone directly into Grade 3.
25
School House
I am left-handed, like my Dad. When he was little the teaching norm of the day demanded that lefties must write with their right hand. My third memory from Grade 1 is that Teacher – Miss Lockhart, by name – was (somewhat) ahead of her time. She allowed me to write with my left hand. But the paper had to be at the same angle as a right-handed person…Unfortunate; I changed the angle when I was in Grade 11. Left-handed people are the most universally ostracized demographic in all history – even to this day. In my Grade 1 music class, Teacher asked me to stand and sing a song. I was so shy that I could only stand – and remain mute. A humiliating experience! I think this fourth Grade 1 memory inhibited me musically, particularly in singing. Though I love music, both voice and instrument, I still have no real confidence singing in front of others. But I am less shy now, and just sing when I feel like it, or need to… * [[ A side-story about my “music roots”: John and Rose England were my mother’s parents. Grandfather, John England, was the gardener of the Vicarage and church property in Hambridge, Somerset, England. Across the road from the church is the Vicarage. In 1903 the Vicar was Charles Marson. On the right-hand side of the entrance drive to the Vicarage is a plaque which reads: In the garden of this Vicarage in September 1903 CECIL SHARP While staying with his friend and early collaborator CHARLES LATIMER MARSON Heard JOHN ENGLAND sing “The Seeds of Love” This incident inspired the Folk Song revival in England
Maude Karples, a collaborator with Cecil Sharp, wrote a book, CECIL SHARP his Life and Work. In it is a photo of my grandfather, John England, working in the Vicarage garden. She gave me a copy when I visited Maude Karples in London in 1973.
26
School House
Ruth and I have a copy of the First Series, 1915, FOLK SONGS FROM SOMERSET. The first song in the collection is THE SEEDS OF LOVE. Ruth has sung this at various gatherings in past years. I have not sung it, but have played it on the piano and recorder. ]] * Oh, before I get too far away from the little two-room school house on the corner…. In those early school days, none of us had real lunch kits…just lard pails or corn syrup pails. Those were the common carriers of sandwiches. Our families could not afford to buy the flashy “modern” lunch kits. My lunch pail was red. It had a wire handle and push-on pull-off lid. Lard was used for cooking and baking, and corn syrup for sweetening. One of the kids brought cheese sandwiches every day, day in and day out, week after week. He was called “Mousey”. Bullying comes in many forms. * In Grade 2 I was madly in love with a girl in Grade 4. I can’t remember her name…but she sat just a couple of rows over from my Grade 2 desk. Nothing came of it. Maybe the major age difference had something to do with it. Likely the feelings were not reciprocated. Whatever. The feelings were quite delicious, though. OK, I know it was just a “crush”, not “love”. But I didn’t know that distinction way back then. Division was a bit of a difficulty for me in Grade 2 Math. The reason for that is buried somewhere in my memory files. Real interest in mathematics for me began in Grade 12 as we approached calculus. Nothing ever came of that either – except, perhaps, my long and continuing interest in philosophy, time, space, and the human brain. *
27
School House
By the time I moved from that first school room into the second room, Grades 5-8, things had begun to change for me. I had grown quite a bit, become physically stronger, and could run like the wind. An intense sense of right and wrong, and the important of justice, that I had inherited from my parents, began to come strongly to the fore. Though, as you will see from some of the following stories, this maturity did not come all at once… * Unless the people are willing to rise up and take some risk, oppression by those holding power can never be overcome. Justice can come only if the ordinary people of the land have leadership! Such was the case in that domain known as “The School Yard of the Little Two-Room School on the Corner.” Understand that in this case, the ordinary citizen was the student. The iron fists of power in the territory were the Teacher’s. The following story takes a bit of time, but then so does the fight for justice and fair-play. Sometimes wisdom is lacking… * In the Spring students get restless. The sun in high, light has returned after winter darkness. And the snow is just the right consistency for making snow balls, snow men persons – and huge balls of snow that take several strong citizens to push. From the vantage point of my years now, I suspect that the “iron fists of power”, the Teachers, could also feel the rising danger of the season. In a far corner of the school yard, a group of leaders (from the oppressed student population) held a first-recess secret meeting. A “Noon Hour Plan” was developed. End of recess bell rang. The small group of leaders melted into the general obedient movement of the rest of the students. All moved back into the school rooms with the submissive passivity that tended to make the Teachers lower their guard. The rest of the morning moved agonizingly slowly for the small leader group. They did their best to be attentive students…. Which should have made the Teachers nervous…. Noon finally arrived. Lunch gulped down in record time!
28
School House
Out in the school yard, the students were playing hide and seek, throwing snow balls, building little forts, or just sitting in the snow in the sun. But at a precisely calculated distance from the school house doors, a small group of citizen leaders began to roll two ever-increasingly large balls of snow. At first, no one seemed to take much notice. The Teachers were inside at their desks, probably planning lessons, or whatever these people in power do when out of sight of the citizens. In this case, they were probably dreaming of the end of June. By the time we were about 15 metres from the school doors – the “red zone” – an increasing number of other citizens began drifting over as they were attracted by the size (huge!) and direction (towards the school doors) of the massive balls of snow. As the small group of citizen leaders sweated and strained in pushing the round avalanches of snow, several citizens began to help. Ever so slowly the giant balls of snow moved towards the school doors. End of Noon hour was close. Finally, the increasing number of citizens hoisted the snow giants up on the porches, and wedged them firmly against the doors. The student-citizens quickly dispersed, and resumed their harmless play in the snow. Innocent fun. Occasional guarded glances towards the school…. We all knew that it must be past the Noon lunch hour. The school yard gradually became quiet. Now, to see a teacher climbing out a window, holding on to a hand-bell, shouting things that she would normally not say, while at the same time attempting a degree of decorum, is not a pretty sight. And, of course, in those days, slacks were not the customary dress for female teachers… As Head Teacher stomped towards us, we parted like the Red Sea before Moses. Several “volunteers” were recruited by the bell-swinging-ringing banshee Teacher in a voice that broached no questions. Snow balls demolished. Uprising ended! We knew “pay-back” would come. Teachers are like hockey players: “they remember your number”. *
29
School House
There was no indoor plumbing in the little two-room school on the corner. That means we had two outdoor toilets – one for the boys and one for the girls. They both were located on the east side of the school yard, just on the edg of the bush that surrounded the school yard on the east and south sides. Between the two toilets was a simple building with a door in the middle, and a slightly sloping roof. This building served as a barn for horses that some of the kids rode or drove. Most of the time it was empty because almost everyone walked to school from their farm home in the days when I went there. Those three buildings, the barn and the two “out-houses”, as the toilets were called, were the crucial locations for the wars between the girls and boys. This activity was not an extra-curricular activity that pleased the teachers… Perhaps that added another level to the danger and excitement. The base for the boys’ “army” was around and on the roof of the boys’ out-house, a few metres from the north end of the barn. The base for the girls was their outhouse, a similar distance from the south end of the barn. The contested ground was the barn. Whichever army occupied the barn – both the interior and the roof – was definitely winning. But if you were caught inside the barn without control of the roof, you could be in serious danger. The weapons of choice in Spring and Fall were sticks and stones – whatever easily and quickly came to hand. Thinking back on this now, I cannot recall anyone being hurt…. At least not seriously. Perhaps that is because the actual length of the engagements were relatively short. Morning recess got things started. Afternoon recess was often a mopping up operation. The Noon hour, however, was the time for all-out conflict. So, we were fast eaters and eager warriors at lunch time! The school bell always signaled the cessation of battle and laying down of arms – a sort of “Geneva Convention” of the school yard. Battle lines moved back and forth – north then south, and back again… One was reasonably safe on the roof of the out-house, or better yet, behind it. Even the advantage of occupying interior and roof of the barn was often short-lived.
30
School House
In the battle season of sticks and stones ammunition, often the pedagogical powers declared truces. Punishment was meted out to fit the crime. In those days, in addition to having to stay in at recess and noon hour, there was the much-feared strap! And back then, parents tended to side with the teachers… So, when things got serious at school, parents would lay on further discipline! These gender battles raged throughout the school year. In Winter the ammunition was mostly snow balls. Yes, of course, that could include iced snowballs, but most hand-to-hand combat did not give time for advanced preparation of that kind. The winter season had a subtle attraction. It was exciting to have reasons to wrestle with girls. And it seemed to me that they enjoyed it also. * Our school house on the corner was an L shaped two-room structure. The two rooms were joined together in the middle by a short hallway with just enough length to allow a door to the basement. In the basement the wood-burning furnace blazed away in the Winter and sat silently in the Summer. Stacks of cordwood for the furnace were piled more or less in the middle of the basement floor. Behind the wood darkness ruled. Only the brave ventured there. Another dark and dangerous place was behind the furnace. Between the furnace and the wall was just enough space for a “hiding place”. When the furnace was blazing away, the hiding place was dangerous. Easy to get burned. The basement also provided storage space for school supplies – toilet paper, for example. Boxes of the stuff. Toilet paper is very useful, not only because of what it is designed for, but because in our school basement, a roll of toilet paper was a superb missile. During recess and Noon hour – especially Noon hour. After gulping down lunch, sides were chosen. Very quietly the two “teams” disappeared down into the basement. Another foray out-of-bounds.
31
School House
With all the decorum of ancient armies deploying courteously on the field of battle, each team took up positions behind the appropriate cordwood pile, and provisioned themselves with the ammunition. (Fresh rolls of toilet paper) One thing: the battle was to be waged in silence, at least as much as possible. We were not supposed to be down in the basement… The signal was given. The air became full of flying missiles. Forays were made into no-man’s person’s land; paper unraveled; human collisions resulted in fights; pieces of cordwood fell off the piles… As the heat of the battle increased, the “silent rule” – like all rules that are supposed to govern wars – was put aside. The decibel level reached a pitch which brought Teacher down in a fury. There were never any clear winners in the toilet tissue battles. But, in the classroom, all the students were losers. Recess and Noon hour detentions were imposed. As far as I can recall, no corporal punishment (the strap) was meted out. * The chimney from the wood-burning furnace in the basement came out of the roof at the joining point of the two school rooms. In winter weather the fire in the furnace burns, the smoke goes up the chimney, the heat goes into the school rooms through the heat pipes. And all is well. Short roof extensions covered each porch door for weather protection. If one wanted, for some reason, to get onto the school roof, it could probably be done after getting on one of the extensions. A bit tricky from there onto the roof, but an agile person with no fear of heights could do it. From there to the chimney would be no problem. If the chimney was blocked, mused a small group of students, how long would it take for the smoke to find another way out from the furnace…? The query led to contemplation of a piece of old plywood on the wood pile. It looked about the right size. And so the experiment began.
32
School House
No Teacher was in sight. All the usual “snitches” were probably inside cozying up to Teachers – cleaning chalk board erasers to curry favour. The rest of the students were all over the school yard involved in their own little games. No one would take much notice of a roof-climber… We hoped. Up he climbed, carefully but quickly. Plywood on the chimney, and climber back down. Morning recess bell called us back inside to continue our studies….and wait and see. By Noon hour lunch something should be happening. Even as we ate our lunch, and went out to play, the atmosphere in the school rooms was vaguely hazy especially near the ceiling. By the time we were called back to our rooms, it was clear something was very wrong. In wooden buildings, especially in a location where there was absolutely no fire protection, the smell of smoke is a frightening thing! We evacuated the building immediately. Emergency measures were in effect. Excitement and fear soared. The idea of burning down the school house had occurred to a student or two from time to time over the years, but certainly only in jest. The Teachers were frantic! One of them made sure all we students were out and accounted for. A Teacher ventured back into each school room, and down the then smoke-filled basement – to, thankfully, find and quickly report that there were no flames in the basement. And that report led to the teachers seeking a better view of the roof. The mood was changing…They were experienced teachers. Thin as the plywood was, it was still visible sitting on top of the chimney. One of our student number sized up the situation, made a quick decision and volunteered to go up on the roof to see what was the matter… What could the Teachers do but the accept the offer? The volunteer viewed the challenge. He was wise – he asked the Teachers’ advice as to how to get on the roof… It was their suggestion that he use one of the roofextension porch roofs. “Oh…Would never have thought of that.” he said.
33
School House
The volunteer, using elaborate care, made the climb up look very difficult and dangerous – though he, of course, had made the very same climb earlier in the day. With a dramatic flourish, he removed the plywood from the chimney, and tossed it to the ground with obvious care not to hit the spectators below. With his feet again on terra-firma, the volunteer felt himself on a roll… He executed a rather arrogant bow to the assembled. The students clapped, and some cheered! The Teachers did neither. But the smoke began to rise from the chimney. Decision time for the teachers. We could not stay outside. The class rooms were still much too smoky to stay inside. Neither in nor out was possible. Short return to the class rooms, quickly bundled in our winter clothes, smoky smell and all. We were sent home for the rest of the day. I don’t recall how or by whom the school was de-smoked. The culprit was never caught. A “cold case”, if I might execute a slight pun. However, I do remember a long period of no recesses, and much shortened noon hours…. The life of a student is not easy. (OK, nor was the life of the Teacher, I will admit.) * The basement of the little two-room school house on the corner was rich with possibilities. In addition to the “behind the furnace”, “behind the cordwood piles”, “under the stairs”, and “behind the boxes of toilet paper” hiding places, there was another. There was some space between the top of the cement walls and the floor beams. One could slide up under the floor of the school, and look up through the heat register grills into the classroom…undetected. Why do this? Just because... Claustrophobia lessened the number of us taking advantage of this exercise. When things got out of hand in the basement, the teacher came only to the top of the open structure of the stair steps. One could look up through the openings. So, our Teacher could only stand at the top and scream. A relatively ineffective way to restore peace and order. Her sanity was threatened…again! We in Grade 7 were moved to a make-shift building in the Village for Grade 8! *
34
School House
Another incident that led to the Grade 7 class removal to the village for Grade 8 was less dramatic. One day, as we were back in our seats following Noon hour…at least most of us were back in place…our Teacher’s desk began to slowly move away from her. She, and most of the students, those in their seats, that is, were startled. The teacher’ face, I am told, blanched, turned red, and blanched again, and her eyes became bigger than ever. Moving a heavy piece of furniture requires a lot of muscle. When that piece of furniture moves by itself…that’s magic muscle. But no, there was no magic here. A rope had been tied to a leg of Teacher’s desk, and threaded under a row of desks and down the basement stairs. This was installed during a short absence of Teacher in late Noon hour. A small cadre of anonymous people in the basement slowly pulled the rope. From the perpetrator’s point of view, this was pretty much a suicide mission. But it was considered worth it because of the general disruption, once again, in the classroom. This incident was another straw on the camel’s back that contributed to the decision to move Grade 7 class out of the little school house on the corner at the end of the year, and into the village for Grade 8. Normally, the move to the village was for Grade 9. Though a little further to go to school, the village was a much more interesting place for me. * I was going to tell you about the time a couple of students took all the bolts out of their desks. The desks had a drawer under the seat for books, a desk top, and an armrest on the right-hand side (no left-hand side!) connecting the desk back and the desk top. Bolts held it together. If they were missing – the bolts, that is – when one sat down, the desk fell apart… I’ve decided not to tell you. Other than to say that that was the Final Act that moved me and the other Grade 7s to the village for Grade 8. *
35
School House
Straight south of the little school house on the corner, at the south-west edge of the school yard was the water pump that supplied the school with drinking water. If you kept going south past the plump and out of the school yard, you came to a slough that contained water the whole year round. In the winter that slough made a huge skating area. If the conditions were just right – and they were, sometimes – the wind would blow all or most of the snow off the ice. What was exposed was a couple of kilometres long, and half a kilometre wide, ice surface, perfect for skating and hockey. It was out of bounds, of course. We were warned by teachers and parents that we were not to skate on that ice because we could break through and drown! At noon hour many of us would slip out of the school yard, past the pump, and down to the slough for a glorious skate. It was wonderful! The area of ice made the largest European hockey rink seem like a little back-yard puddle. We could skate forever…. Perhaps like people said about Holland. Spring was the most dangerous time. The increasing warmth of the sun gradually weakened the ice. It did become very dangerous. Most of the slough water was well over our heads in depth. I remember skating on the spring ice when you could feel the thinning ice rolling like little waves under your feet. Fortunately, we had brains enough (dumb luck maybe) to get off the ice in time. No one ever fell through. I remember being envious of Fred because he always got a new hockey stick on 6 January – Ukrainian Christmas, as we called it. Fred, with his new hockey stick, was the star of our imaginary NHL on the frozen slough! The only drowning in our district happened a few years later. One of the older boys in the community drowned near the little bridge over the Garden River on the road west to the highway. I knew him. I can remember the shock, with no answer to the question, “Why?”. * I always knew I could run fast, but I never thought about it much. One day my almost-cousin, Orville, said, “Ken. You can run fast – very fast!” I learned something about myself: I became the fast runner I already was… 36
School House
When World War 2 ended, I was 12 years old. The War was distant from my comprehension. Contact with WW 2 for me included: the fact that one of my Dad’s brothers was in the Air Force; scary radio reports of advances or retreats of the Allied Forces after D-Day; war bonds sales and movie clips of battle scenes at Paddockwood Elk’s Hall; and stories about some enlisted men and women of the district who had been taken prisoner, gone missing, or killed, as the Allied Forces advanced from the Normandy landing. Food rationing, scrap metal collection, relief packages sent to the United Kingdom - all these things and more kept the reality local. Farming was considered part of the war effort. But we ate well, like others on farms, because of our enormous gardens. Urban dwellers probably had a more difficult time. The War was for me a strange mixture of reality and excitement. * Forty kilometres south of Paddockwood, near Prince Albert, there was an RCAF Pilot Training Centre. The aspiring pilots started out in what everyone called “Moths” – or Tiger Moths. They were bi-wing craft, with tandem seating, nonretractable wheels, with a small wheel or skid at the tail. They were like the tricycle one rides on the way to a two-wheeler. Next came the Harvards, and then the twoengine craft. But the Moths were an open invitation to low-level daredevil flying! Good training for the terrible job they would be doing in their not-too-distant future… * Telephone wires are not all that high above the ground. The old telephone poles are wide enough apart to allow some sagging of the wires. One day, just as I was passing the Red Cross Outpost Hospital on my way to school, a Tiger Moth swooped over the hospital and flew under the telephone wires! Trees to the left and right, barbed wire fence below – a tight flight path. No problem. The Moth gained altitude, turned, and flew back over the hospital. The wings waggled, there was a great laughing grin on the pilot’s face, he waved, and flew off. No doubt looking for other scenarios to challenge his piloting skill! He was a good one, I thought, he’ll 37
School House
shoot lots of those bad German fighters out of the sky. I told all my friends about how great that pilot was – and that he waved at me! * Farmers spent many hours in season out on the fields, driving tractors as they sowed grain, cultivated, and harvested. In those days, tractor drivers were not encased in the modern cabs of today. Out in the dust and noise – no mufflers back then – the relatively quiet Moth could not be heard. From behind the tractor, flying a very few feet off the ground, the pilot-in-training brought the Moth up just in time to go low over the head of the unsuspecting farmer. Depending on the mood of the farmer at the time, with his heart beating pretty fast, he either shook his fist at the circling, laughing, waving pilot…or smiled and waved back. * From time to time, pilots-in-training, flying their Gypsy Moths, took their little craft under the Prince Albert bridge… Under the traffic level, just above the North Saskatchewan River, and between the centre spans. Too close to officialdom for the officials to ignore. The PA newspapers had a ball reporting the dare-devil exploits, and the general population thought it was great. The pilots were local heroes. While the pilots were severely racked over the coals for this stunt, I suspect the senior officers realized that these young risk-takers were much valued for the real job ahead. * Not all these exciting exploits ended with a laugh and a wave. One day, during recess at the little school on the corner, a Moth trainer came flying up over the school yard, just barely above the trees.
38
School House
The pilot waved. We waved back. The noise of the plane’s motor was deafening – and a bit scary. The plane circled around again and came in the from the north over our west farm field. By this time all of us in the school yard were running back and forth, looking up at the plane and shouting! The pilot waggled the wings, flew over the school – barely missing the chimney – and swooped up, made a sharp right turn to come over the school yard again. We could clearly see the pilot’s face – laughing and waving at us. What would he do next? Even more scary, but the excitement grew. What he did was circle off, make a gentle turn and seemed to be flying off into the sky away from the school yard. We so much wished he would come back… And he did! This time it seemed the plane was going to touch the ground right in the school yard…He was so low! We held our breath…The plane got up and over the school, banked left and headed for the out-house toilets! The pilot pulled the plane up at the very last minute – but he was too close to two tall black poplar trees on the other side of the biffies… The left wings of the Moth hit the trees, the plane spun around 90 degrees, and plunged into the ground! We all swarmed toward the crash site. We got there almost before the plane hit the ground. There it was. Nose down into the earth, tail in the air, and the pilot slowly climbing out of the cockpit. Luckily there was no fire, and the pilot was shaken up but not injured. “Where’s the nearest phone?”, he asked. We pointed and shouted, “Up there on Hospital Hill…in the hospital!” And he trudged off, no doubt to let Headquarters know that he was in a spot of trouble, and needed a lift. I never did find out the reaction of the nurse when the pilot turned up at the door. Teachers eventually rounded us all up, and swept us back into our class rooms. We wanted to get back out and inspect the crashed plane. By the time Noon hour arrived, it began to appear that the whole Canadian Air Force was converging on our little school on the corner, and using our farm field as a landing strip. An hour or so after, several cars arrived carrying uniformed Airmen, with impressive markings on their outfits. Definitely top brass. 39
School House
They were all interested to hear what, exactly, had led to the crash. We all were very glad to oblige. The coherent element was difficult because we were all talking at the same time. Wow! Actually speaking to real airmen. (There were no airwomen in the group…) They would not let us get up close to the downed Moth. Of course, much too soon, the planes took off, the cars left, the crash was out-ofbounds, and school was pretty dull. A small surge of excitement came when the truck arrived to haul away the plane. They did leave us a souvenir piece of the yellow fabric from the plane. It had a hallowed place on one of the classroom walls. Whatever happened to that piece of memorabilia, I do not know. But I do know that the day the Moth crashed was the best day in school I ever had! *
40
Pasture
CHAPTER 3 Pasture
Like most memories of special places, the pasture was the location of the two sad stories – Rex, and the fox – that I referred to earlier. But the pasture was also a magical place. There was the gravel pit, a straw stack, willows, scrub-bush, tall poplar and spruce trees, hideouts and secret paths, open spaces, and in the Spring, many ponds. * That lane I mentioned earlier ran between the barnyard and the entrance to the pasture. The cows could roam back and forth between pasture and barnyard. 3 metres wide, it had barbed-wire and post fence on each side. The lane ran in a straight line, west-east, between open grain fields to the north and south. It was about a half kilometre long. The west end of the lane was the entrance to the pasture. Imagine yourself standing at this entrance… Step inside… There were three paths from which to choose. Straight ahead was the safe path. That led to the gravel pit just below the Red Cross Outpost Hospital. The gravel pit provided good sling-shot ammunition. Spring melt sometimes made this path difficult to navigate. The second path, starting to the right of the safe path, was the one I took most often to search for and bring home the cows for milking. The terrain included some open space, lots of willows in the lower area, forest on the east side, scrub bush on the higher west side, with occasional gaps showing one of our fields. That field was the landing field for the Air Force planes after the Moth crash. Just before the forest on the north end of the pasture was the big straw-stack. If the cows had wandered into that largely unexplored north forest, I had to venture in. I was always thankful to hear the cow-bell that hung around the lead cow’s neck. You never knew what wild animals – or people – might be lurking in there.
41
Pasture
The most dangerous path was the one that took a sharp right-angle turn at the pasture entrance. Immediately you were in thick bush and forest. If you took this path you soon learned that you could not look very far ahead or back because of the twists and turns of the trail. And you could not see more than a metre or two left or right because of the dense growth. When we walked this trail, we walked carefully, silently and listening… * The pasture was the place we came each Christmas to get our tree. We drove with Dad on the stone-boat, which was pulled by Pat and Bill, our two faithful old work horses. Down the lane we came, snow flying in all directions, as we held on for dear-life! Many opinions about which was the “just right” tree finally focused on “the best tree ever”, and it was cut down – shedding snow on us all. Back home to be greeted by Mom with glowing affirmations, of course, that it was a great choice of tree, and with hot chocolate! * Another winter-time memory of the pasture is sliding down that big hay-stack. The wind always piled great swirls of snow drifts up, around, and on top. The slide down crashed through wind gullies and little cliffs! It was glorious! At least, that’s how I remember it. * My cousin Glen and I gradually explored the dangerous path, bit by bit. It was along this path, far into the forest, that we created two hideouts and one observation post. The most secret location was the small cabin in the thickest spruce grove. It was so hidden that if you did not know it was there, you could step around a tree and bump into it! The second was a dug-out at the foot of a huge spruce tree. The entrance was to be covered with branches. It was never finished…due to circumstances beyond our control. It was a good idea, though.
42
Pasture
The look-out was on a very tall spruce tree. The vulnerability of that site was, though we could see a long way, we could also be seen. Just like a sniper, concealment while observing the surrounding pasture and fields, was a constant challenge. Excitement, danger, adventure, lurked everywhere in the pasture. * There were buffalo skulls half buried here and there in the open spaces of the pasture. Perhaps they were from wood bison. As we found each one, Glen and I stored them in a secret place. After a while that place had more buffalo skulls than it could hold. What to do? There was an old abandoned well in the gully just below and to the east of the New Granary. There was lots of bush in the gully. No one could see the old well from the roadway to the south, nor from the laneway to the east that led to the Paddockwood cemetery. You couldn’t even see it from the roof of the New Granary. Perfect. All these many decades later, in this abandoned well, there could be found a collection of fine specimens of northern buffalo skulls. I have not been to that site in all the years since. Hard to know why two young kids would do this. Perhaps it was an unconscious urge to touch the past. But I doubt any paleontologist will stumble upon them. If they did, I bet they would, after ruling out any theory of a stampeding herd, speculate on religious ritual possibilities…? * That’s enough about the Pasture for now. I may tell you about some later stories of the magic and mystery of the Pasture. But those come after I met Ruth. And I’m not sure which of those stories I will tell. *
43
A Child’s View of Farming
CHAPTER 4 A Child’s View of Farming
“… When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways… “ That quotation comes from the New Testament. Paul wrote what I consider to be the best piece ever about loving relationships. You can find it in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, chapter 13. Well worth a read whatever your world view may be. But the quote I use above speaks to these stories following: a child’s memories as recollected by that child – now me at 85 years of age – of what it was like back then. * Saskatchewan’s Rural Electrification Program reached our farm when I was in my early teens. Night turned into day! How had we done without it? We did not automatically leap into a scenario of electric appliances, forced-air heating, etc. But the arrival of electricity brightened our lives both in our house and in our barn. The difference between coal-oil lanterns and electric lights in the barn greatly reduced the fire hazard. In the house, the dangerous coal-oil lamps and the Coleman gas light were replaced. I remember a coal-oil lamp being knocked over on the dining room table. Wendy, my little sister, was in a flimsy stroller very near the table. I leaped over and righted the lamp before the spilled coal-oil caught flame from the burning wick. It was a scary moment! I recall being congratulated for my quick-thinking action. A hero for the moment! The incident was too frightening to allow me to bask very much in the acclaim. Fortunately, there were no accidents with the coal-oil lanterns in the barn. But there were local fires in our district where the farmer was not so lucky. *
44
A Child’s View of Farming
Milking a cow is, with a little practice, very easy. In the old days when I lived on the farm, we did not have automatic cow-milking machines. Morning and evening we milked our cows by hand. Our farm was not a dairy farm, so we had only three to six cows at any one time. The most difficult part – with some of the cows – was not the actual milking. The thing was, you could get severely kicked as you sat on the little stool beside the cow. It depended on the mood of the animal at any particular milking time. For some cows that was every time! Dangerous, but they had to be milked. * Cow barns in those days were not exactly spit-and-polish clean. So, cows’ tails were often wet with dirt and cow poop. Since a cow uses her tail to switch away flies, it was natural to swing her tail back and forth. Picture in your mind: milker sitting on the stool, ready to milk, he or she is at the cow’s side near the cow’s back leg. Dangerous, as noted, but necessary because that is where the milk is – in the udder and four teats. While some cows may kick the milker, all cows are equal in the tail swinging department. WHOPP! The juicy end of the tail smacks the milker’s head. Not a joyful experience. (Remember the not-so-clean barn?) But the cows had to be milked. * Once again, my Dad solved the problem. He rigged up a clip system. The clips could move along a heavy wire (#9 gage) which was attached to the beams above the gutter end of the cow stalls. Before milking, one simply clipped the cow’s tail. She could not smack the vulnerable milker’s head. Of course, that had no effect whatever on reducing the chance of getting a boneshattering kick… I always tried to get one of our cows that was good natured and gentle. * In Spring, Summer, and Fall, in order to milk the cows, they had to be brought in from the pasture, morning and evening. Going for the cows was one of my farm jobs. In the Fall they were allowed to graze on the freshly harvested fields. The 45
A Child’s View of Farming
morning “going for the cows” was before school; the afternoon “going for the cows” was after school. I enjoyed bringing in the cows. I liked the challenge of finding them, and it was just great to be outside in the pasture or on the fields. Finding them was helped by that cow bell hanging around the neck of the lead cow. The only thing I did not like was even occasionally missing my favourite radio programs: (no TV back then) – Superman; The Lone Ranger; The Shadow Knows; the Green Hornet; L for Lanky; Roy Rogers; Gene Autrey; Dick Tracey… to name a few. And we didn’t have little portable radios in those days! A cultural deprivation! * During the years I lived at home in the little log house on the farm, we had different animals in the barn. There were pigs, cattle, horses, and cats. The cats lived in the hayloft, ate mice, drank cow milk specially put out for them, and were pretty wild. They did not venture to the house very often. Pigs, cattle, and horses tend to make a barn messy. That meant much cleaning of the barn. I cleaned the barn many many many times over the years. No complaints – it was part of my job as a member of the family working on the farm. To get it done, the stone-boat was placed in the central aisle of the barn between the pig pens and the cattle and horse stalls, about halfway between the front and rear doors. Oh… A stone-boat derives its name from its original use. That was to haul stones off the fields so they would not break farm implements as the land was cultivated, sown, and harvested. Fortunately, our farm was not too rocky. Picking rocks is very hard work! Cleaning barns, though smelling worse, is a piece of cake compared to picking stones. Our stone-boat was a low wood flat bed of 5cmX15cm planks, about a metre and a half wide, and bolted to two 15cmX 15cm skid runners. There were no sides on the stone-boat. That made it easier to roll heavy rocks on and off when clearing the fields. In cleaning the barn, on the other hand, no sides made loading manure more tricky. I became quite skilled at loading barn waste.
46
A Child’s View of Farming
Outfitted in boots, gloves, and “barn clothes”, and using alternately a fork and shovel, I loaded the stone-boat. When I had as much manure on the stone-boat as I could pile on, I hooked the horses, Pat and Bill, to the stone-boat, drove out onto the field, and spread the manure as evenly as possible over the soil. Manure is great fertilizer. Then back to the barn for another load – until the barn was “cleaned”. This routine was at least once a week, and more often when season or weather kept the animals in the barn longer than usual. What fun…!! ?? * One year our combine broke down during harvest. It is a major emergency when a harvest is halted by mechanical breaks. In harvest season farmers become frantic. They race against time – the grain must be dry, and taken in before the first frosts. Otherwise the price for the grain goes way down. The livelihood of the farm already depended on the vagaries of weather. Mechanical breakdown was like a ghost stalking the farm families all the time in those days. The cost of replacing the combine was huge for our family. A small mixed farm in those days did not have any surplus capital, and was often already in debt. We kids did not get regular allowances. But each year we were given a new-born pig or calf. This was our “payment” for doing our share of farm chores. When the animal was sold, the money was ours. At the time of the combine break-down, I had about $500.00 in our local Credit Union. A lot of money in those days! We were taught to manage our “finances” well. Actually, $500 seems like a lot of money to me, even all these decades later!
47
A Child’s View of Farming
There was no question in my mind. Give the money to my Dad to get a new(er) combine, and right now! He did not have to ask. A new(er) machine was purchased. The harvest went on, and was completed before the first frosts of the Fall. I must admit… I’m still rather proud of my personal contribution to our family farm. * My memory goes back to the time before combines were used to harvest grain. Harvest time was always tense. Prayers and hopes for good weather long enough to get the grain into the grainerys, or to the grain elevators to sell right away, were passionately expressed. (Even the most devout atheists prayed…their way.) Threshing machines separated the grain seeds from the stalks. The straw chaff was blown into great piles in the field by the separators, as the threshing machines were often called. This straw was used later in the year – especially in Winter – for bedding in the barn stalls for the animals, and sometimes for food for the horses and cows, when more nourishing hay was in short supply. When we had enough hay, there were usually a couple of hay stacks out behind the barn. Excellent “bobsled” runs in Winter… * Threshing machines, pulled by monstrous steel-lugged tractors, moved from farm to farm to separate the grain from the straw. Prior to the threshing outfit coming to a farm, that grain had to be cut by binders into sheaves. The binder was a machine pulled by horses in very early years, then by a tractor after the rubbertired tractors entered the scene. Each binder had a system of binder twine that tied the newly cut grain into precisely even bundles (sheaves). The binder dumped the bundles on the ground. These sheaves were stooked - half a dozen sheaves, stood on the cut ends, and leaned against each other. That was pretty hard work too, but at least one could see the results of a day’s stooking. In later years, when we still cut some grain with the old binder for feed, I stooked many sheaves. *
48
A Child’s View of Farming
When it was the farmer’s turn, the threshing outfit moved onto his field. The “threshing outfit” consisted of separator and tractor, several hired hands and their hay-racks and team of two horses, and a few field pitchers. At the end of a long work-day – dawn till dusk – the hired hands with the horses had to deal with un-harnessing and feeding and watering the horses. And then do the reverse in the early morning, and get back out in the field. Field pitchers just stuck their fork in the ground, washed up, and ate. No chores to do morning or evening. The monster tractor supplied the power to operate the separator by a long large belt revolving around a fly-wheel on the tractor and a similar fly-wheel on the separator. This tandem operated the fan that blew the straw out, as well as the mechanism that separated the grain from straw. Tractor and separator were stationary. They were always placed on the field so that the horses and hay-racks would have, on average, the least distance to go to the separator as they picked up the stooks. The owner/operator of the monster tractor and threshing machine was in charge, and often had a mechanic present to maintain the machinery. * The men and their hay-racks moved systematically through the field loading up the stooks and taking them to the threshing machine. Freshly separated grain poured out the separator spout into grain wagons, and the straw pile grew in size. There was a degree of danger in that the very dry harvest conditions meant the odd idle cigarette butt, or unexpected mechanical spark, could turn a good day into disaster. * The field-pitchers moved about the field on foot helping the hay-rack guys load the sheaves onto the hay-racks. Many years later, when I was a newly ordained deacon and living in Frenchman Butte, Fort Pitt Mission, I did some volunteer field-pitching for a farmer who was short of help. Both the harvesting and the parish were fun!
49
A Child’s View of Farming
Fort Pitt Mission was my first assignment in the Diocese of Saskatchewan, after my ordination as a deacon in 1957. Later I’ll tell you more about the great time I had in that little parish. * Back to my childhood. I remember my mother preparing humongous breakfasts in our little log house for the threshing crew when the threshing outfit came onto our farm. Breakfast was on the table when the crew came in – long before the sun was up. Bacon, eggs, potatoes, veggies, bread, meat, the works! was the first meal of the day. Sometimes there was a neighbor lady who came to help. Mom would return the favour as necessary. That was the way the community worked in those days. Then there were midmorning lunches, mid-day meals, mid-afternoon lunches: most often taken out to the field, depending on the distance of the threshing machine from the house. And, when work ended when the sun went down, massive supper for all the crew was served back in the old log house! This routine was repeated day in, day out, till the harvest on our farm was in the granary. Then the threshing crew moved on to the next farm in the harvest cue. Harvest time was extremely hard work for the adults, exhausting in fact. But it was exciting, too, because a farmer’s livelihood for the whole year depended on a successful harvest. Frost and rain were the enemy during harvest! When I was a little kid, I felt the tension, worry, excitement, of harvest. Regular life on a farm was quite quiet in many ways, with little going on most of the time. For me, harvest time was fascinating. Adults all over the place, conversations about all kinds of things. Since kids are more or less invisible among adults, I heard lots of things I probably should not have heard. And at that age, I really didn’t grasp the bottom-line urgency of that one-chancea-year make or break time. I was happy as a lark. Mom and Dad were there. Our house was my safe haven. All was well. *
50
A Child’s View of Farming
51
A Child’s View of Farming
52
Over Town
CHAPTER 5 Over Town “I need to go over town to get …. “. For some unknown, or perhaps forgotten, reason, we used that phrase when we needed to go into Paddockwood. That’s where the stores and farm implement dealers sold their goods. And that’s where I began Grade 8. You will recall the reasons for that move over town. I was delighted to go, each day, into the hub, as I thought, of everything interesting, even if attending school was the reason. My “education” – on several different levels – took great leaps forward. Perhaps not so much academically… * When our Grade 7 class was kicked out (transferred…) to the village for Grade 8, we ended up in a little building near St. Brigit’s Anglican Church. It was in a bit of bush, and the structure had not been used for quite a while. The “play-ground” was a rough space between the edge of the bush and the end of the railroad spur line. The school room was heated by a 45-gallon barrel, on its side, held up by 4 legs, and a swinging door adaptation on the front for putting in the wood fuel. Primitive, but since the room was not large, reasonably effective. * Our Grade 8 teacher was a dud - as a teacher – but a nice guy. School teaching was certainly not his game. In matters of language analysis, his ineptitude caused me much distress in later years as I struggled with French and Greek. In Boy Scouts he was asked to model some of the Scout rituals – such as the Boy Scout salute. He always used his left hand… I’m left-handed, but even I knew that a proper salute was given with the right hand… He seemed a bit thick in simple situations like that. Another memory is about his apparent naivete in matters of sex. One day a few of us boys were shooting the breeze with “Teach” about making out, getting laid, etc. He was totally in favour of pregnancy protection, of course.
53
Over Town
His well-intentioned advice to his eager listeners was “last second withdrawal” … Intriguing to Grade 8 boys, yes, but based on future experience, not really a good idea. There are other teachers I remember through my school days. Each could have several amusing stories attached to them. For some reason, this one seems to stand out. Perhaps that’s because there are a number of other examples of his tendency – good guy though he was – to thickness… Which I don’t have time or space to tell. * After Grade 8, we were moved to another building in the village for Grade 9. It, too, was a ramshackle excuse for a school room. When the cold winter wind blew, snow drifted in at the corners. Mice regularly paraded across the chalk holder at the bottom of the blackboard. This dilapidated structure held grades 9, 10, 11, and 12. Student numbers were low. My most interesting memories of this place – apart from the snow and mice – included learning to play knife, writing a much-praised essay on the construction of the Alaska Highway, and playing a pretty strong game of snooker. I liked my Grade 9 teacher. Miss McLean was intelligent, courteous, and respectful of her students, while keeping sensible control of the mixed classes. She married Ken Boyce, the Pool Grain Elevator operator. Ken Boyce was a pretty good baseball pitcher. At the time, they both boarded at the Paddockwood Hotel. How they met is a titillating tale. But it is their story to tell, not mine. (You can guess, if you like.) * “Knife”: What follows is another “How to” instruction. There is very little blood involved…most of the time. Especially if you concentrate and be careful. 1. Get a very ordinary pocket knife. It really needs only one blade. Not sharp. 2. Find a patch of ground, not too hard or too soft, that an ordinary pocket knife (jack-knife) sticks upright when tossed gently down blade first. 3. Kneel or sit on the ground facing the patch of ground. 4. Unfold knife blade. 5. In one hand hold the knife, and place the point GENTLY on the tip on the thumb of your other hand. 6. Flip the knife off so that the blade sticks the knife upright in the ground. 54
Over Town
7. Do the same with each hand, the wrists, elbows, shoulders, nose, forehead, top of head – forward and backward. 8. Players take turns. First time a player misses sticking the knife in the ground, the next player takes a turn until a miss; then the next, and so on. When your turn comes around again, you start from the point where you missed. 9. You have finished when cycle is completed. First to finish is the winner. Some skillful players do the sequence in reverse, as well. And that’s “Knife”. But you are right, of course. Police, Border guards, airports, schools, sports facilities, etc. prohibit anyone from carrying even a simple thing like an ordinary jack knife these days. Considering some of the terrible things that have happened, I, sadly, agree with those restrictions. I have not played a game of “Knife” since High School days. But I still have my special jack knife, so the next time we meet, and we have a safe bit of the right kind of ground, I would enjoy a friendly game of “Knife”. * During the latter stages of my journey from Grade 7 through the snow, mice, knife, Alaska Highway, and snooker, a new composite high school was being built on the west side of Paddockwood. I spent the rest of my high school years, 10, 11, 12, in that building. Buses trucked students into town from a wide area around Paddockwood. This consolidated school system ended an era not only for individual schools, but also marked a rapid deterioration of small closely-knit communities. How long a child had to be on a bus to and from school became the question, rather than how far she or he had to walk. *
55
Over Town
When I was a Boy Scout, our Paddockwood Scout Troop went on a camping trip to Candle Lake. These days Candle Lake is a popular tourist/fishing destination, serviced by a paved road from Prince Albert, and offers a wide variety of facilities. Back in my day the road was more of a trail, with many more twists and turns. There were twelve Scouts and two adult leaders. Our base camp was on the shore of the lake, near a Ranger’s Outpost cabin that Park personnel used on their rounds. Our two sleeping tents and the cook tent were set up near the bush line, not far from the shore area. Candle Lake is huge. It is prone to strong winds and thunder and lightning storms. The lake was calm and the sun was still up when we arrived on the Friday afternoon. Our tents had no floors, zipper doors, or rods. They hung from a frail wood-pole frame. Stakes and ropes held the tents up. The wood poles were found in the bush. The canvas tents were somewhat rain-proof. After a considerable struggle, the tents were up… and more or less secure. The chores of gathering fire wood, setting up the kitchen, cooking, and getting water from the lake, were all assigned. We had brought in all the food supplies and cooking utensils we needed. The menu varied between canned beans, pancakes, eggs, and bacon. The dessert choices – apples and oranges. Tea and coffee were available for those who needed something to cover the taste of the lake water. Dish washing and general clean-up duties were assigned. First meal finished. Not too bad, really, considering the personnel available. We were ready for the traditional evening camp-fire. Stories, rules of camp order, and enjoying the natural surroundings as night began to fall. We also learned that the Scout leaders had each brought a rifle… And the reason for this armament had us glancing nervously into the bush. Through the bush and forest behind our camp, there was a high ridge. Park information had told us that a pack of timber wolves travelled back and forth on that high ground, hunting for food. While it was unlikely that they would bother us, our leaders told us we had to be vigilant… Hence the rifles…
56
Over Town
Our leaders told us that no bears had been reported lately in this area. Volunteers were needed to move all our food into our travel vehicles, where it would be locked and safe from a bear – should one appear. There was no shortage of volunteers! Job done. Camp fire dying. Fire put out carefully and completely. Time to turn in. Our sleeping bags were Scout design of the day: pillows, blankets, folded in the “Scout” way…that kept the blankets around the individual…more or less all night. No mattress, of course, just rock-free ground as was available in the tent. Last instructions from our leaders: If there is a wild animal emergency in the night, we Scouts were to remain in the tents, and the leaders and rifles would take care of things… Somewhat reassuring to us, but as for me, at least, wolves and bears danced through my dreams – once I actually got to sleep. Excitement and terror make a disturbing combination! Have you ever heard a wolf howl - in the night - in the wilderness - anywhere? Neither had I…till that night. The howl may have been up on that ridge, but it sounded like just outside our tents. Bolt-upright!! Every one of us, including the leaders. Fear!!! Is this the end? Our leader regained some calm, picked up the rifle beside him, and crept out.
57
Over Town
Well, what happened was…. nothing happened. The wolves howled themselves off into the distance. No attacks on our campsite. The sun rose as usual, and all was well. Sort of. Relief and disappointment. In some ways I wished the wolves had come down to look us over. Of course, our leaders and their rifles would have fought them off. Now we had no story to tell when we got home. After breakfast, we packed a lunch and took off into the bush to build bivouacs, check animal tracks, and look for rare flowers and fungi… One of our leaders was a closet naturalist. Wolves were not a worry in the day time. But though we were in a “no bear sighted recently” zone, we did keep a sharp eye out for any bear who had not heard that report. Building bivouacs is hard work. We all slept soundly in spite of the worry about wolves. Next day the schedule was fishing. And we actually caught four Jack fish! (Northern Pike, for the purist.) We ate them for supper – and though our fileting skills were somewhat amateurish, no one got a bone stuck in their throat! This was our last night out. Tomorrow back home to the mundane… So, our campfire was special. Lots of marshmallows and stories. By now we had become pretty cocky about wolves. We went to sleep with only minor pangs of anxiety. However, about mid-night the lake took charge. Fierce winds and gust of rain swept in off the lake. Tents flapped, pulling at the pegs. We managed to keep our sleeping tents up. But the cook tent went down. Heavy rain followed the first wind gusts. Lightning flashed, turning the night into day! Thunder crashed! Though our sleeping tents stayed up, water sluiced through our Scout-style sleeping bags. We managed to divert most of the flow by digging little ditches around the outside of the tents, and between our sleeping bags. Damp is a lot better than soaking wet! Next job: on with our rain ponchos, and out to set up the cook tent. This was not easy because the wind was still blowing a fair clip, and the rain had not stopped. But we managed it.
58
Over Town
We went home soggy and grubby and happy. The wolves and the storm featured in our report-backs to our parents. The leaders were praised by the community for their stalwart guidance of these rookie Scouts. And the twelve of us Scouts walked with a swagger for a while as we embellished our stories of our adventures in the wild forest country of Candle Lake. Long story, eh? * Another Scout experience: The Paddockwood Boy Scout Troup attended a Scout Jamboree on the Little Red River, just north and east across the Saskatchewan River from Prince Albert. There were troops from all over northern Saskatchewan at the event. The usual activities: Tents set up, assignment of duties, decorating our Troop campsite, wide games, various competitions, etc. – all the regular activities of the Scout organization in these settings. A bit more “spit and polish” than our expedition to Candle Lake! We swam in the Little Red River. And that was important for me, because I had a fear of the water. But I did the “Dead Man’s Float” (a macabre name), and even swam a few strokes! Amazing! First time. The real highlight for me was my winning a scavenger hunt. As winner, I was given a ride in an airplane! Wow! The Prince Albert airport was not far away. I was driven over – and there, on the tarmac, just waiting for me, a pilot and Tiger Moth! Just the same sort of plane that pilots had trained in, and had flown over our farm and school corner of the world many times. I climbed in the rear seat behind the pilot. Motor started. Taxied to the runway. Gunned the motor…and off we flew! Up over the city, over the wide Saskatchewan River, over our jamboree site, over surrounding forest and farming land… And back toward the airport. Suddenly the motor seemed to stop… What? Are we going to crash? “No problem, son.”, the pilot said. “We are just going in for a landing” Really? I mumbled to myself. It seemed like a long way from that distant runway…
59
Over Town
But, as you airplane-savvy people would know, the motor had not completely stopped, and we landed safely and smoothly. Wow! Amazing! Another first-time experience. My little “corner of the world” had expanded much further than I realized at the time. I did not know it then, that though I would never take pilot training, years later I would fly in many wheel, ski, and float planes, with some of the best bush pilots in the Arctic. * In my days as a Boy Scout, the Star-Man’s Badge was one of the hardest to qualify for. Somehow or other, I passed. The stars of the night sky remain for me a mystical and marvelous realm of possibilities. I have forgotten most of what I learned way back then. My interest now has to do with space, time, gravity, black holes, etc. But there came a time when some of what I learned in Scouts came into play when I began dating Ruth, the love of my life. She did not know much about the stars, so I could sound rather knowledgeable as I pointed to the heavens and named some of the constellations. Really cool! as they say now. Of course, that may well be expanded upon later in my story, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. * To shave, or not to shave. That is the question. The first time a boy shaves is a momentous occasion. It marks the beginning of something not easily defined. The decision has not much – if anything – to do with whether or not he has the required facial hair to make shaving a necessity. The decision has to do with love. More specifically with “falling in love”. Adults tend to describe the phenomenon of “falling in love” as “having a crush”. In one’s early teens that distinction has no meaning at all. It was the Summer following my Grade 9 graduation. Orville Endicott and his family invited me to come back to Creston (south eastern B.C.) with them for a couple of weeks holiday. Yes! Thank you! Wonderful! I went.
60
Over Town
I think I told you that Orville and I started school together in the little two-room school house on the corner. The Endicotts had moved to Creston a few years later. Mr. Endicott farmed. It was a lush rich land, protected with dikes to keep flooding rivers out. Little did I know that we would be visited in Creston by one of Orville’s cousins – Frieda. The Summer was gorgeous. And so was Frieda! The three of us – half children, half adults – picked strawberries, spent time down on the flats in and around the big pea fields, drank Kik Cola, went the short distance to “down town” Creston, saw a movie or two, and played hide-and-seek among the Endicott’s outbuildings on their property. One of those lovely warm Summer days, Frieda and I found ourselves in the hayloft of the small barn down at the far end of the property. Orville was searching for us, but still had not found us. Unfortunately, he eventually found us… All too soon, perhaps. I knew instinctively that the time had come for me to shave. It just seemed the logical thing to do. And so, next morning, I did. I borrowed Mr. Endicott’s razor. Frieda and Orville gathered round the mirror, watching my every move. Miraculously, I did not cut myself, nor get shaving cream on anything other than (mostly) my face. I had a very “adult and masculine” feeling – in spite of the fact that my face looked very much as it had before I shaved. Frieda had to go home a day or so after. Orville and I – perhaps more I than Orville, tried to get her to stay. She could not. Parents ruled. She left. The days remaining before I had to go home were warm and sunny. Orville and I had loads of fun… But I felt oddly … lonely. Adults might have used the word “melancholy”. I didn’t shave again for quite a time after that holiday. I never knew if Frieda had fallen in love with me or not. But I must tell you that I am thankful nothing developed, because many years later, after I was shaving regularly, I met the real woman of my dreams – and we are still together all these decades later. *
61
Over Town
Going from my farm home to Creston was a wonderful trip. The Endicott family was generous and kind. To drive from Saskatchewan to Creston in those days was to drive south out of the province, along the northern States, and back into Canada in south-eastern B.C. All a new experience for me. My “corner of the world” continued to enlarge. I went home from Creston via train to Prince Albert. My first ride on a train – and all by myself! Perhaps no big deal for kids of that age today, but for me it was another grand first-time experience. My parents may not have noticed it, but I had made a great leap in maturation. I felt different, more confident. Of course, I was glad to see my parents waiting for me at the P.A. train station. * Sports have always been the recreation of choice for me. Through all my shyness, and childhood feelings of inadequacies, uncertainties, etc., sports have carried me. Even into my 80s physical activity adds a “joie-de-vivre” to my life. I have been a pretty good “bush league” player in a lot of sports. They say soccer (football) is the “beautiful game”. But for me, baseball is the best of all. I don’t mean soft ball: I refer to REAL baseball, with the 90ft base paths, and 60ft 6in from pitcher’s rubber to home plate, a small hardball and big bats! My Dad could have made it in the Bigs if he had pursued the game. He was an excellent player. And he played catch with me, and coached me a lot. I loved it. I played with him on our senior team. Over the years I pitched quite a bit, but my favourite position was centre field. In that position I could back up both the left and right fielders and also second base on occasion. I had natural instinct as to where the ball was going off the bat. I was fast, and loved to run. Because of my speed, I was also pretty good at stealing – bases, that is.. Unfortunately, I twisted my left knee badly when sliding into second base. The knee swelled up like a balloon. We had no money or medical care in those days. The knee just gradually got better. As it was improving, I did pitch, and batted a bit.
62
Over Town
All that was before I finished Grade 12 and worked the Summer of 1952 on the railway. I’ll tell you about the railway section gang later. There was some baseball there, too. * It’s time to move on. But one more ball story. When I was a little kid at home on the farm, I bounced the ball off the pump house wall, playing the whole World Series in my head. How many on base, balls and strikes, scores, everything. My favourite team, the Brooklyn Dodgers, somehow or other won most of the time. A kid can do that sort of thing. * Oh… One more: A few years later I played for a team in the Shellbrook 1 st of July tournament. This leaps a bit ahead in my story, but I just need to tell it. Shellbrook 1st of July tournament was a big event in northern Saskatchewan. It was a full-fledged Fair: baseball, 4H show, mid-way rides, lots of food, balloons, flags, candy-floss, bands playing… It was a grand affair! The baseball games were tournament 5 inning games, the winner’s purse was big, and teams came from all around – including the Molson Indians sponsored team from Prince Albert, hoping to pick up some easy money from the boonies. I pitched a no-hitter against the P.A. team, sent them home without any money, and we won the tournament! My ballplaying skills were useful in later years when I was in summer missions and parishes. * Perhaps I should have followed baseball to see how far it led me. I would have liked to play a season or two at some professional level. That’s the only “what if…” I have, so I suppose I’m pretty lucky. Looking back from my venerable age now, I am very thankful for the way things worked out. And I did play a lot of good bush-league ball… as well as excellent fast-pitch softball, and several seasons of “geezer-league” (my title) slow-pitch softball. *
63
Remembering Paddockwood
CHAPTER 6 Remembering Paddockwood
Before I finally leave home, I have an urge to go “over town” one more time. Though I will return as a visitor to see my parents, when I leave to go to university, I will never go “over town” in the same way again. All that is a long time ago now. But I have a kind of need… a feeling to see Paddockwood in my memory’s eye as the village was when I lived at home on the farm. * In the ‘50s about 300 people lived in Paddockwood. What kept the village viable were the many small farms around it. The things we didn’t grow at home, we purchased – or as we said, bought – over town. “Store-bought” things were the things you could not make at home. It was the main village for many kilometres around, and so others from even smaller settlements shopped and visited in the village. It was a hub for social events, as well. * To go over town, we turned left out of our farm yard, and headed East. So, we always entered the village from its West side. The grid system of surveyed roads in Saskatchewan put the north-south roads every mile; the east-west roads appeared every two miles. I use “miles” here because one point six kilometres would sound strange at the time to us pre-metric citizens… So, the first north-south road we intersected on our way to the village was on the western side of town. And if you really need some orientation, that intersection was 1.6 k east from the little school house on the corner. So, heading east, once past this intersection, the road becomes a “street”. The road/street passes an intersection, stops at T, and streets branch off both left (north) and right (south). To go straight ahead, you cross the railroad track and enter the sports ground/ball diamonds, etc. From here on, no more street directions. Just make your own imaginary map… 64
Remembering Paddockwood
* The High School was built just in time for my Grades 10,11, and 12. Before the High School was built, there were several old dilapidated buildings around town that were used for schools. I mentioned two of them earlier. And you recall that with the new High School came the buses that rounded up the kids from closed community schools around the countryside. When I and my fellow Grade 8 class that had been expelled from the little school house on the corner, my cousin, Glen Andrews, and I walked back and forth to school. We lived too close to the village to be bussed to school. The kids still going to school in the little school house on the corner also walked home – to the village. On several occasions they ambushed Glen and me as we walked through the snow banks. They were up above on the bank of snow along the road. Our revenge came one day when we rode home in the horse-drawn sleigh with Uncle Fred. He was covered over with a blanket. Glen and I appeared to be driving the horse. The kids had us, they thought, because we would have to stay in the sleigh and drive the snow-ball gauntlet. Uncle Fred drove. Glen and I piled out of the sleigh, up the snow banks, and severely snow face-washed the lot of them! Of course, they reported us to school authorities…But they never bothered us again. * The Elks Hall was the venue for Christmas concerts, dances, wedding parties, political gatherings, War Bond Drives, etc. I remember buying a War Bond. These War Bond Drives were cross-Canada efforts to raise patriotic spirits and money for the war effort. I was only 12 when the Second World War ended, but I remember the strange excitement of the war report movies shown at these events. Saturday nights the Elks Hall became the movie theatre. The projectionist had a circuit around the countryside. Two or three reels, with short intermissions to change reels…or splice a broken film. I remember holding hands with Phyllis one movie night…or two, perhaps. Like all my amorous crushes, this, too, came to naught. * 65
Remembering Paddockwood
Family residences were scattered all throughout the village. What follows are the family names I remember. I recall stories about some of them… Kerr: Gordon Kerr owned and operated the International Harvester outlet. Ruth’s Dad, John Bate, was Credit Manager for IHC. In those days Paddockwood was in the IHC Saskatoon region. Dyson: Bill Dyson owned and operated Dyson’s Garage. Engine parts and repairs, car accessories, and batteries, among other things, were available at the garage. In the pre-electric days on the farm, our radio was powered by a dry-cell B battery and a wet-cell A battery. The latter required re-charging. Dyson’s garage did that, too. Dunster: Reg Dunster was the Post Master. The Post Office was a very important place. There were very few phones, and no computers and World Wide Web. Reg Dunster knew everybody in the whole district – and knew quite a bit about everyone’s business because he handled the mail. He was the model of discretion about his knowledge of our community. He and Mrs. Dunster were gracious and kind people. They were faithful and strong supporters and attenders of St. Bridgit’s Anglican Church. (More about St. Bridgit’s later.) Andrews: Uncle Fred and Aunty Toad owned and operated Andrew’s Groceries. Aunty Toad (Harriet, one of my Dad’s sisters) played the piano. I remember a school curling bonspiel. I had played in the morning draw. Because I did not feel well afterwards, I went to the Andrew’s house in town to rest. I heard Aunty Toad playing the piano. I got better – healed by her music! They owned a DeSoto car. Very soft suspension, so with us kids as passengers, Uncle Fred would gently touch the brake and tell us the car was bowing at his command. He was that sort of guy. There were three general grocery stores in Paddockwood. Podorodeski’s Store sold everything – much the same way Andrew’s store did. One of their sons, Peter, curled with me on one of our best high school teams. The Co-Op store was owned by share-holders, and run by a Co-Op employee. The store had car gas pumps as well. The Co-Op gradually outlasted the other two.
66
Remembering Paddockwood
The Hotel had about five or six rooms. None had en-suite facilities. The toilet was down the hall…all were welcome, one at a time. It was not a flush toilet. The town had only very limited septic tanks, no sewage system, and no running water. Keeping things neat, tidy, and clean, was an onerous challenge. Only future-looking small towns dared to spend the money for water and sewage systems. And they prospered. Paddockwood was not one of them. My Grade 9 teacher, Miss McLean, boarded in the Paddockwood hotel. Ken Boyce, the Pool Grain Elevator agent, and pretty good baseball pitcher, was also a resident in the hotel. They got married. Good match. Never can tell where romance lurks… The Beer Parlour was attached to the hotel, which was a common practice in those days. The smell of stale beer wafted out the door on a warm day. It was before “women with escorts only”, let alone the thought of a woman actually going in to a beer parlour by herself! Deeply rooted antifeminism was alive and well – in fact so much so that it was an unconscious, and therefore, unexamined “cultural” norm. The beer parlour was the only legal outlet for alcohol in town. Of course, out-oftown secret locations here and there often did an end run around the law. Thankfully my Dad did not frequent either, though he and my Mom were not teatotalers. The Chinese Café was a central place of meeting, greeting, and eating. A Chinese family, husband, wife, and two little children, ran the café. Sadly, I do not remember any social contact with this family. They were the only oriental people this side of Prince Albert. My parents were always courteous, but apart from the café setting, no “white” people ever saw this family. Again, just like sexism, racism was culturally deep and unexamined. Very few “Indians” – First Nations folks – ever appeared in the village. I am ashamed to say that the white man’s attitude was, at best, dismissive. I am afraid our Canadian culture still struggles to reach genuine reconciliation. Both governments and Christian churches are culpable in the terrible years of residential schools, and for the explicit racism that established the schools.
67
Remembering Paddockwood
The entrance to the Pool Hall was off the sidewalk. There was also an entrance from the Chinese Café. The Pool Hall was another completely male domain. Parents did not want their children in there. The language used was blasphemous and vile, according to parents, teachers, and assorted do-gooders. Two proper-sized snooker tables, two 8-ball tables, assorted cues, ample ashtrays, and assorted stools and benches equipped the pool hall. The manager had his station near the door. It cost a cent a minute to play. Big money if, like me, you did not have any. Loser paid the fee. I learned to play snooker there. A great game! By the time I had graduated from high school, I had become reasonably proficient. At the end of a school day when parents asked how your day had been, there was no mention of the pool hall in your response. I “majored” in snooker in my high school years. My Dad and I paid many visits to the Lumber Yard to purchase lumber for farm building projects. The major construction was the new barn – complete with hay loft, stalls, and equipment space. My Dad was an excellent carpenter. An old codger from somewhere in the Caucasus operated a Shoe Repair Shop. He actually made shoes. All the magical stories about shoemakers come to mind. His skills and tools did most of the talking for him. My Mom and Dad were strong supporters of the Credit Union movement. The Credit Union was our bank. Credit Unions still exist across Canada. In those days they were symbolical of community support of each other, and an attempt to fend off the “money hungry” financial bank pressures. That’s where I kept my money. Now, back to family names resident in the village… with some accompanying stories about individual people, as I remember them after all these decades.
68
Remembering Paddockwood
Josephson: Joe Josephson was one in a line of Pool Elevator agents. Joe and Frieda were good friends of my parents. One of their sons went quite a way in his hockey career. I don’t know the end of that story. But Joe bet a bottle of scotch that my Dad would not call on Olive Diefenbaker when Dad was on a farmer’s march to Ottawa. I may tell you the outcome of that bet later… Telpher: I don’t remember what Mr. Telpher’s work was. But I do recall having a crush on their daughter Alice. Nothing ever came of…… Yes. You are right. Williams: The Williams had three children: a boy older than me; a beautiful girl, and a boy that went to school with me in the little school house on the corner. His name was “Mousey”. I told you about him earlier – a bullying story, really. Russell: These folks had a daughter, Donna, I think, who was part of our gang that roamed the “streets” after dark when families were visiting in the village. One such night Donna had been called in by her parents. Some trouble-maker in our group, as we stood in the Russell yard, shouted, “Donna! Come back out! Ken wants to….” I will not repeat the rest. But I was very embarrassed and angry. Hickey: My parents were friends with the Hickeys. Mrs. Hickey was related to another family in the district, Thorsons, who were all socially connected with my family. In fact, most families of the village and district had good relationships with each other. Joan Hickey later married Ruth’s brother, Peter Bate. It’s a small world in Saskatchewan! Stromquist: Their youngest son, Dale, curled with me on one of our strongest teams in our high school days. Toporowski: One of their sons, Peter, curled with me on our high school team. Many years later we met in the Diocese of Edmonton. Peter had married the daughter of one of my fellow students at seminary (Emmanuel, Saskatoon).
69
Remembering Paddockwood
St. Bridgit’s Anglican Church was well known in the village. But I will return there later in my story. A Machine Repair Shop had a relatively short life in the village. Owner and manager could not make a go of it. But it served a good purpose for a while. I suspect it could not successfully compete with Dyson’s Garage. I have mentioned the Train Station earlier. The CN spur line from Prince Albert ended at Paddockwood. The train was a vital link for our community in the village’s early days, and for the surrounding community. Exporting grain, getting heavy machinery, lumber and other supplies, shipping out freight destined for Prince Albert, and carrying mail in and out, all depended primarily on this train. Grain cars were parked by the Grain Elevators. The grain in storage was piped into the grain cars, to begin the long journey to sales around the world. I remember the heated discussions between farmers and elevator agents about “quotas” – how much grain a farmer could sell at certain times according to government regulations. And shortage of grain cars was always a problem blamed on the CN railway. All that was far from our gang’s mind as we played sword fighting around the elevators, using wooden slats that lay around the elevator grounds. Surprisingly, no major injuries occurred. The Livery Stable and Blacksmith Shop were necessary and busy facilities during my very early years. The livery stable was a horse barn to park horses that were brought into town to sell, replace horse-shoes, or keep out of the cold while the owner did his or her shopping for the week. The blacksmith shop was a much larger version of our blacksmith shop on our farm. During my time at home on the farm, even before departure for university, major changes in the village of Paddockwood and surrounding district were rapidly taking place.
70
Remembering Paddockwood
Over those eighteen years roads improved, the machine shop closed, horse-drawn grain wagons were no longer used. Grain trucks now did the job, farm machinery evolved and improved. Two of the stores closed. The CN once-a-week train ceased. A few farmers retired into the village, some died, and others moved away. The size of the surrounding farms increased, and therefore there were fewer farm families totally dependent on the village retailers to supply their needs – gasoline, groceries, farm implements, clothing, etc. But as long as the consolidated school remained, Paddockwood did not die. To this day it is still alive as a place where people have abiding roots and community. During my teen-age years, community baseball tournaments were a great energizer of community life. Within a radius of about 40 k, we had a nineteen-team league. Pretty good bush baseball, and very competitive! Paddockwood had a two-sheet natural ice Curling Rink. Every wee community on the Prairies – not the least, Saskatchewan – had at least a one-sheet curling rink. Even individual farmers sometimes built their own! I learned to curl on the village two-sheet rink. Next to the indoor curling rink was the outdoor natural ice Skating Rink. I learned to skate there, played a bit of shinny hockey. I must have learned to skate and play better than I remember from my school days, because I did play some pretty good hockey at university and in parish life. Those stories are yet to come… I graduated from high school along with a very small Grade 12 class. There were only seven of us: Peter Podorodeski, Douglas Daughton, Phyllis McGowan, Mary Trofimuk, Stella Grela, Helmer Kirychuk, Kenneth Genge. We were the first grads from Paddockwood High School to go to university. And, as far as I can remember, we all went to The University of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon. We attended a dinner one evening – probably put on by our parents – and next day drove to Waskesui for the day. I was able to take my parents car. Students didn’t own cars in those days.
71
Remembering Paddockwood
During high school years, I acted in several school stage productions. We did not progress on to any drama festivals. But I remember one role I had. The female lead was supposed to hit me over the head with a book. She did! And nearly knocked me out! What made that even harder to take was that in my off-stage life, I was rather smitten with her. Her name was Phyllis… You may remember that I mentioned her earlier… Actually, my “love-life” at that stage in my struggle to maturity was not very successful. Perhaps I will share some of that with you later. Or maybe not. After playing the one last tournament with the Paddockwood team, I left for North Battleford to work on the CN Section Gang out of Old Battleford. I can’t remember whether we won that tournament or not… But since you were not there, I think I will say that we did win. The one thing I do remember, though, is seeing my Mom weeping as I left home to go to Prince Albert to take the train for North Battleford. I could not imagine why my Mom would be crying. She and Dad were always supportive of what I was doing… I was happy as a lark to be off on a great new adventure. By the time we got to the farm gate, I had forgotten about what was behind me in my excited anticipation of what was ahead. However, from my present vantage point of parenting and grandparenting, I can fully empathize with my Mom’s tears. I suspect that my Dad was not weeping because “men don’t weep”, Right? Silly as that is, for a long time I thoughtlessly bought into that cultural prison. For quite a time now, I have been able to weep openly in those times when what’s happening touches my deep feelings. I am thankful. As the train pulled out of the station in Prince Albert, my new adventure began! *
72
Remembering Paddockwood
73
Remembering Paddockwood
74
Section Gang
CHAPTER 7 Section Gang I’m not sure who was looking after whom… Granny England or me. If Granny thought she was taking care of me, that was OK. If so, she was certainly subtle about her role. The thought of taking care of anybody was not in the scope of my awareness. Though I did help her with her luggage. Granny England was an amazing person. Long a widow, she still had a gentle presence about her that was beautifully strong and durable. She was gracious and loving. The fact that I was heading for seminary to become a “man of the cloth” was a happy thought for Granny. Apparently, several of her Roman Catholic friends thought she was now assured a place in heaven… In the meantime, both of us were heading for North Battleford! Granny’s mission was to visit her daughter, Dorothy. I was eagerly steaming towards my first paying job – and on my own! Wow! Though I must admit to a little anxiety, too. * My Uncle Roy and Aunt Dorothy Robertson lived in North Battleford. Uncle Roy had worked all his life for CN (Canadian National Railway). For quite a number of years, they had lived in North Battleford. That’s how I got the job with CN. Yes, it always helps to know someone. Aunt Dorothy was one of my Mom’s sisters. She and Uncle Roy were gracious and generous folks. Granny and I were warmly welcomed at the North Battleford train station. Two of the Robertson’s children, Glen and Marilyn, still lived at home. * Emil Bedard was the foreman of the Old Battleford CN Section Gang. He was a very good guy to work for, partly because he loved baseball. *
75
Section Gang
Bedard, with his wife and daughter, Peggy, lived in the Old Battleford station. The station was no longer on an active rail line. But an old spur still connected from the station to the main line. That short spur was our “drive-way” to and from work. My “room” was the freight room attached to the station. One large and dusty area. My bed was a mattress and base set on four wooden boxes. Not luxurious, but quite enough for me. I ate breakfast with the Bedard family, made my own lunch for the work day, and went to a local garage that had a lunch counter for supper. This was one of the little things I enjoyed so much: I chose what I wanted to eat, and could have anything I wanted on the menu. While the chef was not five-star, she produced a lovely “home-made” supper. The menu was limited to the main course, chosen by the cook, and usually a choice of pie, ice cream, pie with ice cream, or cookies and tea. She did make delicious pies! * Though the spur line was not used by trains, the shed and shop for the “jigger” was still there. This jigger we travelled on was motor-driven. I thought I should point that out because, though I’m now pretty old, I’m not referring to the old handpumped version of jiggers! The wheels fitted the track, and were similar to rail car wheels, but much smaller. Our three-person crew sat on a bench which covered the motor. Our feet rested on a step on the side. No canopy or cover, just open to the weather, rain or shine. There was room for our lunch, shovels, and a measuring device that Bedard used to discern where the tracks needed leveling attention. Those were the days of no hard-hats. I wore a jaunty brim hat to prevent sunstroke, or let water run off clear of my collar. No special work boots required, just whatever you wanted – as long as that was not some soft running shoe. Jeans, jacket, and shirt – whatever you wanted. No one regulated your work clothes or gear. Monday through Friday our Old Battleford Section gang hopped on our jigger and putted off to work our particular section of track. 8 hours a day, without fail. *
76
Section Gang
Our section of track ran along the south side of the North Saskatchewan river from where we entered the main track, north to a train bridge. The distance was perhaps 20 kilometres. Back then there were many more section gangs of our sort than there are now. Such things as longer steel rails, longer lasting ties, and faster and bigger maintenance equipment, have made my section gang work obsolete. My time on the tracks goes a way back to 1952! We tamped ballast under individual ties with our square-nosed shovels to bring the rails up to the level needed, as indicated by Bedard’s measuring device. This work was hard on the hands and back. One needed good leather gloves. I had a pair. I enjoyed the physical work. And as a crew, we related well. Bedard knew that I was headed for seminary. When our third crew member learned that, the language of our crew became pretty clean. I could work with the best of them, so that was a factor, too. * Bedard was a baseball enthusiast. He knew that I was too. The North Battleford Beavers was a triple-A ball team. The Beavers played in a western prairies league that included a number of cities, including Saskatoon and Regina. Several U.S. college players played for teams in this league. All were scrambling to get to the Bigs, of course. With Bedard’s introduction, I played with the Junior North Battleford Beavers. That was fun! We were not a sterling quality ball club, but we played in a local league around the area. Most of us were heading to first year in some university; in those days that was most often the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon. *
77
Section Gang
Emil Frances, the NHL goaler, played with the North Battleford Beavers. His mother was a rabid fan, and occasionally was asked to leave the stands! I was at the park watching the Beavers on one of those occasions. It caused quite a ruckus!! But fun to watch. * Friday, after work, I usually hitch-hiked over the river to the Robertson’s in North Battleford. I took a bus in bad weather. I often went to St. Paul’s Anglican Church for the early morning service. I enjoyed Marilyn and Glen Robertson. We were about the same age. And they had friends that welcomed me too. * That summer seems, in my memory, such a formative experience of independent freedom! The pay was… 98 cents per hour. I never really thought much about that. It was the same, or nearly the same, as other laborer’s pay of the day. And my personal expenses were minimal, partly due to the Robertson’s generosity on the weekends. * Two events stand out for me in the summer I was “workin’ on the rail road. The first is the couple of weeks our section gang became part of a larger section gang. The rear set of a boxcar’s wheel trucks had jumped the track, and broken a couple of kilometres of ties between the rails. This occurred on the Cut Knife line. It was not on our section of track, but we could get to it on our jigger. All hands on deck! The Cut Knife line had to be repaired immediately. This was great fun, and a diversion from our daily routine. Except we had to leave home on the jigger much earlier than normal to get to the repair work. I had two different jobs. One was standing on the steel steps at one end of a gravel car as the steam engine slowly pulled the box cars as they unloaded the gravel ballast that would hold up the creosote ties that attached the rails to keep them level and the right distance apart. I and my shovel helped the ballast fall out.
78
Section Gang
Twice I dropped my shovel as I was banging away on the gravel car’s sides. Unfortunately, that stopped things… My shovel had to be retrieved because it stuck the hinged bottom of the gravel car. No more gravel ballast could drop through onto the track bed. Sometimes the engine had to back up the whole gravel train a metre or two… The only good thing about this was I did not get fired. My second job on this work gang was, with many others, of course, tamping the new ballast under the ties as the new rails lay loosely on top of the ties. That was good hard continuous work. And the old broken ties had to be removed and thrown off the road bed. Fortunately for everybody, I was never assigned to the hammer and spike crew. You have probably seen the famous photo of the Last Spike, near Craigellachie in BC. The second event took place right on our own line. One day, riding along on the jigger, going to our next work stop on our section, we hit a torpedo! “Torpedo” is a word that naturally takes one to the sea, ships being hit by torpedos’ from submarines… But not in our railroad lingo. A torpedo in “railway language” is a very small charge of gun-powder, placed on a railway track. It does not blow up the track…as one might think of wartime resistance tactics. If a work crew is working on emergency track repair, and expecting a train along before they can finish, the crew will put torpedoes on the track far enough away that when the train wheels hit it, a loud BANG occurs. The train is thus warned to stop. The torpedoes are put in a certain sequence so the train engineer understands how far ahead the track work is located. The mini explosion does no damage to the track, or to the huge steam engine, and all are safe. If a jigger hits a torpedo, on the other hand, that is altogether different! Our little jigger was putt-putting along at a pleasant speed one day, as we headed for our next work spot. Gorgeous day, sunny, not too warm, perfect for working on the rail road. BOOM!!! Two of our jigger wheels lifted off the track! By some doctrine of dumb luck, the wheels banged back down on the track…. We were not thrown off; no crashed jigger; big relief!
79
Section Gang
There were some appropriate descriptions of the #%^~^& who had left the torpedo on the track! We checked for any damage. None. And so on to work we went, whistling all the way….at 98 cents an hour, but safe. * At the end of August 1952, I returned home from North Battleford. My adventures on the section gang had their own life-changing moments for me. I am thankful for the experience. And for the generous care and support of Uncle Roy and Aunt Dorothy Robertson. Now I turned my compass setting to Saskatoon – Emmanuel College, and the University of Saskatchewan. A totally new and much more demanding adventure lay ahead. *
80
Vocation Quest
CHAPTER EIGHT Vocation Quest
As indicative of my still less than finely tuned sensitivities, I have no recollection of how my Mom felt, or seemed to feel, at this departure. Nor do I remember any reaction from my young siblings, Wendy and Gary. Dad drove me down to the College. We had lunch with Ralph Dean, the Dean of the College. He bade us both welcome, and assured my Dad that all would be well. My Dad quietly told me to “be a man”, departed, and returned to the farm. * All my “learning curves” have been 90 degrees. I was not in any way prepared to enter seminary. I flippantly say, “I did not know the difference between a bible and prayer book, let alone anything much about what was in them.” Really not far off the literal truth. So, how did I decide to enter training for the Anglican priesthood? The answer to that lies hidden in what I tell you now. Or maybe hides in plain sight. I’m not really sure… *
81
Vocation Quest
Mom and I were confirmed by Bishop Henry Martin, bishop of the Anglican Diocese of Saskatchewan. This happened in the little St. Bridgit’s Anglican Church in Paddockwood. I think I was about 15 or 16 at the time. No doubt there were some confirmation classes… I do not remember anything about that. My confirmation was mostly to do with the long habit in the Anglican Church of “being confirmed” as a teenager. Parish clergy were expected to “prepare” young people and adults for the “Laying on of Hands by a Bishop”, and present these candidates at the next Episcopal visit to the parish. The idea was that a “confirmed” person could take a responsible place in the life and work of the church… a kind of completion of Baptism which was accomplished usually at the infant or new-born stage of life. For many young people confirmation tended to mark a quiet “graduation” from any involvement in parish life – unless there was an attractive youth group to have fun with. There was not one of those in our little parish. My Mom was three years old when she came from England to Canada with her family. Her parents, Rose and John England, were definitely C of E – Church of England. Read “Anglican” in the world-wide parlance of the Anglican Communion. The rigors and isolation of homestead life in northern Saskatchewan, and the often infrequency of church contact, meant that my Mom was not confirmed till that day in St. Bridgit’s Church. My Dad came of Methodist background. The Genge clan came to Canada from England via the U.S. He was born in Bagot, Manitoba, a very small village in southwest Manitoba, which no longer exists. He and my Mom were faithful and active parishioners of St. Bridgit’s, Paddockwood. Dad was confirmed by Bishop Henry Martin a number of years later. * I was not particularly “spiritual”, and certainly not “pious”. But, for some reason, my Confirmation stuck, even without a youth group to keep me close for a while! Being naturally pragmatic, I decided to attend church every Sunday, come hell, high water, or blizzards. So, I did.
82
Vocation Quest
The Bishop’s job was to assign clergy to all the parishes in the Diocese of Saskatchewan (Geographic area = about the northern third of the province). Many times, in smaller parishes, the Bishop appointed Church Army persons because they were cheaper than ordained men. (Only men were ordained in those days – no women… Thank God, that crazy barrier was broken years later; but not without vicious patriarchal objections!) The Church Army is a lay organization, which originated in England, and whose training and goal was to be evangelists in parishes. In my middle and later high school years, Church Army Capt. Jack Ivey was assigned to St. Bridgit’s. I learned a lot about human nature – both strengths and weaknesses – from him. My parents were appreciative of Capt. Ivey’s work. My parents always thought his sermons thought-provoking. I had no Godly epiphany to point to what I should do with my life after high school graduation. The best I could describe my hopes were that I wanted to help people. Not an uncommon goal. Long and the short of it was that Capt. Ivey took me to an appointment with Bishop Henry Martin. The Bishop decided the diocese could take a chance on me. Diocesan support also meant financial support. And there was no way my parents could foot the bill. I was surprised by the Bishop’s response. But it seemed like a good idea at the time. My parents were surprised, flabbergasted, and, I think, a bit hurt by the fact that the episcopal interview took place without their prior warning. Their immediate worry was that if I followed the path to ordination, I would have no friends and no money! They were somewhat right about the latter, but totally wrong about the former. Over the years, they discovered their worry about friends was unfounded. But their initial reaction was a generally common reflection of the perceived, and often actual, distance of clergy from real life. In spite of their worries, I had their 100% support all the way. I think they were, in fact, proud of me… And I of them. The “holy aura” that people put around clergy is a mistake… *
83
Vocation Quest
As I said earlier, my Dad left me at Emmanuel College in Saskatoon with what I know he intended to be his fatherly blessing. I received it as such, and was truly blessed. That “blessing” was a parental blessing, and its intention remains with me in my heart. And so, the university and college adventure began! * There are many funny – for me, often hilarious – things that happened in Emmanuel College Rugby Chapel. But before I get into those, I recall a humorous moment in St. Bridgit’s in Paddockwood. A kind of “fore-telling”. Charlie McKay and I were in the back row of St. Bridgit’s on a Sunday morning – as far away from the front as we could be. But not that far away, really, because the church was very small. George Young, the preacher of the day, was very tall. He could easily see us. We did not have the slightest idea what he was talking about in his sermon. Whatever it was, it was far too long. Charlie and I were getting restless. Charlie whispered, “What time is it?” Even the whisper was noticed. Without missing a beat of whatever it was he was talking about, the preacher’s piercing eyes nailed us… just as I, in a show-off gesture, pulled up my sleeve and consulted a wort that grew on my wrist. “Boys! Pay attention!” he said with authority. Charlie and I looked down in a gesture of apology, while just barely controlling our laughter. The sermon went on to its boring conclusion. And Charlie and I left during the last hymn for our get-away. Our parents had a very serious chat with us later. Now, I think that is hugely funny. Even at my venerable age, I have a big chuckle as I remember. And there is a parallel story that will occur in Rugby Chapel during my Vocation Quest… * My first college room was on the top (3rd) floor. It was a double room that I shared with Lionel Priest. Lionel arrived before me, and so got the bed and desk by the lone window, and nearest the door. Lionel was from England.
84
Vocation Quest
Registering for university classes was simpler in the 1950s because the U of S was not very big. Somehow or other, I got it done. The College courses were laid on by the faculty. So, within the first couple of days, I had a room, my U of S books, and the bare necessities for the College 1st year courses. Back in the day, we theologs – as we were called – were required to take 6 subjects per year, rather than the normal 5. Six years compacted into five for obtaining both the secular and theological degrees. Another 90-degree learning curve loomed before me. I had more or less staggered through high school, and here I was facing what seemed to me an academic crisis… Fortunately, the College resident routine was simple. Morning Prayer in Rugby Chapel; breakfast in the refectory; classes morning and afternoon, either in the College lecture rooms, or in the various university venues; supper in the refectory; Evensong in Rugby Chapel; study; and bed. Of course, lots went on between and around those set markers. * The faculty members in Emmanuel during my sojourn in those somewhat hallowed halls were: Ralph Dean, Principal and excellent soccer player; Jack Fife, New Testament Greek, Ethics, - and an important influence for good in my life; Jim Beattie, Old Testament, and faithful husband and father – as well as master of the College Annex, (the top floor of the Beattie residence); “Speedy” Elliot, Church History. He was a remarkable person. He had made a full recovery from a stroke. He retaught himself everything. He had experienced a “near - death” experience, complete with a vision of inviting light. I cannot remember Dr. Elliot’s first name. He was a brilliant teacher. The story goes that if ever he was preaching in a church with the congregation all sitting in the back pews, he would walk back and forth on the seat of a pew near the folks… There were other lecturers from time to time, including one from St. Chad’s College, the Anglican seminary in Regina. A few years after I graduated, St. Chad’s and Emmanuel amalgamated – Emmanuel/St. Chad. Very sensible!
85
Vocation Quest
In the 75th Anniversary of Emmanuel College, the college year-book was dedicated to Queen Elizabeth 2 and her coronation 2 June 1953. The Rotunda, our yearbook, paired that dedication with the long serving caretaker of the College, Alfred F. Stapleton, known by us all as “Stapey”. A faithful servant. His workshop was the nerve centre of the structural body of Emmanuel. While Elizabeth will remain in our fond good memories, Stapey will turn up on occasion in some of my later stories from the “6 in 5” years (1952-1957) I spent in Emmanuel College, Saskatoon. * My freshman year – 1952-3 – changed the course of Emmanuel College. I say that in all modesty. Why? Because our freshman numbers far outnumbered the whole then current number of students in the entire college – including the several gueststudents (in faculties other than theology). We initiated the whole college student population. The beer was on them. We took them where we wanted; they did what we told them to do… I could make quite a story of this, but in fact, Initiation Night was relatively calm. * All residents in College were required to wear a black under-graduate gown, tie and jacket. An old English custom – still practiced in some universities around the world. Actually, I found the gown quite practical. It went a long way to keeping food and drink off my regular clothes. There was no hard and fast rule to keep the undergrad gowns clean. I wore the same tie every day… just loosened the knot, pulled the tie over my head, and did the reverse for chapel, refectory, and college classes. We did not have to wear the gowns to university classes. Shirts needed cleaning now and then. At first, I tried to wash, dry, and iron my shirts. The washing and drying were simple. The ironing was not. I could not discern much difference between the before and after ironing. Finally, I spent the few cents required to have them done professionally – but as infrequently as possible. I was able to press my trousers. I remember a pair that were styled very much like the zoot-suiters – a fashion of the age, narrow at the cuffs (yes, there were cuffs), and larger through the knees, coming together with pleats at the belt… That is pretty much as close as I ever got to being up to the minute in style! 86
Vocation Quest
* Ralph Dean ran a pretty tight ship. “In Chapel do not stand with your hands in your pocket! We don’t want you looking like a sloppy bunch of loungers!!” We were required to attend ALL Chapel services. Very occasionally a theology student could have permission to skip Matins or Evensong. But rarely. And if one missed simply by not turning up, then he was called on the carpet by Principal Dean as soon as he could find the absentee. One could have his very vocation to the ordained ministry questioned. There was nothing the Principal could do in the final analysis. We did not fear him. But he carried a moral weight that influenced us all. Principal Dean had a pretty good insight into human nature – particularly the natures of we theologs. During my years in College I missed very few Chapel services, and those very few were in my last couple of years. I my case, I did not seek the Principal’s permission. There were no repercussions. I think he knew that I was not just lazy or goofing off. Also, he probably guessed that the misses were important matters to do with Miss Ruth Bate. He was correct. And that was OK. * Emmanuel College was always on the thin edge of insolvency. Little parishes from all over Northern Saskatchewan would send small donations to the College. In the Fall farmers around Saskatoon would bring in quantities of potatoes, carrots and turnips to fill the College storage area. We were still very much in the era of payment “in kind” rather than financial donations. Folks didn’t have much cash. So, a simple thing like repairing a broken window was not a small matter. Eric Bays and I had no intention to do a dastardly thing that particular morning. But the snow was exactly the right consistency… Don Clark had his head out a third storey window. He was shouting theologically challenging remarks at us. One snow ball got him right on the nose… The second smashed the window pane.
87
Vocation Quest
Principal Dean summoned Eric and me to his office. It was his duty, of course, but during his lecture that we must never do such a thing again, etc. etc. the utter nonsense – and fun – of the whole event was lurking very close to the surface. Ordinarily, the Principal had a non-expressive face. Not so much in this situation. Keeping a belly laugh at bay is not easy. He just barely managed. And Eric and I, the perpetrators of the “crime”, exercised every bit of self-control we could muster in our valiant attempt to look serious. We did manage it as we apologized and promised to never do such an irresponsible thing again. It was one of those delightful moments in relationships that all three of us, I think, remembered with a smile. * Emmanuel College began its life located just a little west of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. That city is the headquarters of the Diocese of Saskatchewan. Emmanuel was the first “University of Saskatchewan”. In the move to Saskatoon, the College remained in a good relationship with now secular U of S. There were three other denominational colleges on the U of S grounds in my years there: United Church, Lutheran, and Roman Catholic. The RC college was not a seminary, but an Arts college. * One Sunday, when I was a student theolog in Rugby Chapel, Emmanuel College, Canon Edward Ahenakew preached at the Eucharist. He was a man of good age then, confident in stature, and a wise elder. He was a graduate of that first Emmanuel College up near Prince Albert. I do not remember his sermon text. I do remember his presence. He was a human being of great stature. He was Cree, and had become a Christian, ordained as an Anglican priest, and served in the Diocese of Saskatchewan. I do not remember many preachers from my days in seminary. Canon Edward Ahenakew, I remember with respectful awe above all the rest. A significant guide post in my journey from there to here…
88
Vocation Quest
Like all Christian denominations, the Anglican Church saw as its mission the conversion of the “Indians” to Christianity. (Each denomination’s “true” version, of course!) Then, and where this attitude continues to exist, such a mission spelled disaster. Racism always results in death. Coupled with the arrogance of the Christian churches, was the unexamined certainty that this process would “civilize” the “native”. Which meant: become more or less copies of our white Euro-culture, and followers of the Christian faith – the right “brand”, of course… The Federal Government of the early years of our nation, Canada, established a system of Residential Schools. “Indian” and “Eskimo” children were forcibly removed from their families and taken to one of those schools. Cultural genocide – no indigenous languages, no indigenous spiritual practices. In every part of Canada, the Anglican and Roman Catholic churches were charged with running almost all these Residential Schools. In the last twenty years or so, physical and sexual abuse accounts from former student survivors of these schools have surfaced. The irreconcilable pain expressed is beyond description. But the stories are being told, and all must listen… The Anglican Church of Canada, and other denominations, have acknowledged their cruel mistakes, begged for forgiveness in public, and are involved with First Nations people in the common quest for Reconciliation. It’s a long road ahead. The Roman Catholic church apology has not surfaced yet. * As I write my story, I now live in BC. At all public functions, the first word is always an acknowledgment that we are on the traditional, ancestral, unceded territory of First Nations people. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has just announced that our federal government intends to bring forward legislation to clarify and enhance First Nations access to their Constitutional rights without legal challenge. Very hopeful. *
89
Vocation Quest
My first year in College and University is best referred to as “living constantly in the deep end, without knowing how to swim”. How I survived is a lesson in miracle, or a remarkable demonstration of “dumb luck”. Although I did have a good time in the fun and fellowship of my fellow Emmanuel crew. Actually, the “deep end” analogy reminds me that all first-year students in the U of S, in those days, had to take swimming lessons if they did not already know how. I was stupid enough to admit that I did not. Fortunately, in those ancient of days, the only pool on campus was not very big. So, I plunged in, thrashed my way back and forth - without breathing. Officially I could now swim! Allegorically…or metaphorically…or miraculously… I spent a lot time “holding my breath” as I stumbled my way through year one! * The end of the first term of my first year at Emmanuel College finally came to an end. Home for Christmas! But before I left, Principal Dean called me to his office. Oh, Oh, I thought. This is about my marks… It was. The Principal did not beat about the bush. “Genge. Your marks in most of your subjects are below any reasonable standard. Either you pull those marks up after Christmas break, or you may as well stay home.” His point was clear. Shape up, or ship out. So, I told the Principal I would give it my best shot… or words to that effect. What I did was to use the time at home thinking through what I wanted to do. I did not discuss the matter with my parents or anyone else. As I recall, the situation did not make me nervous or worried. Strange, I suppose, but I was calm. I decided to go back to Emmanuel. It was a struggle from there on, but since there was no way to go but up, that’s the direction I took. Mind you, graduation was still a struggle – all the way. But I managed. I’m thankful. *
90
Vocation Quest
Oh… I’m happy to add that I got an A in New Testament Greek in my final year. Only Gerry Janzen and I got an A. Gerry was a brilliant scholar (and a long-lasting good friend, and we are still in touch) so his A was a surprise to no one. My A must have just scraped into that range, but it is a joy for me to remember! Jack Fife taught that class. * The other subjects in Emmanuel preparation for ordination stream were a variety of biblical, theological, historical, philosophical, pastoral and ethical studies. In addition, “practical theology” studies in preaching and liturgy were intended to help us turn the academic and theoretical subjects into practice in our future parish work. Mercifully, I don’t remember any details about my marks in the various subjects… And I am not about to search in the College archives! * A word about the teaching styles/personalities of the Emmanuel College faculty: Principal Ralph Dean had a photographic memory. His teaching was clear, sharp and precise. Jim Beattie, a lovely pastoral man, had a slight Irish accent which added even further to the challenge of understanding his lectures. Jack Fife was a spiritual man of strong intellect and piercing insight. Speedy Elliott had a clear style of presentation which made it easy to see his central points. They were all respected by the student body, including the several resident guest students. * My university classes included Political Science, Physics, History, Classical Greek, English, Philosophy. Dr. Hallam, the physicist, was a practicing Christian (Anglican), and seemed comfortable in both worlds. Dr. Ward was the Political Science prof, Dr. John Bateman taught Philosophy, was a practicing Christian (Anglican), and an organist as well. He directed our liturgical music practices at Emmanuel.
91
Vocation Quest
“Johnny” Bateman ran a very active hymn singing and liturgical practice at Rugby Chapel. The organ console was on the right side of the chapel, placed in such a way the Dr. Bateman had to slide off the bench and poke his head around the corner to give us instructions. “Johnny”’ was a little like a wee elf. And that is what he looked like as he popped out from the console to plead for a more tuneful response. Ray Adamson (long-time friend, and still in touch) and I were in our assigned places in the front pew. We shared a penchant for seeing the silly and humorous in almost any situation. As Dr. Bateman kept popping out from behind the organ, we had to exercise extreme personal control to avoid rolling on the floor laughing. * The Anglican Church is a multi-faceted organism. It has a wide variety of theological and liturgical traditions. The old “low church” historic habits, and the old “high church” historic liturgical habits, prevailed in church-land in the years I was at Emmanuel College. The College was from the “low church” tradition. The “high church” tradition, often called “Anglo-Catholic”, used incense, bells during the consecratory prayer, richly adorned vestments, genuflecting, and other choreographic rituals. The “low church” tradition had no candles on the altar, or anywhere else, often a “north end” position for the celebrant, relatively simple vestments, and often academic hoods… the so-called “Protestant” stance. * All this nonsense dates back to the Reformation, and the 16th century emergence of the Church of England from the domination of the Church in Rome. The old contrasts of “protestant” and “catholic”, “minister” and “priest”, “Holy Communion” and “Mass”, became rooted in “holy certainties” by each side. Today worship habits and preferences remain, and still, in some circles, hotly argued, a colourful pallet from which church-goers may choose, without the old animosities. I am thankful.
92
Vocation Quest
Looking back, I am critical of Emmanuel’s training in Liturgics. We were not trained (during my time there) sufficiently well in a wider variety of liturgical choreography. Of course, that was back in the 1950s. The denominational conflicts of ancient times were still alive and well just below the surface. By sharp contrast, sixty years later, in the parish Ruth and I now attend, all are welcome to receive communion whether baptized, confirmed, from another denomination, or no faith affiliation. However, there are still some limitations or requirements in some parts of the Canadian Anglican Church. * Attention was given to the art of preaching at Emmanuel. Part of the practical application of this training involved assignments to various near-by parishes for the rookie theologs. Sunday Evensong was the time – because we could do the least damage at a service that was not overly well attended. Perhaps most parishioners enjoyed the opportunity to have a laugh or two, discreetly, of course, at the budding orators. And it was pre-TV! I remember my first go at this was to the little parish of Sutherland, a little east of Saskatoon. (Sutherland has long since been incorporated into the City of Saskatoon.) The incumbent clergyman (no women clergy yet) indicated it was time for my sermon. Up into the pulpit I went. In those days the preacher usually gave a biblical text off the top to introduce what he was going to say. The little congregation had barely settled into their seats when I whipped off the text, gave my sermon, said Amen, and left the pulpit. The congregation had not had to sit through a dissertation on a vague and questionable biblical thesis, and so were quite happy, no doubt. Perhaps this was why they were so effusive in their “thanks for the sermon” ritual at the door of the church on their way out… I certainly was glad that the exercise was over! *
93
Vocation Quest
Stanley Steer, then bishop of the Diocese of Saskatoon, invited Emmanuel students to his house for dinner. Three or four at a time would get the invitation. Over the course of a year, all of us had a chance to sample Mrs. Steer’s excellent cooking…perhaps prepared by a chef, but she was a gracious host. On my turn to go, the meal was delicious. I managed to use the right cutlery at more or less the right time, and all went well – except for the apple. A whole apple, uncut, just sitting there at my place, with the dessert. What does one do? Do you attack it with knife and fork? Clasp it firmly in one hand, and munch away? The latter, in this company, seemed too “common”. The former, impossible. No one made a move – including our hosts. Was this some sort of test? So, I plunged in. Took my knife, leaving my fork on the table, cut the apple in half, and munched away. First our hosts followed suit, then my fellow guests did the same. I guess the doctrine of dumb luck chose the only logical thing to do. * Dining in Emmanuel College refectory was usually fun. A senior student sat at the head of the table, and another senior, or a faculty member, sat at the other end. Six to a side. While faculty did demand a reasonable degree of decorum, we theologs and guest students enjoyed much kibitzing and joking. The fare was basic. But it did provide enough fuel for the residents. For one term, Mrs. Dean had to step in as cook. The pay for a cook was so low that it was hard to get a full-time cook. Mrs. Dean’s specialty was “Ziggurat Pudding”. It appeared as dessert for lunch. It was heavy, and shaped like a pyramid. It made a major contribution to extreme drowsiness in after-lunch lectures. Still at table, I recall the time a theolog could not get the ketchup out of the bottle. Forgetting he had taken the top off, he gave it a vigorous shake. The ketchup was released! In a red geyser all over diners, walls, and floor! Messy! Hilarious! *
94
Vocation Quest
Rugby Chapel figured prominently for me in those College years. Matins was at 07:00. At 06:00 I went into the Chapel to work on my New Testament Greek. For many years after graduation, my internal clock alarm went off at 06:00 – whether or not I needed to get up. The Chapel was built in 1912, and was partly funded by Rugby School in Warwickshire, England. The building was expanded in 1913 by Emmanuel College students, with help from local tradesmen. Today it is a Heritage Building on the University campus. The discipline of daily corporate worship was good for us all. In some way that I cannot fully understand, this rhythm had a profoundly positive effect on my life – and continues so. To clarify: I no longer “say the Daily Offices”, as might be assumed by what I have just said. That kind of routine did not last for me. For many years I worked at it, adapting the format, etc. but, essentially, I kept falling asleep… The positive effect of the College discipline on my life is beyond my vocabulary… But it is real. And my faith rides on it. (A text: Romans 12:12, King James version) * Do you remember my earlier story of Charlie McKay and I in St. Bridgit’s church in Paddockwood? Here is my “sort of” parallel experience in Rugby Chapel. Prof. Beattie was taking his faculty turn to preach on a Sunday. My elbow was on a window sill, my feet on the kneeler, I was straining to understand both his Irish accent, and what his primary point might be. It was comfortably warm in the Chapel… I was mesmerized by the rhythm of his voice… Apparently, I drifted off into a deep and heavy-breathing snooze… My elbow slipped off the window sill, my foot slipped off the kneeler and slammed the floor, and I snorted awake. But the sermon went on. I may have detected a hurt look on Prof Beattie’s face, but the sermon went on. I was embarrassed! I vaguely recall a conversation with Principal Dean following the conclusion of the Liturgy… *
95
Vocation Quest
The rookies in Emmanuel were required to give a “stump speech” in front of fellow students, faculty, members of the Board, and members of the Women’s Guild. In the spring of 1953, in my first year, I was on the list of “speakers”. The rules of the game: Speak no longer that three minutes; you were handed your topic about a minute before you were on; wing it from there! The subject you were handed may or may not have anything to do with theology or faith – subjects with which you could possibly have a reasonable go at… My subject, handed to me on slip of paper just before I stepped on the podium – Nuclear Physics… What? But I have a quick and active imagination. With an amazing calmness, I announced my topic, took a piece of chalk, and proceeded to illustrate, with commentary, the fundamental basics of Nuclear Physics. Imagine a pool table. While I did not say “pool table”, I drew a pool table shape, with cue and pool balls. I described the cue hitting the pool balls with great force – obviously illustrating the smashing of atoms, and the power released, and the implications thereof, all within three minutes! Thus, I had challenged the judges to get the subtle relationship and fun of my design illustrating “Nuclear Physics”. Any judge worth his (or her) salt would recognize the brilliance of my presentation! However, there was an amazing lack of imagination (and pool hall experience) among the judges. The only person in the entire room that got it was Prof Jack Fife…and he was not one of the judges. When I preached in later years, I never forgot the importance of connecting the imagination of the congregation with congregation’s experience. Of course, I sometimes failed at that…but my stump speaking experience was one of the best things I learned about preaching in all my years at Emmanuel. *
96
Vocation Quest
That evening of “stump speaking” was also the most important evening for a totally unrelated matter. A clue: “…across a crowded room…”. But more of that later. * In my second year of residency in Emmanuel, my room was off a corridor in the basement on the east side of the College. That was right next door to “Stapey’s Workshop”. Stapey had all kinds of tools in his shop. I got on well with Stapey. When I told him I wanted to make a small wooden cross to put on the wall of my room, and asked if I could do that in his shop, he said, “Yes.”. I still have that cross, and it hangs in Ruth’s and my bedroom. A good memory of Stapey and his workshop. * That room next to Stapey’s workshop had a window which was more or less level with the ground outside. Not a few times did I let a late returning student in through that window – thus saving him the embarrassing and awkward business of dealing with bells and keys. I never charged for this, but did accrue a bit of student goodwill. And this slightly clandestine activity was never discovered by the higher authorities. * During my “6 years in 5 years” stay at Emmanuel, I resided in 4 different rooms. Year 1 on the third-floor double with Lionel Priest; Year 2 in the College basement (next door to Stapey’s shop); Years 3 and 4 in the Annex; Year 5 in the Senior Stick’s room on the second floor in College. All singles except that first year. Every location evokes memories. Some funny, some not so funny. During my first year, sharing with Lionel Priest, a not-so-funny event occurred. Some guest students removed everything in Lionel’s half of the room. Even to the detail of halving a piece of paper on the floor that overlapped the imaginary line. Furniture, clothes, everything, was hidden throughout the College. Nothing of mine was removed. Lionel was subject to bullying. We found everything, of course, and returned it to the room. I think Lionel never recovered from that hurtful event.
97
Vocation Quest
I look back on that stunt and think I could have been more supportive, somehow. I think I should have been much more direct in my condemnation of the guy who did that. Lionel was a good scholar and a gifted singer. He just seemed to attract ridicule. * In the Annex one of my memories is of tea made by Bill Graham, an ex-British Merchant Navy lad. When his turn came to make evening tea, he put multi tea bags in the pot, steeped it for an incredibly long time – and thought it was delicious! It was brutal! There was a camaraderie about being in the Annex that more than overcame these small differences of taste. I suspect that our small Annex contingent considered ourselves as the really tough guys on the margins of the lush easy life in the College building. * Al Swinton was an Annex guy. He was a little older than many of us. Al had a good sense of humour, but that was not always evident. One very cold Saskatchewan winter day, someone swiped Al’s trousers. His only other pair were at the College, left there by the dry-cleaners. It was late afternoon, four ice-cold windy blocks between the Annex and supper time in the College Refectory. He put on his inadequate winter coat, shirt and tie, underwear, socks and shoes – and hit the ice and snow running! Fastest time he ever made from the Annex to the College, and no frost bite reported…nor the culprit. Al took it all in stride. * Glen Ash was a great guy of those Emmanuel days, too. Glen consumed a lot of food; he was a big man, not fat but big. One of his favourite snacks was copious amounts of ketchup and bread…Glen was married, but his wife was in northern Alberta. In those days, theologs were not allowed to marry till after graduation… *
98
Vocation Quest
Another Bill also lived in the Annex during my time there. He was a guest student, studying medicine. Good guy. Got along well with all. Interesting how paths cross. Bill Vaughn and I shared a year in the Annex in the middle 1950s, and we met again in the late 1980s when he was practicing medicine in a town in the Diocese of Edmonton. He was a member of the parish, and I was the bishop of the Diocese. * Don Clark (an excellent soccer player) lived in a room on the top floor of the College, about two thirds of the way down the hall from the stairs. As a conservation measure, the hall lights, already of dim wattage, were turned off at night – so, very dark in the hallway. By pre-arrangement, he had permission to be out well after the usual lock-up time. Some resident students knew this, and were on watch. Don entered the College front door, tip-toed silently up the stairs, missing the squeaky step, and turned down the corridor to his room. No need for lights, he knew the way to his room. Prior to Don’s late return, a number of anonymous individuals collected all the metal waste cans from every room on the floor. Lots of nefarious collusion in this scheme… The cans were stacked in a pile, and nicely spread from side to side across the hall, and several feet high, just a little distance from the door of Don’s room… The noise of the waste cans crashing in all directions, not to mention Don’s colorful “comments” as he tumbled among the debris, brought Principal Dean and Prof Fife to the scene. The Deans lived on the ground floor of the College, and Fife’s room was just below Don’s room. It took a while to restore order and calm. Since everyone in the building was now awake, and wandering around asking what had happened, Dean and Fife could not do much except express their anger. They did! And everyone went back to bed. *
99
Vocation Quest
“The Senior Stick” was the title of the chair of our College students. In the ‘50s, my era at Emmanuel, he was chosen from among the graduating class. 1955-6 I was vice-stick for Glen Ash. ’56-’57 I was elected Senior Stick. The pre-election was a fun time in the College. One of the students drew an “election poster” – a startling likeness of me, drawn on a large sheet of poster paper, and urging the electorate to vote for me. The Senior Stick chaired all student gatherings. Since the College was at its highest numbers before or since those years, and included an amazing variety of personalities, meetings could be quite rowdy. They pushed the limits of order and decorum. But I ruled with an iron fist (more or less) according to the rules of proper meeting order. And got away with it! In that last year of residency in Emmanuel, I adopted a policy of seldom having my door shut except at night. The reason? Because some of the theologs needed to talk. I had no wisdom to offer… They just needed to feel safe talking about things not easily expressed to faculty, friends, or family. I stumbled upon a useful way of responding, without presuming to solve their problems. Only they could do that. But I used to “lend” my faith to an individual. What does that mean? I’m not really sure… It seemed to be useful to the person at the time; perhaps allowing them to regain some personal stability…purpose…hope, and be able to move on a bit… * We had an excellent College Choir in my day. David Tatchell was the director. He was one of us – in training for the Anglican priesthood. David was an excellent and gifted musician and singer. He sang with many first-rate choirs and choruses, including solo roles. I was a member of Emmanuel College Choir. That fact will come as a surprise if you have ever heard me sing. My presence in the College Choir was a tribute to the sensitive kindness of David. He was a long-time friend – over 65 years. David died the very day I wrote the first draft of this College Choir story.
100
Vocation Quest
David assigned me a role in the Choir: “second tenor”. He said, “Sing not too loudly, changing the note according to the flow of harmony, in each piece” … Fortunately, I could read music. But a trifle unskilled at singing the notes. Of course, there were a goodly number of fellows who could sing well. The “strategy” worked. I was happy. And I was a member of our Emmanuel College Choir! Our Choir sang in many venues, and was praised by our audiences. I was never shy about going up on stage, or a riser, thanks to a good sense of balance… * Before I leave the subject of “singing”, there are three other “music” stories to tell you. The first is from my early childhood – perhaps six or eight years old. We had a radio (no TV even remotely near in those days) at home on the farm. You may remember that it was powered by a dry B battery, and a rechargeable A battery. Connected to an exterior aerial, it worked quite well. CKBI Prince Albert was our station on the dial. The broadcasts were a mix of mix of music, talk, sales pitches, news, and short dramas. Foster Hewitt of hockey broadcast fame, came on with, “Hello Canada and Hockey Fans in the United States and New Foundland”. Because we lived far west of Toronto, Foster Hewitt got to us around the beginning of the second period…. But I digress. Bach to “music” … One day CKBI was playing music. I was weeping. My Mother was alarmed. “Why are you crying?”, she asked. “It’s the music.”, I replied. “I’ll turn the radio off.”, she said, as she reached toward the knob. “No! No!”, I cried. “I like it.” That memory is mostly mine. But, like many childhood memories, my Mom has verified it. The point is that music moves me very deeply. I believe the two essential building blocks of the universe are music and laughter. The second “music” memory comes from the time I broke my nose playing interfaculty hockey with Emmanuel in a U of S league. There were 4 divisions. Our team was in the D division…the lowliest of divisions.
101
Vocation Quest
Our team was game, but not too deep in skill sets. For example, Norman Morrow got a black eye from his own stick. As he attempted to stand up on the ice, the play went whirling (more or less) back and forth by him. Norman began to spin – not overly elegantly, fell down and but-ended himself with his own stick. In all my hockey-playing years before or since, I have never seen anything like it. When Don Clark skated – attempted to – he needed the ends of the rink to stop his forward momentum… Sort of an Eddy Shack amateur hour. Don only achieved bruises; of course, he was not carrying a hockey stick. Gerry Janzen played goal for us. He was a good goaler, and he kept us in many a game. Gerry vowed never to wash his hockey underwear until we won a game. That was unfortunate for our team. Our dressing room was more potent than a skunk! That was the strongest motivation we could have ever had to get a win. We did win a few – not many, but enough to have an occasional respite. Ray Adamson and I were pretty good hockey players. He is a long-time friend, as is Gerry. Cliff McPherson played defense. He was not quick, but he was big. It took the opposition forwards quite a while to get around Cliff. But, again… I digress. Back to “music. The collision with the opposition player that broke my nose was painful. It was evident that I needed a nose-straightening job that required a doctor’s hand. Prof Fife always came to cheer on our games. He drove me to the hospital. The doctor did his thing. I was taped up, and returned to the College to play another day. The black eyes and stuffy nose did not improve my nose one bit. When all was healed, it was more less the same shape as before. My turn to lead sung Matins in Rugby Chapel was due the morning after I broke my nose. I took my turn, sang the appropriate parts, and went to breakfast as usual. The good singers in our crowd said that my tone, pitch, and resonance, were excellent. I think they meant it. A few weeks later my turn to sing Matins came up again. My nose had healed completely. No one complimented me this time.
102
Vocation Quest
My third “music” story is my favourite. My life-partner, Ruth, is a brilliant singer. She has her ARCT in both performance and teaching. She has taught many children and adults, led junior and senior choirs, and sung in many fine choirs and choruses. Ruth’s music has enriched my life beyond measure. We have enjoyed much fun and romance with music. Ruth continues to do that. I am thankful. More, much more, about Ruth later in my story. * Acting on a real stage in a real play happened to me twice in my life – so far… Who knows what the future may bring? You may recall the first time I trod the boards – the play in my high school years. The second time in my “acting career” occurred in the Greystone Theatre on the U of S campus. An Emmanuel College all-male cast presented The Long Fall, by Carroll V. Howe. We won the Little Theatre Cup for the best play, the Pinder Trophy for the best director (Henry Roderick, long-time friend), the McLorg Cup for the best actor (Dennis Blair-Brown – a story about him later), and an honourable mention (Geoff Huggill, also a long-time friend). I played a minor role as a construction worker on the high-rise construction. The adjudicator said, among other things, “… the play was excellent, particularly in the scenes of strong emotion… “ Not bad for a group of amateurs! Others in the cast: Bill Vaughn, Bill Graham, Des McConnell, and Tom Rayment, a long-time friend. * The tenacity of little odd snippets of memory is weird. For example: The then Governor-General of Canada in the 1950s was Vincent Massey. He visited the College, perhaps in sync with the College’s 75th Anniversary. The only thing I remember is his limp-fish handshake. Surely, he could have done better. Later Governors-General seemed more vigorous. We all filed by with courtesy and deference, of course. *
103
Vocation Quest
Yes, I have avoided any details about my academic journey through College and University… I’ve already mentioned the highlight – the A in New Testament Greek. I hold on to that accomplishment because the rest was pretty much average to not quite. The fact that I needed to redo a subject to get my BA is a line of recollection I will not pursue. I did get all my assignments to the professors on time. Unfortunately, I, too infrequently, did not add high marks to that “on time” part. But it eventually all came together sufficiently that I got my BA. The College courses did get me to ordination as a Deacon. I did earn a General Synod BD by extended education – in an average sort of way – during my early ordained years. So, the long and the short of it is, that I ended up with a Bachelor of Arts from the U of S; a Licentiate of Theology from Emmanuel College; a Bachelor of Divinity from General Synod. Oh… and a Doctor of Divinity honoris causa from Emmanuel College after I became Bishop of Edmonton. That was simply because, as an Emmanuel grad, I was a bishop. I felt honoured -- and extremely thankful that no particular academic work was required! * Sports was my “major” during College and University days. I played every sport available. Sometimes that was just to participate to help our College in competition with other University faculties for % of resident participation prizes. And somehow or other, my sports participation got me elected as chair of the University’s Men’s Intramural Athletic Board. * Sports were not the only events in the intramural student participation percentage competitions. For example, giving blood in the donor clinics was included in the participation competitions. Isaac Graham (a good friend of those years) faithfully gave blood in the best tradition of Emmanuel. He passed out every time at the sight of his own blood draining away – but he came back every Red Cross Blood Clinic! *
104
Vocation Quest
Soccer, hockey, curling and track, were my central athletic endeavours during my College and University days. Emmanuel College won the intramural soccer championship every year but one. We had a very strong and talented A team. Our B team was a mixed bag of stalwarts who loved to participate. The B team never did win their division. I enjoyed playing organized soccer. Because I could run fast, had good balance (as mentioned in the above College Choir story), and anticipated the play naturally, my position was “left half”. This meant I and my partners across the middle could help the defence (backs), and feed the middle forwards and strikers. Some of the students that came from the UK were excellent soccer players, including Principal Ralph Dean (who could play with us only in exhibition games), Bernie Hart, Don Clark, Isaac Graham, Rod Adamson, Norman Morrow, Noel Peyton, Derrick Stannard, and one or two others. Many of we Canadian theologs and guest students could certainly hold our own on the pitch! Some coaching – particularly from Principal Dean – helped, too. Canadians: Ray Adamson, Rusty Brown, Percy Bird, Jimmy Gear, Roger Maggs, Tom Windsor, Bob Cooper, Ken Genge. Tom and Bob were guest students, Bob in medicine, Tom in engineering. Because my freshman year numbers were more than all the theologs and guest students of the time put together, a problem developed in the following years. Our numbers combined with the following year freshmen theologs, made it increasingly difficult to accommodate guest students. Finally, the only guest student remaining was Jimmy Gear. I think Jimmy was a guest student for all his undergraduate studies. Guys such as Windsor and Cooper, and others, either were graduating or had to get other lodging. This was a loss for the College. For me, they represented a genuine – and important – in-house connection to the wider, some would say, the real world. *
105
Vocation Quest
I had curled in the Saskatchewan School Boys finals in Saskatoon in my Grade 12 year. We played very well, but lost out due to our lack of coaching, strategy, and experience. The Gary Thode rink beat us, and went on to win the national School Boys Curling Championship. At Emmanuel I skipped our rink. One of the player combinations was: Glen Ash, 3rd; Allan Ferguson, 2nd; Lionel Priest, lead. Lots of fun. No Briars. * My stories about College hockey became entangled, somehow or other, earlier, when I was talking about “music”. Odd… Perhaps related to some deeply rooted psychological quirk… After I was ordained, I played serious hockey in Shellbrook, Saskatchewan, and in Yellowknife, N.W.T. But those stories are coming up later. * My track exploits were about normal for me. Several third-place finishes in the 200 and 440-yard runs. (Remember, those were pre-metric days.) We had no proper equipment – not even running spikes – and no training. Pretty much like my high school days. Although, I did hold the Saskatchewan High School 100-yard sprint record for a while. I still think there must have been some screw-up in the record keeping. However, the further in time we get from those days, the likelihood of the question coming up is about nil. So, I continue to bask in the golden memory. * I played basketball and badminton as a participant in the usual inter-faculty participation races mentioned earlier. This simply meant that I entered the tournament, played the first game, lost, and thus had done my duty. * “Raids” back and forth between university residences and faculties erupted from time to time. These raids were mostly characterized by one college stealing a symbol or mascot, hoisting it high on some building on campus, and having the whole campus in uproarious fun-and-games laughter at the expense of the victim faculty.
106
Vocation Quest
Emmanuel College became embroiled in one such affair. Our building was vulnerable. One quiet evening, when all the faculty and students were at prayer in Rugby Chapel, which is a few metres from the College, a small covey of strangers stole silently into the College. The invaders were the Nurse’s Residence Attack Team… one of the most dangerous on campus! Their mission was to spray the whole interior of our College with very strong perfume, leave a few feminine items about, and disappear, undetected, into the night. They would have been in and out undetected… Except that Peter Heritage had been ill that day, and unable to attend Chapel, and so, was in bed in his room on the third floor when the Attack Team started their Spray Attack on that floor. The plan, apparently, was to start at the top, work their way down, and out the front door. They thoroughly perfumed his room and him, and carried on to each floor and out into the night. The evidence of the Nurses’ Attack Team expedition was overwhelming. But the culprits were identified. And so, began a relationship between the Nurses’ Residence and Emmanuel College, that, at times, resembled the Martins and Coys of hillbilly clan dust-ups. * As Senior Stick, I had a lot more on my plate than planning or participating in raids. My last year in College was a combination of College student responsibilities and my struggle to graduate! Later, I may tell you some of my feelings about the College, my responsibilities in Senior Stick leadership roles, and my personal certainty that I had been there plenty long enough. *
107
Vocation Quest
108
Vocation Quest
109
Vocation Quest
110
Four Summers
CHAPTER 9 Four Summers Emmanuel College required all students studying toward ordination to the diaconate and priesthood to do two “Summer Missions” before graduation. That meant 1953 and 1954 were my summers to get non-church work to earn some money towards my education at College and University. The summers of 1955 and 1956 were for the “Summer Missions”. My sponsoring Diocese, the Diocese of Saskatchewan, footed the bill for all my ordination preparation. (I had virtually no money, nor did my parents.) I was thus indebted to the Diocese for at least five years of service in that Diocese, commencing upon my ordination to the Diaconate. * Ray Adamson and I teamed up to hitch-hike around Saskatchewan and Alberta looking for work in the summers of ’53 and ’54. We travelled light – a brown duffle bag each, with all our travelling requirements in them. On top of each bag, we kept our ball gloves and a baseball. When the roads were quiet, we played catch as we waited for the next car. When it was raining, we put on our ponchos, which covered us and our duffle bags… pretty much, and called the game on account of rain. * We failed to get on with Trans Canada Pipe Line at Edson. On to Jasper we hitchhiked, and stayed for a couple of days with the parish priest, Don Moore, in the parish rectory. No luck there either. And so, on the road again. If we were in any stop for long, we scouted the baseball action. Managed a workout with a ball club once… but we were not in town long enough to play much ball. We had to hit the road again. We needed to get some money! * During those two summers, I worked in Grand Centre/Cold Lake for Poole Construction; in Edmonton for a curb company; and in Saskatoon at the airport.
111
Four Summers
Poole Construction was building the first cantilever hanger for the Cold Lake Air Base. Ray and I were hired on the very first day we arrived. No advance assurance of a job, just bussed from Edmonton, turned up at the Poole office in Grand Centre/Cold Lake, signed in, directed to our bunk house, given the time for breakfast, and told to turn up next morning sharp at 07:30 to work on the “steel gang” … At 07:30 we learned that that meant tying rebar, using pliers and wire, to form a lattice work of rebar in the large plywood-lined trenches into which cement would be poured. These cement beams were the main beams of the hanger. Our experience prior to this job was nil. We learned quickly! I don’t remember the pay-scale, but it was considerably more than my 98 cents an hour on the section gang. Labour jobs were easy to come by in those days. So, we observed carefully, listened attentively, and got on to the art of tying rebar very skillfully. I can remember dropping my pliers into the beam only once or twice. Fortunately, they were retrievable among the lattice work of rebar already tied. We arrived on a Tuesday. First payday was Thursday. Our bunk house was an H shape. The cross section housed the wash basins, showers, and toilets. Our bunk house was newly built. Studs were as far apart as legally possible under code, the walls were Ten-Test, and the roof kept the rain out. From that first pay-day the lights never went out, a poker game was on, and every once in a while, an empty micky bottle would fly through the air. One day, during a fight, a guy was thrown through the Ten-Test wall. One learned to keep a low profile, and mouth shut. On an occasional day off, we walked from the Air Base construction site into Grand Centre to the Anglican rectory. In those days a licensed Lay Reader of the Diocese of Edmonton ran the show. It was a bit of a break from the bunk house. Harry Aires was hospitable and a reasonably good cook. He also invigilated one of my attempts to pass my Saskatchewan Grade 12 French. By the way, the Saskatchewan School Board finally granted me a pass. Someone at headquarters realized that I was not going away, and gave me my Grade 12 French pass… The pass was technically necessary for me to continue my U of S courses.
112
Four Summers
One Sunday evening, returning from the Anglican rectory, we shared a cab with another worker. He was of Scottish background. And stashed on him and in various places in the taxi were a number of full mickys of whiskey. Our friend sat in front with the cabbie, Ray and I in the back. Even in those early days of construction, there was a semblance of security around the site… And this was supposed to be a dry camp. A lone guard appeared at the check-point. We became very nervous. But our friend, eyes so bloodshot they might start bleeding at any moment, was calm and cool. And the cabbie was probably very used to carrying passengers smuggling in spirits. Ray and I were tense. We assumed that if caught in this situation, we could lose our jobs… Cab stopped; smiles from within; a glance into the car, with the two innocent-looking young lads in the back; waved through; no problem. Back to the bunk house, and back to work next morning. And Ray and I resumed our “low profile and mouth shut” style… and continued tying rebar for the huge cement beams with increasing speed and efficiency. Construction sites are a bit like a jig-saw puzzle. Each part needs to fit the big picture. Strolling by a work site, one would think everything proceeds in an orderly and logical sequence. Not always the case. One day on the cantilever hanger building site, things seemed to grind to a stop. There was confusion in the rebar storage site on the ground, a few metres from our building, and confusion up on the deck where we worked. Ray and I moved rebar from there to here and here to somewhere else, and back again. Finally, the straw-boss told us to look busy while there was really nothing to do. We did. The straw-boss didn’t know what was going on either. Things did get better. This unique cantilever hanger did get built – but our time on the job was coming to the end. I did not return to Grand Centre/Cold Lake for many years after the Poole construction job. I was in a different line of work by then. I’ll tell you about that return trip later. *
113
Four Summers
On the Edmonton curb construction crew, I was “grade foreman”. That meant I worked a couple of blocks ahead of the crib crew and Ken Rayment on the backhoe. Between properly surveyed stakes, my job was to affix heavy string just the right distance from the ground, from stake to stake. These were crucial guide lines for cribbing and then cement pouring. Two fellows, older than me, and friendly and happy guys, who knew all there was to know about spades, trimmed the earth a bit before the backhoe got the right depth of trench. The cribbing and cement followed. This arrangement meant that I was working on my own quite often. And that meant that I could occasionally sit on a porch with friendly children who brought me cold lemon-aid – great in the hot Edmonton summer. * One goof I made – which fortunately didn’t get me fired – was a miss-read of my string tying mark on several stakes… As I looked back about a block and a half, it looked to me like the backhoe was disappearing down into the earth! Eventually, the miss-dug earth was moved back, packed down, levels re-measured and marked. Curb construction moved forward once more. I never misread a grade stake again! At the end of a work day, I hopped into the backhoe bucket that Ken Rayment drove to the storage place, and we caught the bus home. Grubby, sweaty, we seldom were crushed in the homeward-bound buses. Ken Rayment went to his residence, and I to the senior Rayment’s, where I was boarding for the summer. That was the summer of 1956. As I write this story, it is 2018. For some quirk of memory, I remember their address: 10428 – 78th Avenue. The house and address no longer remain. Commercial developments have taken over whole residential areas. My path crossed with Ken and his wife Audrey many years later, when Ruth and I lived in Edmonton where my new job took me in 1988. *
114
Four Summers
I have many happy memories of the Rayment family. I’m still in touch with Tom, who was a good friend in my College days. Ray Adamson and I painted the interior of the Rayment living room, probably as a thank you for their bargain price board and room. While Ray was still boarding at Rayment’s, we played catch in the front yard. Occasionally the baseball got into the neighbor’s yard. He was not a pleasant person. Our conversation with him – negotiations, rather, to get the ball back, had to be reasonably polite for the sake of neighborhood relationships… We managed. While I worked on with the curb construction crew, Ray sold Fuller Brushes door to door, and had moved away. So, I was the lone boarder. One very hot summer night, I moved out onto the front porch for a bit cooler sleep. Sometime in the deep of night I was awakened… by the panting of several dogs standing quietly by my makeshift bed. While they paid no attention to me, they were obviously alarmed as they peered over the edge of the porch railing. My pooch-mates’ concern became obvious as two men, in Dog Pound uniforms, stealthily materialized out of the darkness. They carried long-poled nets as they carefully moved down the street, one on each side. I thought I could hear them softly calling, “Here doggie… Here doggie…”. It was obvious to me and my poochmates what their motives were. Slowly they passed our “hideout”. Not a sound from any of us on the porch… Even my mates’ breathing seemed to stop. And I was breathing as lightly as possible. One of the canine crew certainly needed a good tooth cleaning. As the “uniforms” moved a little further past our refuge and down the street, their paddy wagon van slowly passed as it followed the search party. The danger was over. The dogs left to happily continue their night-time adventures. I can’t prove it, but was certain each of the “dirty dozen” gave me a wink and a nod as they departed. With a clear conscience, I rolled over and back to sleep. *
115
Four Summers
One weekend I hitched a ride from Cold Lake to Edmonton. That was an interesting experience in itself. The guy I rode with was a friend of a driver. No such thing as a speed limit! All the way down he told me hair-raising stories of his days driving race cars. He emphasized that he believed a car was meant to go, not stop… Brakes, to him, were more or less irrelevant… A white-knuckle experience for me all those several hundred kilometres! The evidence for the fact that we did arrive in Edmonton is verified by my ability to tell you this story… He let me off in the downtown. Rayments were across the river. Took a cab, paid the driver… And waited for my change. He bent over… I tensed, ready to kick him in the head. “No No… it’s OK…. I just thought I might have some change in my pant cuff…” Right… He slowly straightened up, gave me change – not from his pant cuff, and drove off. I still think he might have come up with a knife, for he knew I had just come into town from a construction job, and probably had a bit of bank roll. Another experience in the dead of night in the Rayment’s front yard. * During my time at the Rayment’s, I went to the early Eucharist at Holy Trinity Church. Mr. Rayment sang in the choir, and Mrs. Rayment was a staunch and faithful member of the W.A. (Women’s Auxiliary…before the days of ACW, Anglican Church Women. Women were looked upon as “auxiliary” to the real church – even though female attendees were equal or larger in numbers than male attendees.) Speaking of imbalance, a male priest, Canon Nainby, was Rector of Holy Trinity. It was long before women in Canada were ordained in the Anglican Church. I preferred the 08:30 because that left the larger part of the day open. You could never tell what might turn up. What did turn up from time to time was participation in the Youth Group, AYPA, at the Cathedral in down-town Edmonton. No extraordinary events. But I remember that, in those days, the Cathedral was an incomplete building, mostly a temporary roof over a basement. (Much different in later years.)
116
Four Summers
An incomplete church building is a good segue to my next construction job…and quite a good analogy to my continuing vocation quest! * That next job was working at the Saskatoon Airport. Ray Adamson’s Dad worked for the company that was building the new control tower and Arrival/Departure structure. That’s the summer Ray and I claim to have built the Saskatoon Airport… We worked at a variety of locations and types of work. We tore the roof off an old building that was to be remodeled. This involved climbing up in rafters, prying off building materials – and generally having fun. Excellent physical conditioning, and more than a bit risky. Driving a “cement buggy” is an exciting enterprise! In those ancient of days, the long spouts from cement trucks were not as common as today. The company was so desperate for employees that I was commandeered to drive a cement buggy. These machines had to be compact because they needed room to access narrow spaces within the area to cemented. The design was simple: two wheels in front, one in the rear; a bucket in the front that could be tipped to pour cement; a seat or saddle on which the driver sat; foot rests; and a bar with simple controls for steering and speed; powered by a gas engine. Spindly sort of machine that required skill – and some dumb luck – to operate. Procedure: fill up the front bucket at the cement truck, drive up the precarious ramps leading to the floor area to be covered, dump the cement, and back to the cement truck to repeat the procedure. I never crashed a cement buggy even once! As the transport of cement required increasing skill and expertise, Ray and I were assigned to corridors deep within the basement area to smooth the wet cement. Our assignment was probably to prevent us doing damage to the more public part of the building… But we did a perfect finish of the basement. And it’s still in use! *
117
Four Summers
Another part of a summer I worked for a firm that kept the grounds around the Airport neat and tidy. A wonderful job! Out in the (mostly) sunshine, wandering about picking up bits of small debris, and watching the planes take off and land. I was often fairly close to the runways. This was a solo assignment. So, just after 08:00 I appeared at the equipment room, took my “picker-upper” gadget and a bag, and toddled off to whatever part of the vast grounds took my fancy. Time out for a packed lunch. And then, at the end of the day, back to the equipment room so that my pick-up tool was checked in just before – not after – 17:00. Now, after all these decades, Ruth and I, with a friend, Liz, do the same work on 216 Street for the Township of Langley – as volunteers! Then, home on the bus to Adamson’s house where I boarded… with the hope that Mrs. Adamson had baked her special cinnamon buns. Those buns were fabulous! I so obviously enjoyed them that Mrs. Adamson named them, “Genge’s Buns”. We ate well at the Adamson house. Other members of the family lived there too, and another boarder. He worked for Canada Packers. He knew what went into wieners… and was delighted to tell us. He never ate them himself. Other odds and bods turned up from time to time, and bunked in for a night or two. Their family generosity knew no bounds! Mr. Adamson played his old violin from time to time. It was enchanting. The Adamson family were members of the Anglican parish of Christ Church. Canon Bowles was the Rector. The Bate family, John and Mona, and their three children, Ruth, Peter, and Dick, lived just a couple of blocks from the Adamson house. I shall return to that house in my stories, not too long from now… * Two of the “Four Summers” were finished. 1955 and 1956 ushered in “a now for something completely different”… I became a “summer student” minister! *
118
Four Summers
So, as soon as the spring 1955 College term ended, it was off to Prince Albert to see the Bishop. Bishop Henry Martin assigned me to the Anglican Mission of Canwood, Borough Green, and Debden. His plans for me were simple: “Get going!”. That straight-forward directive was put in motion by Archdeacon Fred Payton, the Canon Missioner of the diocese. Fred Payton became my mentor in those early years. Archdeacon Payton immediately took me to Harradence Hardware, on the main street of PA. The purpose? For me to choose a bicycle… Yes, a bike. That was to be my primary and only means of conveyance on my Summer Mission! I did not own a bicycle – or a car, for that matter. And the Diocese of Saskatchewan had no money for a summer mission car. I must add, though, that I was thankful the mode of transport was not a horse, as had been the case not long before my era. I had never purchased a bicycle before. The still little boy in me was quite excited! From the minimal array of possibilities, I chose a lovely looking machine – brand new! Can’t remember the color…so, let’s say it was red. Single gear, standard bike of the day. No time to take a test-ride around the block. “Get going!”, the Bishop had said. So, with personal gear, Bible, Prayer Book, Hymn Book, minimum “super Christian gear (black cassock, white surplice), and the new bike, of course, I piled into the Archdeacon’s vehicle, and off we went to “my Summer Mission”! A grand adventure, certainly, but with just a dash of nervousness as we got closer to our destination. I had never done this sort of stuff on my own before…My billet for the summer had been arranged by the Diocese and the Mission. It was in a very small room, up an exterior stairs, in an old German Lutheran pastor’s house. A bed, table, hot-plate, and a few hooks for hanging clothes… and a window. Good enough for me. Then I met the parish Wardens, had a quick tour of the church, received the key, and got brief but adequate directions to the two outlying churches. With a brief farewell and wish for good luck, Archdeacon Payton left. *
119
Four Summers
Remember, no car, no motorbike, no horse (thank God!) … just my brand-new bicycle. This was the summer of 1955. As I write now, we are closing in on the second decade into the 21st century. We now send bicycles to dioceses in Africa, and other areas, to help the lay-readers and clergy travel their parishes… My church services rotation: every Sunday morning in Canwood; alternating Sunday afternoons in Debden and Borough Green. My instinct was, in those days, that if you visited your parishioners at their homes and work-places, church attendance stood the best chance of remaining at least an average level – and was the best way to take a shot at increasing attendance. Back then, this was effective. It is much harder to accomplish now, but I think a combination of the tech version and face-to-face contact is still effective. I quickly devised a “visiting plan” that would encourage attendance of the “every other Sunday” congregations. On a good-weather day of the week preceding the Borough Green Sunday afternoon service, I would take off on my bike and visit every parishioner on the BG list. Right after breakfast I hit the saddle and pedaled for the first parish stop of the day. I visited all morning, had lunch at the noon hour “target” family, completed my contacts in the afternoon, and pedaled home… unless my last visit invited me to supper. In which case, the ride home was a pleasant early summer evening journey. One day, coming home from the Borough Green circuit, I rode about 25 kilometres without touching the handle bars! Honest! The two central tracks on the (somewhat) graveled road were smooth and bare. And there was little car traffic and no other bike traffic on that road. * Mentioning distances in this Summer Mission story is important because almost all residences were on farms. The only “urban” dwellers were the small numbers that lived in Canwood. And that little village was around 80 kilometres northwest of Prince Albert, with no other villages in the immediate area.
120
Four Summers
The Borough Green church sat on a corner of a field, no bush or people around it, about 25 kilometres west and a bit south of Canwood. The Deben church was northwest of Canwood, about the same distance as the BG church. Its location harkened back to the same era as BG. Debden Church was on the northeast side of the road, in a bush about 200 metres off the road, and accessed by a two-track trail. Nothing to be seen around it but the beauty of the trembling aspen trees… * On a good-weather day of the week prior to the Debden Sunday afternoon service, I would follow the same visiting routine as BG. In addition to the trembling aspen trees, there was a thriving community of mice in the church. Evidently, they were musical mice, for they resided in a cozy nest in the ancient pump-organ. We used that pump-organ for the service hymns, and the mice remained. The Matriarch of that little Debden congregation was a retired Sunday School by Post vanner. I think she had fallen in love with a local farmer during her ministry driving a SSP van throughout the area, married and settled down right there. The Sunday School by Post van teams drove all over the remote farming and ranching areas of Western Canada in those early days of Western Canadian church life. They did Sunday School teaching and ran Vacation Bible Schools – and generally brought some life and hope to the very isolated families of those days. The Vanners were a dedicated and courageous group of women! * On one of those Debden-bound mornings, as I headed to my first call, I overtook and passed a farmer driving one of those Ford tractors that were popular at the time. Because of my silent bike, he did not hear me approaching. As I came alongside the tractor, I said “Hello”, gave a friendly wave, and rode on ahead. The startled and then disbelieving expression on the man’s face remains etched in my memory…. On that Debden run, occasionally I had to carry my bike through muddy off-road entrances into a farm. Fortunately, I was never bitten by a dog. *
121
Four Summers
The Borough Green church had been built by early English settlers. Consequently, it had no insulation or foundation, and the turret “tower” was not well connected to the rest of the building. The lack of proper foundation gave a wandering family of skunks a home under the chancel. For the period of time before they were cleared out, the interior of the church was a wonderful place to be if you had sinus problems. The upper part of the church tower had to be removed, otherwise the whole thing would have fallen over, leaving a rather large weather-admitting gap in the roof. A work-party of parishioners, and the Summer Student Minister – me – convened on the hottest day of the summer. The heat beat on the roof like an oven. I had worn a cardboard facsimile of an English pith helmet. The breeze kept blowing it off – so, early in the day I tossed it down on the ground. Bad decision! The job got done, but I got a severe case of sun-stroke. It took me several days to fully recover. One of the Canwood families gave me the beginning few days of care that I needed. For a long time after that I was wary of too much sun! * The church building in Canwood was newer and much better built than Borough Green and Debden. It was a simple, pleasant, and light interior. The congregation was very encouraging – as were the folks in BG and D. In my second summer (1956) I moved from the old German Lutheran pastor’s house to a one-room shack next door to the church. The “biffy” arrangements were “exterior”; another good reason to be thankful for a dry summer! Each Saturday evening, usually before supper, I biked about 5 k to the Lloyd’s farm to their running-water bathroom for a bath in prep for Sunday. I did bath/wash thoroughly on other occasions, I hasten to add, but not as luxuriously. I always hoped for a dust-free bike ride home. Not infrequently, I stayed for dinner with them. Danny Lloyd and Mrs. Lloyd, and their son, Roland, were very kind. Danny often praised my singing voice in church. Since he was Welsh, that was high praise! *
122
Four Summers
During both my Summer Mission summers, the most significant person for me was Art Cousins. After all these decades, he remains prominently in my thankful memories. His attituded to life, his interest (some say curiosity) in his community, and genuine affection for his fellow citizens, were an inspiration. He taught me a lot about feet-on-the-ground, out-and-about, up close and personal, real parish ministry. Mr. Cousins was well liked by everybody… except when he was driving his old Ford Coupe. This vehicle was rapidly approaching antique status – as was Art Cousins himself. The car was in reasonably good mechanical condition. Mr. Cousins, for his age, was also in good mechanical condition. But as a car driver… he did not aim well. There were many stories about him heading this way, that way, weaving his car from side to side, or down the middle, of town streets or country roads… It was frighteningly unpredictable to safely discern his immediate destination – let alone his ultimate goal. Perhaps it was his guardian angel, or some mysterious dumb luck, that there were no stories of major Art Cousin crashes. I became a kind of “chauffeur” for Art Cousins much to the relief of the village and surrounding area. If I was available, and Mr. Cousins wanted to go somewhere beyond “shank’s pony”, as he called “walking”, I would drive him in the old coupe. That did not happen often, but when it did, he usually wanted to show me some interesting places in the wider area. * On the second day of my arrival in Canwood, I visited the Cousin’s house. Mrs. Cousins was in very poor health. Mr. Cousins thought his wife of so many years was near death. We said some prayers, sat together, the three of us, and then I departed. Mrs. Cousins died a couple of days after my visit. Was I tense in this new pastoral experience? Yes! I was the “student minister”. It was my job to preside at the funeral. First funeral… No one there for back-up, to instruct me in my uncertainties. No one, that is, except Mr. Cousins.
123
Four Summers
Through all the stresses and strains of his bereavement, he took me under his wing, and encouraged me in subtle little ways. The Service went well. Mr. Cousins genuinely thanked me. That was how our friendship began. * Right from the first Sunday, Mr. Cousins said he wanted me to drive his car to the services at Borough Green and Debden. Of course, he came along too. We were both always invited to a parishioner’s house, after Service, for dinner. This meant that even if it was pouring rain, I could get to church on time, and dry, and usually have a fine Sunday evening dinner! Art Cousins (I never called him “Art” to his face) had a sparkle in his eye, a vitality beyond his years. His empathy and sensitivity as he observed the world around was delightful. He once told Ruth, my then fiancée, that I was the best catch in Saskatchewan… I think she may have believed him, because we now have been married for six decades. Mr. Cousins gave Ruth and me a couple of inlaid glass candy jars as a wedding gift. They were his wife’s. Before the end of my second summer mission, and last Sunday in the Canwood Mission, Mr. Cousins, knowing that Ruth and I would be setting up household on a very tight budget, offered to sell me his genuine wicker settee, wicker rocking chair, and the matching wicker chair, at a very reasonable price. The three-piece wicker set remain an important part of our home furniture to this day. And Mr. Cousins remains an important memory for us after all these years. * During my last summer in the Canwood Mission, I played ball with a Sturgeon Valley team. The high-light was that we won the Shellbrook 1st July Tournament. In those days that was a big tournament, with relatively big prize money. The tournament games were 5 inning outings…. Score big and score often! Remember? I pitched a no-hitter against the big team from Prince Albert. They came expecting to have easy pickings. They left trying to figure out what happened. A sweet memory for me. *
124
Four Summers
Another colourful story of ball playing in my summer mission days occurred in a nearby town tournament. I was pitching. I threw several pitches that I thought were obvious strikes. The umpire called them balls! After the final pitch – again, called a ball – I yelled, “Shit”! in a very loud voice. I was not pleased with the call. I was heard all over the diamond and stands. Almost everyone knew I was studying for ordained ministry in the Anglican Church. I strode off the mound towards the ump. He strode from behind the plate towards me. We had a somewhat steamed chat. No punches were thrown. The confrontation cooled down as both of us realized the silliness of the situation. He returned to the plate, I returned to the mound, and the game went on. Actually, I think my “standing in the community” went up rather than down, perhaps because it was obvious that I was more “real” than the common stereotype of clergy… Anyway, life went on. The Bishop did not fire me. After all, Henry Martin, Bishop of Saskatchewan, was once heavy-weight boxing champion of the British Merchant Marine. A little “heat” on a ball diamond was pretty tame. * Principal Ralph Dean always visited some of his students on their summer missions. I was on his list for one of my summers in Canwood Mission. Interesting time… In on a Saturday, preach on the Sunday, and off on the bus Monday morning – usually. Each of those days was interesting…
125
Four Summers
I toured the Principal around the village Saturday evening. Lots going on up and down the main street – especially around the hotel and beer parlour. Sunday church services rounds, and supper at a parishioner’s house. As I was escorting him back to his billet, I told him that next morning I was hitch-hiking to Saskatoon to visit Ruth. I invited him to come along with me, instead of taking the bus, as he had planned. He surprised me by saying “Yes”. So, off we went via the thumb early Monday morning. Interesting journey, with lots of conversation between, and during, hitched rides. The last stage was with a Raleigh’s Health Remedy travelling sales person. Dean in the front, of course, and me squeezed in the back with all the snake-oil products. Saskatoon at last! Dean went to his residence in the College. I took a city bus the rest of the way to the Bate house – 827 Ave D North – and Ruth. It was wonderful! All too short a visit, but better than no visit at all. The Summer Mission parishes were becoming more and more aware that my true love lived in Saskatoon. I never had any hassles with the Mission in taking a hitch-hike jaunt to Saskatoon. * My Four Summers were coming to an end. On the day before I left to return to Emmanuel College, the parish put on an evening dinner and farewell. They were so effusive in their warm words that it was a bit embarrassing for me. But those two “summer mission” assignments were a lot of fun. I was and thankful. I learned much from the folks … about the real church, and about myself. *
126
Laying the Groundwork
CHAPTER 10 Laying the Groundwork An important transition was under way for me as I continued to be surprised by where each “tomorrow” led me. Going to Emmanuel in the first place had been a one-day-at-a-time adventure. Returning for the second half of that first academic year, ’52-’53, after the Principal’s ultimatum, was another example. Life has been much like that for me every day since Mom and Dad joined forces to create me. Exhilarating and terrifying, all at the same time! * That Stump Speaking event I told you about earlier, took place in the College not far into 1953. I mentioned a clue. “…across a crowded room…” Now I will tell you the solution to the little riddle. Once upon a time, so long ago that you were probably not even born, Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein 2nd wrote a song called “Some Enchanted Evening”. Ezio Pinza sang it in the musical “South Pacific” … Here are some of the words. “Some enchanted evening you may see a stranger…. Across a crowded room…. And somehow you know…. Even then…. That somewhere you’ll see her again… and again…” That’s how it was for me. There she was. There I was. Strangers. Even though I could not sing the song, that girl across the crowded room was for me. She was beautiful. We did not speak to each other, and were not even introduced. I doubt she noticed me at all. The evening was full of activity and talk. She was gone before I knew it. * My enchantment did not abate. “…fly to her side…” the song urged. I could still see her – across that crowded room… When would I see her again? The answer to that question came through a serendipitous happening that was closer than I could have imagined that night of the Stump Speeches. I was assigned to Christ Church, in Saskatoon, to learn some things about ordained ministry …. process, read a lesson, etc., pick up a bit of “how to do it”. 127
Laying the Groundwork
Canon Bowles was rector of Christ Church. In the rather Protestant diocese, this parish was considered” high church” in its liturgical tradition. On my first Sunday, I arrived at Christ Church one half hour early – as Principal Dean had instructed me. Each student in my year was assigned to a parish in the city. I was lucky. The Rector greeted me, told me to put on my black cassock and white surplice, and wait just a wee way from the choir stairs. I did… wondering what would happen next … Appointed service time came, Canon Bowles reappeared, choir door opened, and the choir began descending. Christ Church was a strange building. Really just half a building. The existing half was a very large basement. Original plans had, I learned much later, exceeded funds available by about half a building. A roof was put on, and fund-raising continued. The “ping” of water dropping into several buckets distributed here and there told the story of a leaking roof on a half-finished church. The choir room was a room up a few steps off the basement floor. The parish hall was across the street. In traditional church choir processions, the women usually come first, and then the men. So it was in Christ Church. But the only one I noticed was the first of the women. She was beautiful… and she looked a lot like that girl “across the crowded room”. She was! This assignment to Christ Church must have been “heaven made”, I thought. During the service, I read one lesson. That was all. Good. As I sat in the prayer desk opposite Canon Bowles, I had a great view of the choir. She was not only beautiful; her voice was magnificent! Yes, Evensong was not bad, not bad at all. The only thing in the Announcements I caught was that the Youth Group was meeting across in the parish hall for badminton right after service. Shaking hands, complimented for my lesson reading, thank you from Canon Bowles – all done as quickly as possible because Canon Bowles had “suggested” I go over with the Youth Group. Apparently, that was to be part of my “learning experience”. Splendid idea! I had seen the beautiful choir member going out with the Youth Group. YES! *
128
Laying the Groundwork
That very evening badminton became one of my favourite games. And Youth Work was a subject for much further study. * “Station-Wagon coat” … Never heard of that? A style of the 1950s. Yes, a long time ago, but that is the era of this part of my story. So, an introduction to a specific “Station-Wagon coat” – mine. Warm is good. Cool is young. Warm has to do with temperature. Cool has to do with “lookin’ good! Man”. Most of the time young chooses cool. But every once in a while, warm and cool come together. That is good cool! In a prairie city, Saskatoon, in my case, winter at minus 40 degrees is not pleasant. To be too cool in such weather equals frozen – toes, nose, and feet, at least. Add to the minus 40 a prairie wind, and one needs to get inside sooner than later, or there won’t be any later! Many times, I walked back to campus from Christ Church in these severe conditions. 30 or more blocks, plus over a long and exposed bridge. Why was I doing this? Simply because the buses stopped running at mid-night – and I could do it. Because I was on a mission. And now, the “Station-Wagon coat” … mine. Long, wind-proof, fur-like lining, interior elasticized cuffs, double breasted, and belt to snug. The other very important element – a big collar, lined with fur-like material, that could turn up level with the top of my head. Add a scarf, and I was good to go, even in a prairie city winter. Provided, of course, one kept moving… I was enough “cool” that I did not wear a hat of any kind. You may have guessed, my “mission” was to win the heart of a gorgeous young choir member. Remember, she lived about 30 blocks and a bridge from the College… That Station-Wagon coat was good in “warm” conditions, too. *
129
Laying the Groundwork
Now back to my “learning experiences” in Youth Group work at Christ Church parish. One of those “experiences” involved a Youth Group broom ball game. Outdoor rink, no gripper spikes, no shin pads, no special gloves, no helmets, old brooms with cut-off bristles and wired with heavy #9 wire… Any old basketball, volleyball, or soccer ball… A mighty swing from Ruth missed the ball and hit my shin! I was tended gently by Ruth and assisted to the side. I mention this only because I still have the dent on my right shin. A souvenir of the commencement of my shy but determined “courtship”! With a limp that night, I did the 30 blocks and the bridge with a light heart – warmly encased by that Station-Wagon coat. And looking forward to my next Evensong and Youth Group. * As the Christ Church assignment went on, I wanted to walk Ruth home from church. There seemed to be a mutual liking for each other. I thought a trust was building. But I was uncertain if she felt similarly towards me. Back then I was just hoping. So, no walking Ruth home till after a first date… It was time to ask Ruth out for that first date. Had to risk rejection… I found her phone number… When to phone? … What to say? The only phone available to me was the one in the Common Room. First, get a turn on its frequent-use line-up. Second, try for a time none of my fellow students were in the Common Room. Third, when to call… Now was the time! I lifted the phone, dialed the number … and waited. Please, dear phone company, have Ruth answer… Ruth answered! An enchanted moment! And yes, she agreed to go with me to a university basketball game. How romantic can you get? The visiting team was the Harlem Clowns, farm team for the Globe Trotters. Our first date! 14th November, 1953… I remember it well. We travelled to and from the game via bus. Not glamorous, but inexpensively efficient. *
130
Laying the Groundwork
The enchantment was not dislodged by the fact Ruth’s Dad and his brother also turned up at the game. Strange… I had met Uncle Tom Bate just a couple of hours ago when I picked up Ruth at her house. Neither of them, I was pretty certain, were basketball fans. It was obvious, of course, that they were checking me out. Apparently, I passed muster, because as Ruth and I came down from the stands at end of game, neither were in sight. And I felt confident we would not run into them on the bus. We didn’t. We did join some friends downtown for hot-chocolate. Then Ruth and I held hands as we walked from downtown to her house, 827 Ave D North. I said Good Night and left as she went in the side door. “Holding hands”. No big deal, you might say… But that was “then” – and it was delicious! Oh, neither parent nor uncle were lurking near the door. * Actually, the basketball date was really intended as laying the groundwork for inviting Ruth to “Jimmie’s Night”, an annual College fun evening of music, dancing, eating, and visiting. (No booze.) This event was held at St. James Parish Hall, hence the name. Transportation – Saskatoon transit, of course. I had virtually no money in those days. And I learned very soon that Ruth loved walking – a characteristic that (among others) I told my parents about in my frequent letters home to the farm. And we did walk a lot over our time of deepening relationship in those Saskatoon years. Ruth said yes to my invitation. Great! But I learned then that Ruth, instead of being 18, as I had thought, was actually 16… Jimmie’s Night was a Wednesday – a school night… She actually had to get parental agreement to accept my invitation. I guess that Ruth’s and my difference in ages was of concern to her parents… which explained the basketball reconnaissance mission… All might be OK. I hoped. Perhaps, had I not been studying for the Anglican ordained ministry, Ruth’s parents would have been even more worried. At that time, for us – no worries… *
131
Laying the Groundwork
It was Saturday, 21st November, 1953, that I took Ruth to a football game in Griffith’s Stadium, U of S campus. The Saskatoon Hilltops won the Canadian Junior Football Championship! In those days the goal posts were made of wood. The tradition was to pull down the goal posts at the end of the game. We have a piece of that wood, and it’s marked 21 Nov ’53. OK, I have to admit that we got the goal post wood from a kid on the bus going home from the game… But it is authentic and does not claim to be 2000 years old! And it’s still a valued “icon” for us. * Throughout my story, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE, there are occasional dates noted. Now, and over the many years of our married life, Ruth and I mark and celebrate three dates every year. 14 November 1953 – our first date; 22 March 1957 – our formal engagement; 11 July 1959 – our marriage. Around each of those special dates are stories, and other dates, that were and are part of that “enduring enchantment”. I may… or may not… tell you some of them. OK, I will… * It was Sunday, 29 November 1953. I remember it well… After Evensong in Christ Church and Youth Group in the parish hall, I walked Ruth home. We took the longer route. It was a clear cool night. The moon was in decline, so the stars were sparkling bright. It was a perfect evening to see all the galaxies of our universe! I pointed out the various constellations. My recollection of the details was a bit sketchy… but Ruth was not knowledgeable of the heavenly patterns… or so she made me think, at any rate… The parts of my Boy Scout Starman Badge that I could remember, stood me in good stead. It was another of those “enchanted” moments as we gazed into the sky, holding hands and snuggling close together for warmth. I’m sure there were some shooting stars! We finally arrived at her door… A slight moment or two of chatting, and I leaned forward and kissed her, said Good Night, and left for the bus. Our first kiss! We don’t mark that date. We have kissed every day since. That’s our celebration. *
132
Laying the Groundwork
Music was a central focus for Ruth, not just a passing phase. She was studying singing and theory during all our “courtship” days. Music remains her life-blood, and has been nurturing for her all the way, even to the present day. Ruth taught me so much about music appreciation – not in a teaching way, but in a feeling way. I am thankful. Ruth’s singing teacher, Mrs. Morrison, lived near the Broadway Bridge. One of the many walks Ruth and I took was late afternoon from the University over to Mrs. Morrison’s for her singing lesson. I came to know Mrs. Morrison, and Mary, her live-in helper. Mary made excellent cookies and tea. While I was certainly not taking singing lessons, every so often Mrs. Morrison would invite me in for tea when Ruth and I arrived. She was a gracious, kind, and talented teacher, a mentor for Ruth. * In those early days of our growing friendship, we had a “protocol for hand-holding”. I can’t remember exactly why… But our self-inflicted “protocol” meant that when, for example, we were walking from the University towards the 25th Street Bridge on our walk to Ruth’s house (yes, 30-plus blocks and that bridge), we held hands only after we had passed St. Andrew’s College. We chuckle about that now; I don’t remember how long we observed this strange restriction. Probably not long. I suppose it falls more or less into the category of decorum … and some concept of privacy. Perhaps similar to the guys at Emmanuel asking me, “So. Did you kiss her tonight? Anything else? Come on! Share it with us…” etc. My answer always was, “Just laying the groundwork…just laying the groundwork, my friends”. Actually, I think they envied me. * Golf’s was a restaurant on 2nd Avenue in downtown Saskatoon. Ruth and I have a fond remembrance of that place. We could not afford to eat a meal there, but from time to time we stopped in for two teas and one toasted teacake. Those times were always related to how much money I had in my jeans. But every once in a while, when they could afford it, my parents sent me a 5-dollar bill.
133
Laying the Groundwork
On such occasions, I was “in the money”! A fiver does not seem much now, but back then it was big! At least for me. We were sort of regular customers. The Golf brothers were always warmly welcoming. A few years later, after I was ordained, Ruth and I went into Golf’s just for old time’s sake. I was wearing a jacket and clergy collar. One of the Golf brothers saw us right away, and said, “Ah… a change of costume, I see.” He had remembered us after all that time! Two teas and one toasted teacake – on the house! * Skating. Shooting. Exploring. A frame-work for rural adventure with beloved Ruth. She made several visits from Saskatoon to the farm where I had grown up. One of those trips was during our Christmas break. If you went out the front gate of our old farm log house, turned east, went downhill, and looked south, you would see the pond behind the trees. That was a place of winter magic and romance. The pond was surrounded on three sides with tall spruce and poplar. The south end opened onto a meandering stream that twisted and turned, gradually heading west. All this was the remains of a small stream that crossed the road just below the hill. In the summer the pond was the domain of ducks and otters. When Jack Frost took over in winter, it became an entrancing place of sparkling snow and a glistening sheet of ice. Ruth had brought her skates. In the daytime, we played hockey with my sister Wendy, and brother Gary. Ruth was an excellent skater. Many years later, I would say that when Gordy Howe, Mister Hockey, #9, married, Ruth had to settle for a bush-leaguer hockey player – me… But back to the pond. In the after-supper early night time, the four of us skated around, playing tag, racing, and we lit a campfire at the edge. Idyllic! The flickering fire… the full moon, the darkness of the woods around like a border on a magical painting… Eventually Wendy and Gary said they had enough and went up to the house.
134
Laying the Groundwork
They knew Ruth and I would be happy to be on our own for a while. Very gracious of them because they could have skated a lot longer. They both liked Ruth, and thought I was pretty lucky. Very perceptive. Ruth and I skated together by the light of the full moon, gliding over the silvery ice talking and dreaming of the future that could not arrive too soon… with an energy only love can generate. Warming by the fire to thaw our almost frozen feet, we snuggled as close as possible, and talked and … well, warmed our feet. * One Fall, a week or two before the September return to University, Ruth came again to the family farm. This time I introduced her to the art of hunting … more or less. Remember the Cooey 22 rifle that my parents had entrusted to me when I was 12? Partridges are birds not noted for their smarts. In other words, they seem to invite hunters to shoot them. I shot one. No marksman was I, but I was almost close enough to the bird to knock its head off with a stick. Ruth could not be persuaded to take a shot, but she did carry the dead bird part of the way home. My mother agreed to cook the bird’s breast – the only amount of meat on it. But a sense of providing food for the family, so to speak, did come to my mind. * Well on in our relationship, Ruth’s parents came up with her to visit my folks. This was the opportunity for both sets of parents to check out the other to see what their daughter/son might be getting into… While the parents visited, we lovers went for an exploratory walk to “the pasture” – the adventure land of my youth! I had often described this territory, but to experience it with her was very important to me. She was quite curious to see “the pasture”. We wandered many paths that afternoon. I described all the adventures I and my friends had in this childhood imaginary land. And I think her imagination saw it… The highlight of the pasture exploration that day came as we sat together on a bed of willows at the edge of some water and watched the ducks and ducklings swim
135
Laying the Groundwork
almost up to our feet. It was a quiet peaceful time of disciplined passion – which we warmly remember to this day. * Ruth had first met my parents when they came down to Saskatoon on one of their very rare trips. My sister, Wendy, was living and working in the city at that time. It was an opportunity to visit us both. And it gave me the even rarer opportunity to take Ruth out (by ourselves) in a car – my parents’. They liked her, and she liked them. Neither was a surprise to me, but happily confirming… * On one of Ruth’s visits to our farm, she went for a ride with Wendy. My sister was – and remains – a lover of horses. She had two at the time. Ruth also loved horses. But she was not an experienced rider. Off they went into the field. In the meantime, I was helping my Dad out at the New Granary. Glancing every so often into the field, I waited to see the horse riders returning. When they did come into sight, there were two horses, but only one rider. Somewhat further behind came Ruth… Thankfully, apparently not hurt. As she came closer, I could see that she had ripped her jeans all down one side, and not on the seam. It would take some violent event to do that! Explanation: When her horse turned for home at the far end of the field, it unexpectedly took off at a gallop. That was a notch or two higher in riding skills than required for the more docile trail-rides in Banff. Fortunately, Wendy had briefed Ruth before setting out how to dismount – bailout – if such an unlikely possibility arose. Ruth had the presence of mind to know that this was the moment. She did the maneuver efficiently, Wendy said, and landed on soft earth with only the ripped jeans. Ruth thought the whole event a grand adventure. I was mightily relieved. Yes. I know that is a story about Ruth. But I just wanted to tell you.
136
Laying the Groundwork
There are many other stories about Ruth’s and my early journey into the future together. She took me to concerts, I heard her sing at many venues, and we heard the great soprano, Lilly Pons, sing on the U of S campus. We danced to Mart Kenny and His Western Gentlemen in the campus gym. We danced on parking lots, through beer parlours, transit buses, holding up traffic on streets, snake-dancing our way through down-town Saskatoon during frosh week. And we took long walks, talking about things that mattered to each of us. It wasn’t only about my “vast” knowledge of the stars, either. We laughed together, were sometimes sad together, played together, wondered together, as we grew into a deepening friendship. The “enchanted evening” was maturing as it became more than a chance looking “across a crowded room”. * Words are important. Words that take on “flesh and blood”, as it were, turn ideas and concepts and theories into life and action. I had learned from the example of my parents that “my word was my bond”. When I used a word or words intentionally about things that matter, I meant what I said. I learned from Ruth that she felt the same… Ruth knew that I liked her very much. I was pretty sure she felt the same about me. On this particular night we had been out on a date, and I was seeing Ruth home to her house – 827 Avenue D North. Side door. Inside door closed. Three steps. Top of the steps, another door closed. An ideal location for saying goodnight before my 30-block, plus that bridge, walk in the blowing blizzard back to Emmanuel College. It was after midnight. The buses had stopped running. I’m taller than Ruth. She stood on the second step. I stood on the bottom landing. Perfect! With the top door closed, the entrance area could get cool if you did not have a jacket on. Ruth had taken hers off. I had my trusty station-wagon coat still on, but unbelted and unbuttoned… With Ruth snuggled close, I gently folded the coat around her. So close, so warm, so delicious… I had some words I wanted to say to Ruth. They were the most important words I could say to another person. Was this the time? … Yes. 137
Laying the Groundwork
“I love you, Ruth.” I said. Time stood still… For me those words had a permanent intentional quality to them. She knew that. If she said that of me, that would be the same for her. We knew each other pretty well. With a great deal of tenderness, Ruth replied, “Please give me some time to respond. This is not a no, but just wait a little while for me. Will you do that, please?” “She had to wait a bit to be sure of herself. I pledged myself that I would wait. A few sporadic flicking on-off lights from the parental regions were clear that it was late, and don’t you think it time to go? They were right. A warm kiss…and I was gone. I had taken the risk of saying my innermost feelings. And I still thought that, yes, that had been the moment. It gave me a kind of freedom, or release, or quietness of spirit. The 30-block and a bridge home walk was OK! What will be will be… * “Waiting” is a difficult experience. Being the kind of person that I am, I imagined what it would be like if Ruth said she could not make the same commitment. I found it impossible to guess what that would be like. This “waiting” was a strange time in my life. * Through all this time our friendship grew. We walked, we talked, we were quiet together, we enjoyed being together more and more. I was welcome at her house, and her parents and her two brothers, Peter and Dick, included me in many of their family times. And, yes, I did occasionally and gently inquire of Ruth if she was near being able to … you know … make a … commitment, I suppose. But I did not hassle her, and she appreciated that. So, I patiently waited… two or three months in fact.
138
Laying the Groundwork
And then it happened. One evening, as we were in the side-door entrance – that lovely place of three steps and closed doors – Ruth said, “I love you, Ken”. That moment we both knew this to be a “forever relationship”. This was also a very private moment. Neither Ruth nor I were into sharing all our personal relationship details with anyone else. For the time being, this wonderful relationship commitment was just ours, to savour and enjoy as we continued to walk, talk about all the things that mattered to us, and – when I was “in the money”, buy two teas and a toasted teacake at Golf’s. * Did I tell you about my signet ring? The one my parents gave me when I was a teenager? Well, I had that ring sized to fit Ruth, and gave it to her as a kind of symbol of our mutual love. It gradually became noticed by family and friends… * I’ve told you that 22 March is a special celebration date for us, which we have marked every year since 1957? Our “formal” engagement was on that date, the evening of our College Colour Night. Peter, Ruth’s next younger brother, loved cars. He had an old coupe, which he generously let to me to take Ruth to the Colour Night celebrations. Dinner, acknowledgment of various special guests, speeches, awards given, all flowed smoothly. As Senior Stick (president of our student body), I was MC of the evening. As soon as courtesy would allow, Ruth and I left and drove to a street very near St. James’ Anglican Church (Jimmie’s Night venue), and parked. The little diamond ring had been in my pocket all through the College festivities. It had been secured in my college room for several days. The plan was working out just right so far. But, how do I go about the next move…?It was dark and quiet on the street. I took the ring out of my jacket pocket. Ruth’s left hand was close. The ring was just the right size. Neither of us can now remember any words before the ring slipped on. Perhaps all the words necessary had been said in many different ways over the past few years. But each of us knew that this was forever. We went into the church – they didn’t lock their doors in those days – and said some sort of thanksgiving and pledge. Again, neither of us can remember what, if 139
Laying the Groundwork
any, words we said as we knelt together near the altar. But a new future had begun – again – for Ruth and me. * I had not asked Ruth’s Dad, John Bate, “for his daughter’s hand in marriage”. Neither Ruth nor I felt any need or that ancient custom. The custom itself was far past it “best before” cultural date in Canada. And though it was, and still is, a pretty rigid custom in some cultures, it is born from the ancient and oppressive patriarchal bias that views women as possessions of men. Next morning, 23 March, I went over to 827 Ave D North to see Ruth’s parents. I certainly wanted and hoped that Ruth’s and my decision was happily received. I spoke mostly with Ruth’s Dad. He was in the basement doing some wall painting. I really have no coherent memory of the actual conversation. I had not arrived with any set piece. All I recall is that my visit with John and Mona Bate that morning was pleasant and courteous. I suppose the four of us – parents, Ruth and me – had a cup of tea and a cookie. I knew that things were different now in my relationship with Ruth’s family. But I sensed her parents felt OK with this now more formal connection with this Anglican clergyman-to-be. And I felt great! * That was the mid-20th century. As I write this story now, it is 2018 – nearly 20 years into the 21st century. The “enchanted evening” song ends, “Once you have found her, never let her go…” I didn’t, and she didn’t. and I’m still enchanted.
140
Laying the Groundwork
Feeling and thinking … heart and mind … planning and serendipity … intuition and certainty … They are all mixed in my personality and nature. Looking back through my life, I have a fairly solid confidence that the checks and balances of my life journey have worked reasonably well. I say that each day is a new adventure – and almost always, a surprise. I’m thankful about that. I don’t think that is arrogance, but more a reality check… But real though that original “enchanted evening” was, there was a long way to go from that engagement ring to the date of our marriage 11 July 1959. The journey was fun… but often a bit complicated. The transition from that mystical moment in the crowded room to a more mature reality required some very important decisions along the way. *
141
Laying the Groundwork
142
Laying the Groundwork
143
Laying the Groundwork
144
Laying the Groundwork
145
Uniform and Wheels
CHAPTER 11 Uniform and Wheels The end of term was drawing near. My last year in my studies towards ordination was a wonderful time… but not all that wonderful academically. Apart from a dash of incomprehension, I am very easily distracted by both external and internal happenings around me. Which means: I am not a very good student. I had to improve a mark on the BA side of things, and that was done. After graduation, I was set free to put my imagination and energy (both of which I did have quite a bit!) towards the future! Let me quickly add, again, I did achieve an A in New Testament Greek. For some unexplainable reason, I could focus on NT Greek. It does help in trying to understand the New Testament in English – very useful in struggling with homilies in parish life. * But back to the very immediate future after my graduation. The next step was ordination according to the Ordinal Rites of the Anglican Book of Common Prayer, and under the hands of Bishop Henry Martin. There was a slight stutter in that next step. Bishop Martin was recovering from an illness – not fatal, but demanding a healing time-out from his Episcopal duties in the Diocese of Saskatchewan. I had a couple of months to rustle for myself. What to do? I needed a job! * I landed work with the Department of Agriculture at its Saskatoon station. That assignment to Christ Church for Sunday Evensong just kept on giving… Mrs. Crowe was a member of that parish. I needed a place to board for the time it took for Bishop Martin to get well. That’s how I came to be boarding at Mrs. Crowe’s house. Her residence was only a block or two from Ruth’s home on Avenue D North. Each day, as I was going to catch the bus for work, I waved at Ruth – she was ready to wave back from her upstairs window. The neighbors observed the regularity of this, and, I’m told, thought it was “cute” … 146
Uniform and Wheels
Ruth worked that summer, and several before that, at IHC where her Dad was Credit Manager. Ruth received her BA in 1957 with Great Distinction and was winner of the Copland Prize. The next year she did further studies that qualified her as a teacher. Ruth was a top-flight academic student. She was a gifted singer, and an excellent linguist. French was her main language, but she learned a lot of German, too, because of her singing. This post-grad time was a little bonus for us because if Bishop Martin had not taken a brief sick-leave, I would have been already ordained a deacon and assigned to some mission in the Diocese of Saskatchewan. I had fun working for the Department of Agriculture. We moved around the Department’s various fields, crop-growing experiments, etc. Outdoors all the time, working with a very weird fellow employee, and moving by truck to the work sites. My work-mate was an ex-con, happy-as-a-lark kind of guy. He was married. His favourite personal story was; “My wife is so hot that I only have to hang my jeans on the bed-post and she gets pregnant!” Apparently, they had quite a large number of children. I can’t remember the guy’s name. There were a few days of rainy weather during my short time working for the Department of Agriculture. That meant no work – no pay. Maybe the foreman was doing an act of kindness for a young student, but he asked if I could paint a sign for the Department office. Of course, I responded immediately. I could do that. I did. And so, I did not miss a pay cheque! * Bishop Martin recovered. My ordination to the Diaconate was scheduled for 9 June 1957, Pentecost Sunday. The location was St. Bridgit’s Church, Paddockwood. That is the church in which I was confirmed – along with my Mom. Before my years in Saskatoon at Emmanuel College and U of S, that was the only church I knew. That little building no longer exists. For some unknown reason, I do not find that fact at all distressing.
147
Uniform and Wheels
St. Bridgit’s was very small. The “Official Party” included Bishop Martin, Archdeacon Fred Payton, and Church Army Captain Jack Ivey. My parents Grace and Nat Genge, my siblings Wendy and Gary, Ruth, and her parents Mona and John Bate, and Ruth’s brothers Peter and Dick, were all there. Also packed in the wee church were parishioners of St. Bridgit’s, most of whom had known me all or most of my life. I had the support of so many… That was a fact that did not make a conscious impact on me at the time. But I did know that Granny England, my Mom’s mother, was thrilled that I was studying for ordination in the Anglican Church. She was proud to have a “man of the cloth” in her family. Granny England died just a few days after my ordination. I was one of the officiants at her funeral in St. Bridgit’s. I’m certain that Granny was happy. My memory of my diaconal ordination is actually pretty vague… bordering on not much at all. The memories that I do have are from photos on the steps of St. Bridgit’s following the Service. Those photos depict me in my black cassock, white surplice (gifts of the W.A.), and black preaching scarf. The Diocese of Saskatchewan was on the “low” end of the scale of “High Church – Low Church” of those days. That meant no coloured “stoles”. For a deacon in the “High Church” end of the scale, a coloured stole hung around the neck, crossed over, and attached at the side. For the “Low Church” end, the same configuration was used, except with the black preaching scarf. Silly, isn’t it? Yes. It was a little (but important to many) side-show that the Reformation fallout generated. This was part of a controversy stubbornly maintained between primary emphasis on Sacraments and primary emphasis on Preaching. It seemed logical to me, even then, that the two were complimentary partners in the Christian enterprise. I insisted on wearing a stole at my priestly ordination. Along with my cassock that Pentecost day, was a suit that my Mom and Dad had purchased for me. Which brings me back to the loving support of Ruth and our families that day as we ate together in the little log house on the farm, the place where I had been conceived and began growing up.
148
Uniform and Wheels
When the party is over, what comes next? Well, people leave, the place is cleaned up, life returns to normal… That is true – in most circumstances. Though I may have helped a bit in cleaning up after party in the old log house, the Bishop had immediate plans for me. I was under “orders” – that’s the way it is when one is “ordained”! So, off I went to hear what was planned for my work in the Diocese of Saskatchewan. * In an Anglican diocese, it is the Bishop’s job to assign rookie clergy to a parish. My assignment was to the Fort Pitt Mission. That is a very significant place in the history of the relationship between First Nations and the Canadian government. The “relationship” was (and remains) really between First Nations and Euro-settlers of Canada. I had much to learn. And I am still learning all these many decades since! Just a few kilometres west of the Mission was the Saskatchewan/Alberta border. And right around the border was Onion Lake, with Residential School – and not far into Alberta was Frog Lake, part of ground-zero leading to the so-called Riel Rebellion. * The Fort Pitt Mission is about 320 kilometres west-northwest from Prince Albert. The roads in those days were not brilliant, but passable. My residence was to be in Frenchman Butte. Two other churches, Ft. Pitt and Deer Creek, were part of the Mission. Each sat on their own in fields by the side of the road – one to the east, and one to the west. The population of Frenchman Butte was 95. The village was perched on several levels of the steep winding road down to the ferry landing on the north side of the North Saskatchewan River. The incumbent’s house was on one of the higher levels, below the school, and just a wee bit below the church. The view from anywhere in the village was magnificent! In those days the river was crossed by two ferries – one below Frenchman Butte, and one down-river below Deer Creek. *
149
Uniform and Wheels
My move into my first parish was delayed a tad… just about three months. Another stutter step? No, I had not run afoul of the Bishop, nor was he ill again. My predecessor in the Fort Pitt Mission had not yet left. The Bishop assigned me to a brief “curacy” in St. Alban’s Cathedral in Prince Albert for the interim. A “curacy” was virtually non-existent in our diocese because there was no money for more than one clergy person in any parish, except the Cathedral in an emergency… But I lost church pension funds for those three months – I discovered later. * I bought a VW Bug. That was a bit of a step up from Art Cousin’s aged coupe! I picked it up in Saskatoon because in those days the dealership “trained them in” from the factory in Ontario. Ruth’s Dad came with me to the rail yard to pick it up. It was fun to drive!! Those were early days of the VW Bug in North America. One little hint of a tug on the steering wheel and you were a lane over… Exciting! Pop Bate had a very firm grip on the hand-hold on the passenger side as we drove back to 827 Ave D N… I think he was terrified as we drove home. Admittedly, I did just a little weaving from lane to lane – just to get familiar with steering, of course, and quite safely. * I now had my “Uniform and Wheels”! So, after saying a cuddling farewell to Ruth, and a warm goodbye to her parents and brothers, off to Prince Albert I drove. The highway between Saskatoon and Prince Albert was a good deal worse than now, but I had a grand time in my brand-new car! Standard gear-shift, gas tank in the front, engine in the rear, a heater system so inadequate that one had to wear your cold weather clothes in the winter rather than just carry them for emergencies. But I learned that later. The trip to PA was in the summer. No problem. I did not meet another Bug on that drive north to Prince Albert. I later learned that VW Bug owners waved whenever they met on the road.
150
Uniform and Wheels
In those days, the Anglican Church of Canada had a system of car loans for “Missionary Diocese Clergy”. “Missionary” Dioceses were those that had very little money. The Diocese of Saskatchewan was one of them. And that meant that I could borrow the entire cost of the car, pay it back over the life of the vehicle, and reapply for the same deal when the first car ran into the ground. The country roads at that time punished vehicles severely! In our early years Ruth and I were saved financially by this deal. And the durability of the VW Bug was remarkable. *
In Prince Albert I boarded with Canon Roy Taylor and his family. He was the “Rector” of the St. Alban’s Cathedral – but not the “Dean”, as would have been the case normally. Bishop Martin kept that title for himself. I discovered in later years that whenever that situation manifested itself in a diocese, the problem was the relationship between the rector of the cathedral and the bishop of the diocese. Relationships in the Christian fold are not always happy-clappy, loving and kind… On the few occasions during my brief “curacy” at St. Alban’s when Canon Taylor, Bishop Henry Martin, and I were in the vesting area prior to the Liturgy, there did seem to be a degree of tension in the air. “Green” though I was in matters of this kind, I did have the common sense to ignore the behaviours… * The Taylor family were most gracious and welcoming to me. They treated me as family, as did their son who was living at home. He was an accomplished artist, and I think, an architect. Their two Siamese cats were neither friendly nor unfriendly; they simply were out of sight or scrambling up curtains like wild animals. Canon Taylor gave me a lot of good advice and opportunities to learn the trade. However, for an alarming length of time he and his family were away on vacation… which meant that I was “in charge” … more or less. Fortunately, it was summer time, and the Cathedral congregation tended to thin out considerably in summer months. *
151
Uniform and Wheels
Since I was a deacon, and so could not preside at the Eucharist, Archdeacon Payton was the celebrant of record, and usually preached. But I did have opportunities occasionally to give the homily, and lead Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer. Those were the days before the every-Sunday Eucharist became the norm – at least in some parishes. Leading the Morning and Evening Prayer was a harrowing experience – but necessary… In spite of the bit of training in this I had at College, I still felt like I was “in the deep end learning to swim”! I can’t remember who chose the hymns. But the congregation was very generous in their happy endurance of my singing…. and preaching! * St. Alban’s had two fine organists. Jack Hicks was the principal organist. Jack was not only an accomplished musician, but also the Poet Lauriate for the province of Saskatchewan. Marjorie and Jack were gracious hosts. He assisted me much in the music of the Liturgy. He had a very supportive tolerance of my singing struggles. I enjoyed reading many of Jack Hick’s poems. George Dobson, the second organist, was the owner of a moving firm in PA. His company was the one that moved all our worldly possessions to Yellowknife in 1962. That’s several years later, and I will tell you about that wild adventure later. During my “curacy” George, too, helped me with the music of the Liturgy. I visited George and Helen in their home. Parish visiting was still in vogue in those days. I visited many of the parishioners in their homes. Not as many people commuted significant distances to work, so family members were more frequently around home during afternoons and evenings. And I visited the two large hospitals in town. There were no baptisms, as far as I can recall, during my short time at the Cathedral. But I do vividly recall my first two weddings during my sojourn. Both were unique… Each was a learning experience, especially for a rooky like me. These are their stories – from my point of view… I suppose they don’t remember… I hope they are still together. *
152
Uniform and Wheels
The first of the two weddings was relatively straight forward. At that time in Saskatchewan couples had to have a blood test as well as a license before they came to a church for the ceremony that would record their marriage in the provincial records. All that was done. I have no recollection about any official church demand that they take a pre-marriage course. The couple and their attendants turned up on time. Our organist was there at the console playing the prelude requests. The groom’s attendants were in place in front of me at the chancel steps. The bride’s entrance music began. Her attendants and ring and flower bearers followed, and then the gorgeously gowned bride and her father came forward. The bride took her place, did a hand-off of her bouquet, and I began the traditional words. At the appropriate time, the principles and witnesses signed the register, the final blessing was given, and the wedding party proceeded out to the glorious departure music. All had gone rather well, I thought, as I wiped my brow as the congregation followed them out. Except for one little detail. The custom is that the newly married couple exit first, followed by the attendants who had led the bride in… I sent the attendants out first, followed by the newly married couple… However, nobody seemed to notice, nothing was said, confetti was thrown, reception maintained a decent decorum, and off the couple went, hopefully to a happy and life-long marriage. As it happens, Ruth was outside the church across the street sitting in the VW, waiting for me to finish and join her. She noticed the bride’s maids coming out of the Cathedral first… She had sung at far more weddings than I had officiated at and could see the exit of the wedding party was… unusual. Oh well, another learning experience. Without blaming anyone, that was one of those details that Emmanuel College had missed in my liturgical training… Perhaps I had just missed that class… or failed to take good notes… *
153
Uniform and Wheels
The second wedding was unusual from the get-go. Two sisters were marrying two brothers. The four of them turned up at the Cathedral to inquire about getting married in St. Alban’s. Canon Taylor was still on holiday. We had a happy interview. I got the necessary details about who each was, etc. Though it took me a bit of time to get straight which sister was marrying which brother… They were not identical twins, but the sisters looked a lot alike, and the brothers were very similar to each other… We came to the part about license and blood test. Yes, they were clear, they said, that the paper work was absolutely necessary. And that included the blood test. We had several more visits over the next while. Each time I inquired about their blood tests. No problem, they assured me. We will be doing that shortly. By our last meeting three of the four had got the blood test. One of the sisters had not. With a good deal of “pastoral” emphasis, I said, again, that if she did not have that paper to me before the wedding, no marriage! Believe it or not, at the rehearsal she still had not done the test… But she assured me, she would have it with her tomorrow morning before the wedding. Morning of the wedding, everybody in their right places, etc. – But still no medical paper… Could they be married anyway?? Please…? NO! The organist was at the console, the brides would normally have been at the Cathedral doors with their attendants, the grooms and their attendants would have been with me, ready to take our places at the chancel steps… But, the four principles were still with me in the office. You have three options, I told them. First: I announce to the congregation that due to some technical/legal difficulties, the wedding is postponed. Second option: We hold things up till you go, get the test, and return with the paper. You realize that getting a blood test could take quite a while, even if you could get to a clinic or doctor’s office today. Highly unlikely.
154
Uniform and Wheels
Third option: You two with the required paper work get married now. And you, if you are lucky enough to get the blood work and get back here later this afternoon – with the paper – I will marry the two of you. No, I said, I can’t make that choice for you. It’s your call. Your family and friends are getting restless. The organist has another gig not long from now. If you don’t make your decision right now, option one will happen. In spite of the fragile time-frame involved, they chose option three… The sister who had not had the blood test, and her fiancé, took off to find a clinic. The wedding for the couple legally able to be married proceeded – a bit late, but after I made a brief announcement as to the delay, things got rolling. Organ played. Groom and best man in place at the chancel steps. Bride and father and attendants up the aisle and into place. Ceremony complete. Documents signed. Photos taken. Ready to process out into married bliss! Almost… As the newly married couple proceeded down the aisle, the other sister and her fiancé appeared! Somehow, they had obtained the medical document. They were eligible to get married! How wonderful. Almost… Our organist had to leave for his next gig and did. The couple desperately wanted organ music. So … I invited the congregation to be seated, relax and be happy. Two things had to occur before the second marriage. I would do my best to get another organist – difficult any time, and particularly that late in the afternoon. Secondly, there were a few registration details I had to get on paper with the couple. Eventually a duplicate of the first ceremony began. New couple, new organist, same congregation in exactly the same seating configuration – with one addition… The already-married couple sat front and centre, garbed, of course, in gorgeous gown and tailored suit. The potential for sheer slap-stick comedy was very close… Only my power of psychic control (severe demeanor) kept the whole event from dissolving into hilarious side-splitting howls of laughter. (That would have been fun, though.) We got through. They all left. I tidied up and went home utterly exhausted.
155
Uniform and Wheels
Emmanuel College had definitely not prepared me for that day’s “liturgical”, “pastoral”, “legal” adventure! But I suppose that is understandable. At none of the many weddings where I was the celebrant over the following decades, has any hitch even come remotely close to that merry-go-round! (Or should I say “marry” goround?) Actually, thinking about it now, the raw deacon handled things pretty well… * A few pages back, I mentioned briefly just a little bit about clergy liturgical wear. Clergy costumes have varied over the centuries. In the “old days” Anglo-Catholic Anglican clergy wore black suits and classic clergy collar, as did the Roman Catholic clergy. And the more Protestant Anglican clergy wore the same. That was the garb of our “work clothes” of the street and office. On Sundays and other Holy Days, the liturgical costume for the Protestant (“low church”) Anglican clergy was black cassock, white surplice, preaching scarf, and, often, an academic hood marking some degree or other. For the Anglo-Catholic (“high church”) Anglican clergy, Eucharistic vestments tended to be elaborate and colourful. Having been raised in the Diocese of Saskatchewan, I was of the “Protestant” variety. My liturgical costume, as mentioned earlier, was black cassock, white surplice, and black scarf. But no academic hood. Though I had one, I never wore it. Two reasons: first, it always struck me as somewhat show-offish; second, I never could get the hang of placing it on my back in such a way that the strap around my neck did not choke me. It was the Anglican Women’s Auxiliary (WA) of the Diocese of Saskatchewan who gave me my cassock and surplice. Much handier than more elaborate vestments. Over the years I gradually grew into more colourful garb – white cassock-alb and stoles of the colours of the liturgical season. In parish work, I wore the chasubles owned by the parish. I never did have world-famous, or even diocesan-famous or parish-famous fabric artists “do” any such outfits for me. Some fabric artists have created brilliant church garments and hangings – profound works of art.
156
Uniform and Wheels
My plain black preaching scarf was made and given to me by the wife of a fellow Emmanuel graduate, Stan Watson. Unfortunately, I can’t remember her name. Her husband, Stan, drowned when he and Mrs. Watson were working in the Diocese of Yukon. * Weddings were not the only things I did at the Cathedral. I’ve mentioned hospital visiting, and parish family visiting. I also visited new-comers to the Cathedral parish. And I was constantly trying to figure out how to create intelligent, exciting, insightful, powerful sermons… Never seemed to work to my satisfaction – and I never took a poll of the congregation. Though, I did have a good speaking voice, so the folks could at least hear what I was saying, even if it was incomprehensible some or most of the time. That’s not a long or extraordinary list, but it seemed to me a 24-7 schedule. Eventually Canon Taylor did return from vacation… but the work did not seem to abate. Ruth came up to Prince Albert once or twice, and I dashed down to Saskatoon in the VW Bug once or twice. We were trying to save money by not spending much on gas! One of her visits coincided with that wedding I sent out of the Cathedral the wrong order! * I want to say a long-time-distant thank you to the Cathedral Care-Taker who was there in 1957. His name eludes me after all the years, but his dedication to his work, and gracious friendliness and supportive comments, bolstered my lagging confidence many times. I doubt he was aware of doing or saying anything beyond his vocation as a human being. He was a pretty good example to a young deacon struggling on his quest to discover his own vocation. * My short stay at St. Alban’s Cathedral came to an end. My predecessor at the Fort Pitt Mission had left. It was time to go up-river to Frenchman Butte!!
157
A Wing and a Prayer
CHAPTER 12 A Wing and a Prayer I drove in the VW Bug. My Dad followed in the old Dodge farm truck, with my newly purchased second-hand fridge and other basics in the back. We were off to see the wonderful people of Frenchman Butte, Fort Pitt, and Deer Creek. Exciting! “The Yellow Brick Road”: From the old farm house (I don’t think my Mom cried at this departure. Rather she was proud that I was off to do what I really wanted.) West to Northside; south on #2 to Prince Albert; west on #3, passing through Shellbrook, Mont Nebo; Shell Lake, Mildred, Spiritwood, Bellbutte, Glaslyn; Fairholme; Turtleford; Spruce Lake; Paradise Hill, - and into beautiful Frenchman Butte! Dad and I off-loaded the truck and had a meal with Mr. and Mrs. Frank Simpson. Mrs. Simpson was the organist for the Frenchman Butte church. Frank was one of the wardens, and all-round keeper of good order in Frenchman Butte church. The Simpson’s house was on the main street, and their place was the Post Office. Back in those days the village Post Office was a vital link with the outside world. Phones were here and there, certainly, but party-lines and poor connections did not lend to consistency… nor privacy. But who needs either? Face-to-face is always better – even today in the age of instant… and constant… communication. The Butte’s population of 95, you will remember, lived on a beautiful side hill. Various buildings, from the school on the top, to Buchta’s store below, framed the winding road to the ferry crossing. The ‘main street’ ran east and west. At the corner with Clark’s grocery on one side and Bill Chapman’s garage on the other, one had the choice of going straight ahead to John and Maude Pepper’s house, or right to the road that led to Fort Pitt and the Sask/AB border, or left starting down the hill. The left turn took one past the curling rink, the train station, Buchta’s, to the North Saskatchewan River. There were a few other residences scattered on the main-street level a bit to the east. The Roman Catholic church was serviced occasionally by a travelling priest. I seem to recall a Pentecostal pastor… I never met the priest and did not have much contact with the Pentecostal minister.
158
A Wing and a Prayer
The church building was several metres up from my house. In the winter I had to go early on Sunday mornings to light the oil-fired floor furnace… a tricky job, but absolutely necessary. That was not one of Mr. Simpson’s jobs as warden… Kathy and Graham Wilson moved in to the teacher’s house not long after I had arrived. They were teachers fresh from England. Kathy and Graham became durable friends over the years. Kathy, now widowed, and Ruth and I, keep in contact to the present. Archie Symes and his family farmed near the Butte. He was our treasurer for the Frenchman Butte part of the parish. There were other “faithful” members of the Frenchman Butte congregation… but I do not remember how many attended church. * A.D. Clark’s grocery store was the place where I bought my food supplies. Bill Chapman, machine sales and garage owner, was also a hunter. In the Fall he hunted antelope in southern Saskatchewan. Rarely, but sometimes, he gave me a small roast. Bill’s brother, Frank, and I bought a rototiller together. With it I revived a large garden area just below the clergy house. * The clergy house was sparse… but the roof did not leak, and there was a grand view of the North Saskatchewan River valley. Two bedrooms, living room, kitchen, small room just inside the back door, “honey bucket” toilet in the unfinished basement, wood-burning furnace (eventually replaced with propane) – oh, and an outdoor biffy for good weather reading. I tiled the floor of the living room with tiles and glue provided by the parish. Fortunately, my measurements and glue application worked out very well. I used the second bedroom as a study. There was a desk and some shelving. The shelves were primarily storage boxes my Dad had made for transporting books, etc. I set them on their sides on top of blocks. Not fancy, but effective. And I did not have a vast library… *
159
A Wing and a Prayer
I now return to the little room just inside the back door. It’s time for a “How to…” story. I much prefer a shower to a bath. So… How to Build a Shower 1. Required parts and tools: Parts: one circular galvanized tub, large enough to comfortably stand in; one shower curtain a few centimetres wider than the circumference of the tub; #9 wire, a few centimetres longer than the circumference of the tub; four lengths of #9 wire, each a metre long; four screw-in hooks; six shower curtain rings; lumber sufficient to construct a very sturdy shelf firmly attached to the walls at a corner; a clean 5 gallon pail (or equivalent litres); one electric dip-stick; one on-off spigot with nuts and washers to hold the spigot in place. Tools: pliers; hammer; saw; screwdriver; nails of sufficient length to firmly attach the above triangular shelf to the wall; adjustable wrench; 3 metre extension cord. 2. Build triangular (sturdy) shelf and attach to the corner about 80 centimetres above the floor. 3. Fashion the #9 wire in a circumference same as the tub. 4. Using the 4 lengths of #9 wire, attach them to the ceiling with the screws, just high enough that the top of the shower curtain will circle just under the front edge of the shelf to allow the spigot to extend inside the circular #9 wire. 5. Attach the 4 hanging #9 wires to the circular #9 wire. 6. Attach the shower curtain rings to the shower curtain and hang the curtain on the #9 wire circle. Place the bottom of the shower curtain in the tub. 7. Fill the 5-gallon pail with water…or as much water as you can lift…and place the pail up on the (sturdy!) corner shelf, with the spigot able to release water inside the shower curtain. 8. Connect the dip-stick to electricity outlet and clip the electric dip-stick on the inside edge of the 5-gallon water-filled bucket and turn it on.! Prepare yourself for the shower of your life! Congratulations on assembling this unique appliance. Very few have been electrocuted or scalded using this shower.
160
A Wing and a Prayer
I used that shower for the rest of my time in the Fort Pitt Mission. It was really much better than biking to the Lloyd’s during the Canwood-Borough Green-Debden summer mission! Danny and Mrs. Lloyd were great people, but by the time I peddled back to the little shack by the Canwood church, it was sometimes hard for me to accept the fact that I had actually bathed… * Soon after my arrival in Frenchman Butte Ruth’s parents sent me her piano. Playing that was a great re-creational activity for me, particularly before Ruth joined me after our marriage. * During my time as deacon, Archdeacon Payton visited occasionally to celebrate Eucharist in the parish. Mrs. Simpson would bake a pie for me and instruct me in roasting a beef in the rectory oven for the meal I was “preparing” for the Archdeacon’s visit. He always brought his own butter because I always used the much cheaper uncoloured margarine… But the feast was … mouth-watering … more or less. Thanks to Mrs. Simpson the roast was cooked just right, and the pie was delicious! * The Deer Creek church was small and made of field stone. A unique structure on the plains and bush country of the prairies. It was set back from the road to the Deer Creek ferry over the North Saskatchewan River. There were a few deciduous trees nearby, but no other buildings in sight. A bell called the congregation in from visiting and chatting – always at the last minute. Ted Rothery was the organist. While I was in the miniscule vestry putting on my black cassock, white surplice, and black preaching scarf, Ted would always tell me a hilarious joke just before we were to start the service. But for me laughter is always better than piety… So, it was OK. On we went. *
161
A Wing and a Prayer
In the winter the Deer Creek congregation left the non-heated church and gathered in parishioners’ homes for services. Those winter services were always folksy, warm, and rambly… It was through some parish families in Deer Creek congregation that I became sort of a “chaplain” to the 4H Calf Club. I learned a lot about many things with the Deer Creek crowd – including much about judging cattle! Because of my “position” as parish incumbent, Bill, my warden, insisted on calling me Mr. Genge, and not Ken, as I preferred. It did not change our parish friendship, but was just his way of honouring the clergy…. I guess. * The Fort Pitt church was the largest of the three. The building sat on a fairly large plot of land west of Frenchman Butte. The church property included a cemetery. Mr. Taylor lived in a little house next door to the church. He was custodian by default. Fort Pitt church was very dear to him. I visited him often. Mr. Taylor baked cake using chicken fat … It did not sit well in my stomach. But the tea was good. The church had been constructed by Englishmen, so it was not insulated. When we had a funeral in the winter, an old barrel heater could hardly get the interior temperature above freezing! The funeral services were held with speedy solemnity. For committal outside, I insisted the pall bearers and congregation keep their toques on. Not a hard sell. The Mapletoft and Steele families, and others whose names I forget – but whom I can picture in my mind – were faithful people. Massive Harvest Suppers were a Fall feature in the Fort Pitt Community Hall. (The hall was properly insulated and heated.) The harvester crews came in in their dusty work clothes, had supper and often returned to combining! The women of the community prepared turkey, veggies, cranberry sauce, pies, tea, coffee – the works! It was an unbelievable commitment of goods and work! And the cost to the guest was affordably minimal. *
162
A Wing and a Prayer
The regular Sunday services could not be held in the church building during the winter. So, we went to Amirault’s house. That was an interesting, and sometimes challenging drive across fields and pastures along a trail to their house. Ruth accompanied me during her year teaching in St. Walburg, and, of course, after we returned from our honey-moon. On those forays, Mr. Taylor, the little pump organ, Prayer Books, and Hymn Books, were in the back seat of the VW Bug. Ruth and I in the front. Never got stuck once! The services were even more cozy and rambly than the winter services with the Deer Creek congregation. Dining room table altar … or the top of a Singer Sewing machine, kettle boiling just a wee way over on the kitchen stove, friendly dog’s tail banging against the table, and all present comfortable and waiting for the huge “lunch” to follow. Wonderful! * I visited everybody in the Ft. Pitt Mission with the same intensity as I did in the Canwood/Boroughgreen/Debden summer mission. And not only those “on parish rolls”. We all knew one another quite well, within the bounds of individual and community cultural protocol. Duck hunting, another custom… A.D. Clark lent me a long-barreled shot-gun that resembled an anti-aircraft gun. Hide under a grain-swath, wait for the birds to come in to eat. As they came in, up went the anti-aircraft gun… Boom! Down came a duck! I was congratulated, but I felt terrible. It was the same duck Ruth found in the back of the fridge when we came home from our honey-moon… So, I had to confess to the murder of a defenseless bird – and did not even have the courage to get rid of the carcass. When Ruth finished her last year at the U of S, she got a teaching position at St. Walburg High School. She boarded with a hospitable and kind woman – Mrs. Livingston. St. Walburg was a small and thriving town not many kilometres north east of Frenchman Butte.
163
A Wing and a Prayer
Each Saturday I drove over to St. Walburg, and brought Ruth back to Frenchman Butte. She stayed with Maude and John Pepper. Ruth was popular with the three congregations. They were all happy to know of our coming marriage. The end of Ruth’s teaching year in St. Walburg blended well with our planned marriage. Of course, that story is still to come… * I played hockey with the Fort Pitt Stampeders. This was tournament hockey. We played in outdoor rinks around the country-side – in temperatures as cold as -30 degrees! We played in Frenchman Butte, and as far west as Marwayne, AB., and actually won a tournament in the “big town” covered arena in Lloydminster, on the border of Saskatchewan and Alberta. My practices with the team assured them that I could give as good a hit as they were testing me with… From then on, I was totally accepted as a member of the team. There were enough little kids in the general area that two or three teams could be mustered. I coached one of them. My most memorable moment as a coach occurred when one of my wee team members staggered over to the bench and asked, “Mr. Genge. Which way are we going?” “That way.”, I said, and pointed. Sufficient information. He teetered off into the fray once more. For him the ice surface was huge. This little kid was one of the sons of the Hougham family, ranchers and dairy farmers in the community. His Dad was an amputee – one leg gone at the hip, and yet a skilled horseman and farmer. This story of a little kid trying to figure out which way to go, is a beautiful parable – the same genre as the New Testament stories. * Curling was big in Frenchman Butte. The rink was a two-sheet natural ice rink. The rocks were more or less matched. A good space with coffee and tables, behind glass, was at one end. As you curlers know, no curling shots are ever missed from the observation area, and “what should have been done” is debated endlessly. I think all sports are like that. It’s part of the fun.
164
A Wing and a Prayer
Natural ice is very hard to maintain. Calling the ice for shots was not easy. Sometimes the skip had to call negative ice. There were all kinds of delivery styles – from belly-flop two-handed launches of the curling stone to reasonably good slides. Folks from all three congregation areas curled in Frenchman Butte. I curled – as I had from high school days. As far as hopes for national recognition in curling was concerned, the term “Briar” remained a brand of a pipe. But like everywhere, sports facilities are “cathedrals”, or at least, “chapels” in communities. I was at home in the sports community. Very useful in my profession. And enjoyable! * Baseball was also popular in the Ft. Pitt area. I played, but I can’t remember any tournament or regular league play, only practices on “cow pasture” diamonds. I played on many like it. Frank Mapletoft was the organizer and manager of the team, as I recall. The Mapletoft and Steele families were big in sports as well as agriculture and church life. * Harvest time in ranching and farming communities was the “make it or break it” time of year. Hay-making, calving, grain harvesting … Life depended on getting it all done before winter. During my time in the Fort Pitt Mission I did some field pitching (loading grain stooks on hayracks for threshing), lifting hay bales for a guy that farmed on his own, helped “pull” a calf from its mother giving birth, and became that “chaplain” to a 4-H Calf Club I mentioned earlier. Real “flesh on the Gospel” stuff. * There were several young people in the community attending high school. During my short time in the Ft. Pitt Mission I led a kind of ad-hoc youth group. Our main activities were wide games in the rough gravel pit area north of the high school, and some hornet nest hunts.
165
A Wing and a Prayer
I suppose this was not much related to Christian Education… But it was fun for the kids – and for me. The hornet nest hunts were on the Schreiber farm. Mrs. Schreiber cooked chicken in a frying pan full of rich cream. Delicious! Mr. and Mrs. Schreiber invited me for supper on several occasions. It would have been discourteous to refuse. * “Christian Education” … Ah, yes. I was never very good at passing on tightly-knit doctrine. But I did enjoy the stories of the Bible. In those days I was not so aware of the difference between “faith facts”, weird as they often were, and metaphors and symbols. Now, as I write HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE, and for many years past, I live and have lived in metaphors and symbols in my quest to follow Jesus. Sometimes intimidating, sometimes joyful, sometimes clear, sometimes “through a glass darkly”. * A semblance of “Christian Education” did occur under the guise of visiting Ft. Pitt elementary school once a week. The teacher in the one-room school, Mrs. Buckam, invited me. I had about an hour at the end of a school day. Into the VW Bug went the little fold-up pump organ, some hymn books, and off to Ft. Pitt school! I told Bible stories, played the organ for an attempt at singing some hymns, and generally had fun with the kids. When we were finished, I put the little organ in the small space behind the back seat and piled all the kids that I could get in the VW Bug that were going my way, and dropped each student off at their respective gate. This “Guinness Book of Records attempt” was more popular, I think, than the hour of “Christian Education”. The little school house sat on the side of the road all by itself between Frenchman Butte and Ft. Pitt church. One year later the Ft. Pitt school closed for the last time. That’s the way it was with all those little rural outposts of education of that era. *
166
A Wing and a Prayer
My quiet and constant (sometimes desperate) prayer during all the parish and community activity was that somehow or other the Spirit of God would seep into the hearts and minds of the folks in the Fort Pitt Mission. Of course, it was there already. Many were no doubt praying the same thing for me! A kind of mutual discovery… * Ruth’s 1958-59 teaching year was coming to an end. Preparations for our wedding ratcheted up considerably! Great!! But a little glitch appeared… In Saskatchewan people getting married had to have a doctor’s paper clearing one of sexually transmitted disease… Remember the double-wedding in St. Alban’s Cathedral? I had forgotten that I, too, needed that paper! Very embarrassing! Problem solved – frantically – by my quick trip to Ruth’s family doctor in Saskatoon. A sigh of relief. * Though I was leaving the Fort Pitt Mission for my wedding and honey-moon, I would be back – with Ruth. But before I left, and on one of those weekends she stayed with Maude and John Pepper while she was teaching in St. Walburg, we tried to set up our 7x7 Pop Tent on Pepper’s front lawn. The tent would be our portable travelling “house” on our honey-moon. With the Peppers and other interested neighbors alternating between giving advice and roaring with laughter, Ruth and I finally put all the pieces together. John Pepper called our tent “honeymoon hut”! * And so, it was farewell to Frenchman Butte, Deer Creek, and Fort Pitt. If we survived our honey-moon, we would be back. *
167
From this day Forward
CHAPTER 13 From this day Forward Page 154 This is the story of Ruth’s and my Wedding. It was celebrated in Christ Church Parish in Saskatoon. This was Ruth’s home parish, and the parish to which I was sent by the College as a seminary student in 1953 and 1954. A serendipitous act of God… Canon Bowles, the rector, was kind and encouraging. But quite honestly, I can’t make a list of the things I learned about doing liturgies. There is no doubt, however, I remember vividly the girl across the crowded room, and later, seeing her coming down the choir steps at Christ Church. 11 July 1959, 11:00: “This is the day… “said the Psalmist, “that the Lord has made”, and I certainly still agree, “Let us be glad and rejoice in it!” YES! It had been six years since we had our first date. Ruth and I had looked to this day for a long time. * When I arrived in Saskatoon a day or two before the wedding, I stayed with Jack and Joyce Fife. Ruth and I had had a visit or two with Canon Bowles as “preparation” for our day. Pre-marriage preparation was the intention… Ruth and I bought a camera the day before our wedding. That evening Ruth’s folks hosted a party following the rehearsal at the church. She wore a blue dress, very huggable, that still resides in her “hope chest” – hope fulfilled, of course. Then each of us to our respective beds for the night… the old tradition that the groom not see the bride before she comes up the aisle. * 11:00 – the target time for next day! Our chief attendants had been chosen. My sister, Wendy, and Fay Spencer, long time friend, for Ruth; Al Swinton for me. I had wanted my brother Gary to be my best man, but he was in Ontario with the Cadet Officer Training Plan. I picked Al up at the train station early on wedding day. He had a rather severe nose bleed not long before the wedding…Stopped in time! (No blood during the wedding ceremony and Eucharist!) We were ready! 168
From this day Forward
* At Jack and Joyce Fife’s house Al and I donned our suits – and no problem for either of us about ties, we both wore our clergy collars. My suit was the same one my folks had bought me for my diaconal ordination. Flower in the lapel; clockwatching; and – finally – Al and I headed for Christ Church in my VW Bug. Well, actually, we parked the car a few blocks from the church at a place only Al and I knew… a precaution against excessive confetti, signs on the car, and silly stuff hanging on the back bumper… We walked by a non-direct route to the church. Just the right timing to go into the side chapel in the Church to await the signal to take our place with Canon Bowles at the chancel steps. As I waited, the impact of what I was about to do struck me in a new “last minute” way… This was not a “date” that Ruth and I were about this day. Much more… Yes, it was exactly what we had hoped and planned for… It was not a doubt… Nor an urge to flee… And then I knew, again, that all was well, and all would be well. 11:00: The signal was given! Al and I took our places. And I looked down the aisle to the front doors. * Up the aisle, holding her Dad’s arm, came the most beautiful woman in the whole world! Ruth was radiant! I do believe she was truly happy…as I was. “Praise My Soul the King of Heaven”. The organ played. The congregation sang! * All in place. Ruth’s Dad had returned to sit with her Mom. My folks sat just across the aisle. The church was full of family and guests, plus many Christ Church parishioners who were there because this was Ruth’s home parish. They loved Ruth, this young chorister, and they were in full support of her and her family. Many of them knew me, too, because of that original assignment of the young theolog several years before. (Yes, that “serendipitous act of God”.) *
169
From this day Forward
Canon Herbert Bowles was chief celebrant. The promises, blessings, signing of registers, and Communion proceeded as normal. Two notes: As Ruth and I knelt at the altar for blessings and communion, I responded a couple of times in a voice a bit too loud for Ruth’s liking … habit, I suppose … but I was not the celebrant! So, Ruth gave me a gentle elbow in the ribs. I got the message… She has given me many gentle messages and hints over the years since. The second note is to assure you that Canon Bowles did not send the attendants out before the newly married … as I had done in the Cathedral in Prince Albert. Ruth and I led the recession down the aisle to a vigorous Wedding March, and out. Photos outside on the sunny steps; bit of visiting conversation, and then down stairs for the wedding meal. (Oh, by the way, the mention of “down stairs” reminds me to assure you that the Christ Church originally planned had been completed since my theolog student days!) * The traditional reception line formed – parents, attendants, Ruth and me. As one of our guests, Hugh Stiff, came through, he greeted my sister, “Hello. I’m Stiff.” Wendy’s response: “Oh, I am sorry. That is unfortunate.” Hugh Stiff was rather inclined to value his own importance quite highly. Wendy’s response was of genuine concern, for she did not know him. For me, it was an hilarious moment. * Finally, all were seated – after a staged cutting of the cake photo. In the usual manner after the meal, Ruth and I served pieces of the cake to the assembled. We forgot to have a piece ourselves… Ruth’s Mom saved the top layer for Mark’s baptism. It all worked out. Toasts were given and responded to, no doubt, but I don’t remember any of that. End of meal, Ruth off to change into going-away clothes, and I was at the phone to call a cab. No cell phones in those days. (Remember, the VW Bug was secreted a few blocks away.) Then a strange event occurred… Stanley Steer, one of the guests, and bishop of Saskatoon, quietly came over to where I was phoning…
170
From this day Forward
In a confidential mode, the bishop of Saskatoon offered me a job in his Diocese… My own bishop, Henry Martin, was not there, though he and Mrs. Martin were invited. There was some health or family matter for them. Stanley Steer knew my connection with the Diocese of Saskatchewan. His offer was at best unusual. So, I replied as politely as possible, “Thank you, but I can’t consider that invitation as I am already committed to the Diocese of Saskatchewan.” He returned, somewhat sheepishly I hoped, to his chair and sat down. And I phoned the taxi. (I really think a good part of Stanley Steer’s motivation for this unorthodox team raiding was because he wanted Ruth to stay in the Diocese. She was an exceptionally fine student who had done some Sunday School work for the diocese. And if Ruth had chosen me, the odds were at least fairly good that I was worth taking a risk on.) * The taxi arrived. We had received many wedding gifts that would be dealt with upon our return from our honey-moon… except one – a camping cool-box. We put that in the trunk of the cab. Oh, I did tell you, I think, that our honey-moon was to be a camping trip… However, we forgot to take the cool-box out of the cab and put it in our VW Bug. So, no cool-box for our trip. But Ruth’s parents were able to use it for picnics while we were away. The honest cab driver did return the cool-box to the church – even though his car was full of confetti. *
And away we went!!! Minus the cool-box, but confetti-free! As we drove through Saskatoon heading for the highway south, we felt a bit shy… or exposed… or… I don’t know what exactly. We felt like everybody was … looking at us… None of our family or friends knew where we were heading for our wedding night. Perhaps we were worried that someone would follow us… In fact, we were heading east – a long way east.
171
From this day Forward
Our family and close friends knew that we were heading east, so they would assume that we would turn east at Regina. So, still somewhat nervous about pranksters following, we turned west to Moose Jaw. Along the way we stopped and I changed from my suit and clergy shirt to slacks and sports shirt. Perhaps that would be sufficient disguise if anyone was on to our first night plan. We escaped without detection. We had fun with all this possible-pursuit fantasy. * Probably you have never heard of Maynard’s Motel. Neither had we. But there it was, just on the outskirts of Moose Jaw… beckoning… The place looked decent… They had a room. The cost was not a lot… Yes, we were budget conscious even then. We paid our cash, left our suitcases, and looked for a place for dinner. * The distance between Saskatoon and Moose Jaw is not a long drive. I had the VW all fueled up when Al and I parked it before the wedding. I had taken the back seat out, put in a quite large trunk-like suitcase to hold our clothes and camping gear, etc., and covered it with a blanket. So, all we had to do was hop out of the cab and into the VW Bug and take off. In those days, there were no gourmet restaurants in Moose Jaw. And mid-late afternoon was well before the dinner hour. You can understand that our minds were on other things. We began to feel a bit like the exposure we had experienced driving out of Saskatoon. Ridiculous, of course, but we had never done this sort of thing before. (Though, I must admit the thought had crossed our minds earlier…) Would we be so obviously “newly marrieds”? The dining room in Moose Jaw’s main hotel finally opened. We had impatiently wandered around the hotel flower garden. The food and service were good. We tried to take our time so as to attract little attention…as newly married…and yet we were. What we wanted was to get back to that romantic Maynard’s Motel room! *
172
From this day Forward
The bed in our “wedding suite” in Maynard’s Motel was very pleasantly adequate. My “Joseph’s Coat of Many Colours” dressing robe was admired, and the shower was roomy. We reminisce often that we had a wonderful wedding day and night! We continue to be thankful. * Next morning, Sunday, we dropped in at a near-by Anglican church for the early Eucharist. The celebrant was Don Moore – who had been the priest at Jasper when Ray Adamson and I had been there looking for summer work. Ray and I had stayed a few days in the Jasper rectory. Unexpectedly, we had run into someone we – rather, I – knew… Had our “fantasy” of pursuit actually been more real than we imagined? If this sort of thing happened again before we got over the Saskatchewan border, then we might have to go into major disguise mode… (It didn’t, of course! But the idea was fun.) We were to meet Don again many years later when we lived and worked in the Diocese of Edmonton. In Regina we stopped to tour the Saskatchewan Legislature grounds, had lunch, and headed east. Neither of us had ever been east of Saskatchewan before, so the whole country lay before us for exploration and pleasure. * Before crossing into Manitoba, we camped overnight near Moosomin, a little village near the border. It had a campground. However, in our mutual spirit of adventure, Ruth and I camped in an open area outside the campground… It was early evening summer, so a few rays of the disappearing sun gave the terrain a golden glow. We got out our cooking gear and our 7x7 pop tent. In the gentle twilight we still had time to set up our honey-moon hut before dark. A simple task. Remember, we had practiced on the Pepper’s lawn in Frenchman Butte… amidst the “humorous” comments of the onlookers. So, with some degree of hesitant competence, we began – as the sun sunk below the horizon for the second evening of our honey-moon. *
173
From this day Forward
Whatever we had for supper, it was delicious! The larger aluminum pot was boiling away on the camp fire. We had tea, washed the dishes – and discovered what would not surprise most people… because what else would you expect? … the bottom of the aluminum pot was covered with soot! Not a crisis, but difficult to avoid getting everything else blackened and dirty. Immediate solution? Leave it to morning. Done. Next morning sun was shining, birds were singing, black pot was cleaned, more or less, dishes stored, pop tent unpopped. We began folding up the tent – and discovered we had set it on top of a level-with-the-ground ant hill! Fortunately, no invasion in the night because the tent had a floor. Brushed of the flattened tent, folded it again, and off we went. What adventures would Manitoba bring? * In 1959 VW Bugs were still rare in North America. We all waved to each other as we passed on the highway. There were so few VW Bugs that seeing another was a sort of special occasion. They also needed more frequent servicing back then. In Portage La Prairie we left the Bug at the VW service shop and went for a swim in the community pool. Three days out and having a joyful time! Motel that night. * Next day – Ontario! We headed into the Lake of the Woods – forest, rivers, lakes, tranquility and beauty. We found a cabin at Shangri La, deep in the woods, fronting on a lake. It was nearing dark when we arrived. Customers had the use of a rowboat. So, we went for a boat ride. Big dark clouds rolling in, water choppy, a rumble here and there. I was on the oars much more aggressively on the way back to dock! I was the epitome of calm, no problem, everything under control… on the outside… Storm passed by. Fire flies danced everywhere in the dark. Warm comfortable bed. Silence of the forest. Wonderful. (Many years later, on a cross-country holiday, we took our three kids to Shangri La.)
174
From this day Forward
Next morning our hosts told us they knew we were newly-weds. We happily admitted it. But when they learned I was an Anglican priest, they then said, “Oh, well, you are not newly-weds, then…” I assured our hosts that,” Anglican priests do it too”. We all had a laugh, ate our breakfast, and drove off. I guess our hosts learned something new that day… * Further south we had a quick visit with Cec Day, a former Emmanuel associate. He was the incumbent priest at Emo, a small sleepy town quite close to the American border. * As we drove over the border into Minnesota, our plan was to take the highway around the outskirts of Duluth, and camp somewhere in Wisconsin. However, a wrong turn took us to the city-centre. It was dusk. We did not have the foggiest idea how to exit the down-town. We did not have a map of Duluth, and it was long before a little gadget was invented to give a driver clear direction. After several circuits of this way, that way, and back again, with an up close and personal tour of the harbor, we found our way out. First motel into Wisconsin – Sleepy Hollow! Sounded good… very good… And they had a room left even though darkness had fallen. No tent tonight! * The drive through the northern part of Michigan gave us our first views of Lake Superior, the largest of the Great Lakes. We went back into Canada at Sault Sainte Marie, the point where Lake Superior and Lake Huron meet. On the short ferry-ride I remember Ruth and me standing on the deck above the cars and seeing our wee VW Bug in the midst of great behemoths of the car world of the day and giving thanks that our little Bug had taken us this far! And we were off to see the world!! *
175
From this day Forward
Next stop: Manitoulin Island. Our late afternoon arrival on the Island gave us a lovely supper with relatives of the Symes and Pepper families of Frenchman Butte. Our hosts guided us to the near-by ferry dock, and we caught the 22:00 ferry bound for Tobermory on the near end of the Bruce Peninsula. The moon was full, the air was sweet and warm. We sat on the upper deck all by ourselves and sang songs. One of the many memorable moments of our continuing exploration of the meaning of life! * When we landed, the Tobermory town and area had no power. It was pitch-black! But we managed to find a motel, and, again, a room was available. Next morning our host told us about Sauble Beach. Just a few miles away there was this must-see mile of sand and surf on the shore of Lake Huron. We stopped and had a swim. Those were the days when one could drive a car out onto the hard sand. So, we had our little VW cabana right with us. That night we made supper down on the shore of Lake Huron south of Sauble Beach. Camp fire and hot-dogs. We camped in the Goderich camp ground right in the middle of the town. We had no idea, of course, that many years later our youngest son, Paul, would play twice in the famous Goderich Pee Wee hockey tournament! * We had as yet never been to Stratford in England, Shakespeare’s house, Anne Hathaway’s cottage, and all that. But we did go to Stratford’s Ontario Shakespeare festival. “As You Like It” … We did! For some reason or other, I thought I should wear my suit and clergy collar. So, that’s what I wore…sticking out like a sore thumb. But another collared guy and his wife there. Rooky clergy, too? Going quietly up the stairs in our B&B, the place all dark and quiet, I let out a humongous loud burp… We just made it to our room before we burst out laughing. What a memorable moment… *
176
From this day Forward
Through my brother Gary’s Church Army friends, Capt. Don and Ethel Patterson, we were able to stay at Church Army Headquarters in Toronto – right in the middle of an interesting ethnic part of the city. It was a totally different place from small town Saskatchewan! From Toronto we drove on east to Peterborough to see Gwen and Horace Ashmore. When I was very little, Horace was the travelling Anglican priest for a large area north of Paddockwood, including Forest Gate. Horace was the priest who baptized me… except no written record of my baptism could ever be found. But everybody knew that he had baptized me. So, no problem. Not even mentioned before my Confirmation. However, as I prepared for ordination to the Diaconate, the question did come up. No baptismal certificate. * In those days – middle-late 1950s – the ordinary accumulation of papers for the record were required; baptism and confirmation certificates, as well as other proof of age. One had to be at least 23 years old to be ordained. Over the millennia, the word or oral memory of the community carried the weight of verification of an event having taken place… And so, it was for me and my baptism. But I still say, “We don’t know for sure…” Am I somewhat invalid…? * Our visit with the Ashmores was delightful. No talk of questions about baptism. They gave us a pair of brass candlesticks that we still have, and a great cup of tea. Mrs. Ashmore had pleasant memories of various members of my family and that part of Saskatchewan. The Ashmores had just that year retired from the parish of Shellbrook… Little did we know then, that Shellbrook would become part of our story. And sooner than we could have imagined… *
177
From this day Forward
We took time in Peterborough to see the famous lift-locks – a part of the boating waterway in that part of Ontario. And I bought a Bowie hunting knife which every camper should have… and I still have it! Carrying such a blade around these days would get one taken into police custody very quickly. But you would agree, no doubt, that every honest (and sane) outdoors man should have one. Another thing I did not know at the time was that many years later I would return to Peterborough for a General Synod… without the Bowie… By then Horace Ashmore had died, but I did visit Mrs. Ashmore. * Because of their employment in the Diocese of Saskatchewan, we knew quite a few Church Army people. Though they were not ordained, and so could not preside at the Eucharist, they were (for the most part) sincere and faithful workers in the church. They also cost less than an ordained person. A Church Army captain and his wife who were posted in Loon Lake, Diocese of Saskatchewan, had referred us to her parents in Ottawa. As it turned out, she, with her two very young children, were visiting her parents when we arrived. The parents graciously invited Ruth and me to set up our pop-tent in their back yard. We did, and stayed for three nights. We toured the parliament buildings, including going up into the tower to the carillon keyboard, watched the Changing of the Guards, and, with our hosts, spent a picnic afternoon in Gatineau Park across the river in Quebec. The Church Army mom was not encouraging to Ruth about the prospect of motherhood! I don’t think it scared Ruth unduly. * We didn’t go further into Quebec… I don’t know why… Perhaps I was anxious to go into the USA to see a ball game! Bishop Henry Martin has given me five weeks for our honey-moon trip. But we had many more kilometres (miles) to cover… *
178
From this day Forward
Now back to Toronto, and back in Church Army Headquarters, top floor, as arranged by Don and Ethel Patterson. We toured Castle Loma, a tourist attraction built by a rich Scot, I think. Went the wrong way up a one-way Toronto street – fortunately a short street and not much traffic… We used the fire-escape for the two or three days we were at the Church Army building – fourth floor. By using the fire escape up the outside of the building, we avoided security for the night-time staff. Fortunately, no one in the neighborhood saw us “breaking in”, so no police sirens… Our tour of Toronto also included a Sunday morning visit to St. Mary Magdalene’s church – our first experience of Anglo-Catholic liturgy, with all the smells and bells, genuflecting, colorful vestments, etc. In the evening we went to St. Paul’s, Bloor street, for Evensong… the polar-opposite of the morning. Even more “low church” than the Diocese of Saskatchewan! * One evening we, with Gary, were invited to Patterson’s for dinner. As we sat around chatting, Gary asked to borrow our VW to get a few things to take back to base with him and left. In fact, his “to get a few things” turned out to be a lot of confetti – a lot of confetti!! Gary came back, gave me our VW keys, and before long said he had to get back to base. Then we left, too. Upon opening the car door, confetti by the handful fell out. Since he had been unable to get to our wedding and be my best-man, he felt this confetti “gesture” the only proper thing to do… For many years a couple of our luggage bags continued to hide confetti in nooks and crannies. And the VW Bug harboured the colorful confetti for a long time! Actually, it was fun to come across this stuff as the years went by… Happy reminders of a fantastic honey-moon! Farewell and thanks to Toronto friends. Here we come Niagara Falls – the classic destination for newly-weds.
179
From this day Forward
We went on the Maid of the Mist to the foot of the Falls; viewed the great Whirlpool on the cable car; ate many cherries – delicious! We ate a lot of cherries… As we stood together looking at the mighty Niagara Falls, I turned to Ruth… She had disappeared! I was alarmed! I had just begun a search when she appeared coming out of the women’s washroom. Digestive systems do not easily take an overload of cherries, however delicious. * Calm digestion restored, we drove on a bit to set up our tent on the shores of Lake Erie. Those were the days! You could drive anywhere, camp most anywhere… And there we were on the shore with our tent popped up, and VW Bug guarding our door. Only two other tents, and they were two or three hundred metres from us. The quiet “wilderness” of the Lake Erie shore… Looking back, we often think how vulnerable we were to any nasties there might have been in the neighborhood in which we tented. Of course, I did have my trusty Bowie. * Gas fill-up in Detroit, Michigan. The pump attendant looked at our license plate, and asked, “Saaaskacheewaan… Where IS that?” Brief explanation: “Canada, western Canada.” I made the assumption that the province was the mystery, not the country. After all, this was in Detroit. Gas tank filled and paid for. On to Chicago! Everything was exciting and new! Wow! By the time we came to a state park on the outskirts of Gary, Indiana, on the shores of Lake Michigan, it was near 22:00. The park was closing. What to do? Where to camp? We asked the park warden who was ushering the last few folks out the gate. “Canadians? Look, there is no camping in this park… But, OK, just wait till those last couple of cars have gone, then you can leave your car here and go and sleep on the beach for the night”. Thank you so much, Mr. Park Warden! *
180
From this day Forward
Sandy beaches are lovely to walk on. The soft sand seems so comfortable on the feet. Sleeping in sleeping bags… not so much. We did manage to sleep some because quite early in the morning we were awakened by the racket of the beachcleaning crew emptying garbage cans. The VW Bug had not been vandalized – nor had we – so, on to Chicago! * You may have guessed it. Time for a service of the Beetle (Bug) once again. With each VW Bug there was a manual with the addresses of all VW dealerships in North America. In Chicago there were two. We drove to the nearest. Before getting the car serviced, we asked if there was a ball game (major league, of course – either the Chicago White Sox or the Chicago Cubs) near enough for us to walk to the park while our Bug was being serviced. The (white) German floor manager said he had no idea. But a (black) mechanic heard our question. He strode forward and said, “Yes, the Cubs are playing today. But you would need to go to the other VW garage to be able to walk to the park after leaving your car. They are playing the Philadelphia Phillies. Here’s the address.” The floor manager was not pleased! In his opinion the mechanic had butted in out of place. However, we thanked them both and drove to the other VW dealership. Checked the car in, got directions to Wrigley Field, and walked to the park in the sunshine. No security checks like nowadays… Just bought our tickets and walked in. * We had great seats half-way down the 1st base line, and about 6 seats up. The Cubs star, Ernie Banks, was just down below us with the press doing interviews and publicity photos. Wow! He was the first black player the Cubs hired. The Cubs and the Phillies were very near the bottom of the league at the time. That did not matter to us. This was our first Major League game ever! Actually, that worked in our favour – not many fans: more seats available.
181
From this day Forward
The sound of the sellers coming and going through the stands shouting, “COLD BEERA! Get yo COLD BEERA!” added to the magic of the moment. This was definitely another high point of our honeymoon adventure. (For me, at least!) * At the VW dealership we fondly viewed a VW Pop-up Camper Van. Our imagined travels in such a van never came to pass. But the VW Bug was ready to go. The plan was to drive north from Chicago up the west side of Lake Michigan to Milwaukee. Perhaps to see a Milwaukee Braves ball game…? We drove out of Chicago with only a couple of annoyed beeps from drivers as we wandered to the highway. No camping that night. The motel we found – finally – was off the highway, semi-behind a low hill, and not that attractive. But it was late, we were tired. The motel appeared to be constructed from house-trailers stuck together… It reminded us of a Hitchcock movie setting… We survived. * Milwaukee was not a very big city back in 1959. We found the Brave’s park with no difficulty. Unfortunately, the team was on the road. On the positive side, there was no one around… Main gates open… We parked right in front and walked in. Absolutely empty, except for a couple of groundskeepers way out in centre field. They paid no attention to us. So, we wandered around. We even spent some time sitting in the team dugout! I dreamt of playing in the “Bigs” … Ruth held my hand to comfort me and help me return to reality – that bush-league baseball was as “Bigs” as it would be for me… * Time to return to Canada! And we did avoid the tour of Duluth shipyards on the way back. Just a note: our various crossing of borders – Canada, USA, Canada, etc. – seamless. No gun-toting guards to be seen! So different from today, 2018! *
182
From this day Forward
East of Winnipeg we encountered a violent rain storm. Lights on, cautious speed, pulling over from time to time waiting for some let-up in the intensity of the wind and rain. The rain stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun. The VW Bug had been water-tight, we had not been blown off the highway, nor hit by another vehicle. Once again, we were survivors! We stayed over-night in Winnipeg with Cec and Yvonne Edwards. Yvonne was a cousin of Ruth. She was a nurse, and Cec worked with the Grain Exchange. I had not met them before, so I suppose they represented another family inspection team… Ruth assured me that I passed. Enjoyable visit. * Winnipeg west, all the way to the Rocky Mountains, is mostly wide-open plains. Very often the west winds blow mightily! As we headed west out of Winnipeg, we realized this was one of those days. We felt the little Bug wince… The vehicle was light, and the engine not powerful. The challenge was clear – wind so strong that even the huge semi-trailer trucks found it hard going. Pulling up behind one of those rigs gave us a good wind-break. But their road speed was a little slower than we wanted. Those long-haul vehicles are long. Pulling out to pass was a calculated risk. There needed to be a very long stretch of flat road without any on-coming traffic. The VW engine screamed! Slowly, ever so slowly, we passed the rig. Each time the big rig bore down on our bumper – because we could not battle the wind sufficiently to keep ahead! So, the semi passed us. Too slow with the big truck wind-break; too slow battling the wind on our own. Back and forth this somewhat dangerous game of tag went on. Finally, we pulled in to a diner for lunch. A wise decision, I think, looking back… The wind was so strong that I had to exert all my strength to open the VW door for Ruth to get out! As the day wore on the wind died down a bit, as it often does with approaching sun-set. No more highway duels that day. *
183
From this day Forward
Our goal for the day was Ruth’s parent’s house at good ol’ 827 Ave D N, Saskatoon. When her parents and mine learned that we were back in Saskatoon, they all breathed a sigh of relief. They had been concerned because we were young and inexperienced. Now our children are concerned about us when we go off on the highways because we are old and in denial… Cycle of Life!! * Our idyllic honey-moon had come full circle. I had fulfilled some of my dreams to see “faraway places with strange sounding names…” The Fort Pitt Mission, Frenchman Butte, Deer Creek, and Ft. Pitt, welcomed us back. I think they were glad to see us, as we were them. We hosted a party in our house, inviting all who could come to come. The Pop-Up Tent Honey-Moon couple were back! Ruth wore the huggable blue dress she was wearing when we left Christ Church after our wedding. We shared some stories from our honey-moon trip – places we had visited, and, of course, the Cubs-Phillies game in Chicago. But things were about to change. We would have just six weeks as husband and wife in Fort Pitt Mission. A communique from Bishop Martin informed me that we were to move to the parish of St. Andrew’s, Shellbrook! Fort Pitt Mission was very familiar with being a parish where ordained rookies were “broken in”, and then moved on. But I think there was some sadness, too. Ruth’s and my feelings were a genuine mixture of departing blues and new-adventure excitement. The folks from the parish, together with the Ft. Pitt Stampeders hockey team, gave us a farewell party. The send-off was warm and genuine. I remember it even now with thanksgiving. The whole community had welcomed me, and then Ruth, into its daily life. I had learned much from the folks in the Fort Pitt Mission. I am thankful. *
184
From this day Forward
185
From this day Forward
186
Rooky Rector
CHAPTER 14 Rooky Rector People apparently thought it a big deal that a rooky clergy person was assigned to a “self-supporting” parish. In those days the Canadian Anglican Church considered it remarkable. So, to some my incumbency of St. Andrew’s, Shellbrook, was so unusual that it was reported in the national Canadian Anglican newspaper! This “news item” surprised me – and struck me as a bit silly. That kind of “status” was totally irrelevant. In my mind the distinction between a “mission” parish and a “self-supporting” parish was simply economic, and had nothing whatever to do with the importance of any parish’s essential mission. * Shellbrook was a lively little town with all the amenities – schools, hospital, sport facilities, vehicle and farm equipment sales and service, grocery and hardware stores, Post Office, and a variety of churches in addition to St. Andrews. It was a thriving place. Shellbrook was a supply centre for a large area in the farming community outside the town. It was 45 km west of Prince Albert. * St. Andrew’s church building was old but well kept. The parish hall was attached. The evening of my induction as incumbent the lights went out… Everyone was startled, and the parish wardens perhaps a bit embarrassed. To me this little hic-up was hilarious… After a short while, the lights came on again – a good omen, I thought. The rectory was three doors down the street. It was a rather ramshackle place as I recall it. Kitchen, dining room, living room, couple of rooms upstairs, and a bit of an office space off the dining room. The most problematic feature was the sand-point well, which was the source of drinking and cooking water… This resulted in sandy water if the water ran more than a few minutes. Very frustrating for drinking, cooking, and laundry! For some reason – probably poverty mentality – the town had a sewage system, but no town water system…
187
Rooky Rector
So, we did have a flush toilet! Ruth had terrible time with the wood-burning cookstove. It was either smoking the place out or starting a chimney fire in the long stove pipe that ran the length of the kitchen. Out towards the alley there was a dilapidated garage barely wide enough for the VW Bug. No doubt other private and public buildings had both water and sewage. And the reason for the rectory situation was, again, probably the result of parish poverty mentality of old, and which malady hung on into our time in the parish. One might say that the rectory was barely “adequate”. But we just “adapted” to the realities… * Two other smaller congregations were part of the Shellbrook parish: Holbein, about fifteen kilometres east of Shellbrook on the highway to Prince Albert; and Parkside, about the same distance west and south on the Leask highway. Of the two, Holbein was the larger and more active. For the first part of our time in the parish, the Holbein congregation met in the village hall. Then the diocese decided to move a little no-longer-used church building to Holbein. The deal was that we build a proper foundation in Holbein, engineer the move and placement on the foundation, and the diocese would pay the moving bill. It was during our work on cribbing, mixing and pouring cement that I lost the little cross I always wore around my neck. Somewhere in that cement lies a cross, the symbol of the Christian enterprise from the beginning. Seems appropriate to me. On the day the church building was being moved, I had an appointment with Bishop Bill Crump (successor to Henry Martin) in Prince Albert. The meeting had nothing to do with the church moving to Holbein. He was surprised that I was not at Holbein supervising the move. I explained, in a respectful manner, that the crew was quite capable without my lack of expertise. I would have been in the way of folks that actually knew what they were doing. And in fact, the church was successfully moved, put on the foundation, and we held services in it the following Sunday. *
188
Rooky Rector
Horace Shaw was a short little man who lived in an untidy little house up near the town water tower. His Irish Setter was beautiful, had papers for his blood line, and was an aristocrat in doggy-land. Horace was a man of deep and abiding faith. He was caretaker of the church and hall. In those days I was still saying the Daily Office prayers. Horace was always there praying the Office with me. If he did not appear at our set time, it meant that he was not feeling well. I quickly made a pastoral call to check-up on him. Horace was of Welsh origin. St. David’s Day 1 March, his birthday, will always be Horace Shaw day for me. He was not rich. Several in the parish unobtrusively made sure he always had sufficient for his needs. His bowtie and crumpled three-piece tweed suit were his signature garb for all occasions. He ate with us every Saturday dinner or Sunday lunch. Horace was a regular at St. Andrew’s, and came with us to the Sunday afternoon services at Holbein or Parkside. He was quiet, could not see well, held no positions in the community… but after all these years he still has a place in my list of saints. * The BAC – Brotherhood of Anglican Churchmen – represented an attempt to get men involved in sharing the faith with other men, individually, certainly, but also in groups and congregations. * Back to the BAC in a moment, but first: In the early ‘60s and ‘70s women were not allowed to be ordained, women were not wardens of a parish, women did not attend Diocesan Synods. The official women’s organization was the WA – Women’s Auxiliary! Just an adjunct to the real work of the church? In fact, the work of the women kept many parishes above water financially. Women were the larger percentage of most congregations on a Sunday morning. Finally, in the ‘70s – ‘80s – ‘90s women were ordained priests in the Anglican Church of Canada. And in the years since, women have become bishops of dioceses.
189
Rooky Rector
I was part of the myopic and skewed biblical arguments for male-only ordination. In fact, I never even thought much about it… For a very long time now I have been completely in favour of ordination of women to all three orders – deacon, priest, bishop – and have participated in many such ordinations. Gender issues on a far wider spectrum are still entrapped by culture and habits all around North America and the world. * Back to the St. Andrew’s BAC: This group of men were a genuine witness of their faith in the age in which they lived and moved and had their being. There were about eight of them, and they led non-Eucharistic services – Morning or Evening Prayer – in one or other of the three parish points. I mention only one of them simply because Clair Cowles preferred to give the homily rather than lead the other parts of the service. Clair could express his faith in words that made sense to the congregations. The others were afraid to take that risk…so they said. All these men were respected for their believable expressions of their Christian faith, not only to the congregations, but also in the wider community. And each was a leader in various community organizations. Every so often Ruth and I hosted the BAC at our house for a meal. Horace Shaw was always part of the gathering and considered by the rest as part of the gang. Though not a leader of liturgy, they all knew that he faithfully said his Morning Prayer Daily Office in St. Andrew’s …. before getting on with his vocation as custodian (voluntary) of the church. * The work of a parish priest is neatly listed in the Ordination rites. The application of that list is profoundly complex. Theory and practice… Sometimes the connection between the two becomes very vague. Ruth reminds me that she was a rooky in her role, as I was in mine. Without her, though, this rooky would have been toast! *
190
Rooky Rector
Early in my time in St. Andrew’s parish I had to face the fact that more and more letters I had to write were of the formal and job-related nature. My handwriting was almost illegible – even to me. Time to buy a typewriter. I did, and taught myself to type. In addition to the tedious repetition of the alphabet letters, I practiced by typing my letters to my parents. My Mom had typed professionally and was very encouraging. Thus, with my increasing competence, and Ruth’s beautifully legible handwriting, our parents were happy with our weekly report-in. And the official correspondence I did was readable. I can now type well and fast. * Bill Crump asked me to lead a pre-ordination retreat for several men coming into the Diocese of Saskatchewan. Bit of a shock! But my guess is I was the nearest priest to the Prince Albert Synod Office, and so simply the handiest one available. I agreed to do it. The ordination candidates came to Shellbrook. They seemed amazingly attentive. They gave me glowing compliments at the end… I did not perceive any sarcasm in their voices. Naturally, I was pleased… They were all ordained. However, later one of them was fired from priestly duties because of a moral breach of conduct, and defrocked. Another went into teaching. Oh well, you can’t win ‘em all. *
The criteria for the position of Diocesan Youth Leader was clear and simple: Be Young and reasonably Fit. I was both – and that’s it! And so, the natural choice… I did not have a clue. Just “young and fit”. That was a good resume for hunting hornet nests and playing wide games in the Fort Pitt Mission… “Young and fit” – good enough in Frenchman Butte; not for this Diocesan assignment! So, with nothing going for me but my title of Diocesan Youth Leader, we held a Diocesan Youth Conference at St. Andrew’s. Kids came from all over the Diocese. I can’t remember how many, nor do I remember what the program was.
191
Rooky Rector
I do remember that Ruth made a huge number of cookies and other baked goods. If the kids’ enthusiasm for Ruth’s baking was an indicator of the success of the day, then the event was a huge success! Bishop Crump thought things went well… especially the baked goods! Actually, Ruth was actively involved in another level of “youth work”. Like many other parishes in those days, the JA (Junior Auxiliary) was active in St. Andrew’s. Mrs. Rowe was the leader, with Ruth’s back-up. Ruth as a child was in JA. “Pray; Learn; Work; Give; Tell”. That JA motto is timeless even though JA no longer lives. I mention the JA for another reason. When good things happen in a parish, the incumbent priest often gets the praise. I had nothing to do with JA officially, but I could still bask in the reflected glory of this group’s status in the diocese. The subtle challenge for the rector is to step aside so the light shines on the one(s) who actually are doing the work. * Back in the 1950s there were still many WW 2 veterans alive. The Canadian Legion in Shellbrook had a Legion building. I was only 12 when the war ended, but since there was not a veteran clergy person available, I became Chaplain to the Shellbrook Royal Canadian Legion. The Legion did not have a liquor license. The gathering in the Legion therefore required a special license for the party after Remembrance Day Parade. From time to time the members and their wives put on a “Slum-gullion” dinner. The name, I was told, was a memory reference to a stew served in WW 1 & 2. Our Legion version was much tastier, I suspect. These events were great ways to connect with community. * Parish visiting was the norm for me in those days, as it was throughout my parish and diocesan jobs. Even in the age when almost everyone in the house was working outside the home, I worked at making contact in their homes. It’s harder now, but worth it. Here are some stories about people who helped me mature…grow up. *
192
Rooky Rector
I cannot remember their names, but the old couple lived across the street. Their age, old by my standards then, would have been younger than I am now. He played chess. She made tea and cookies. When I called in, we had a simple routine. The three of us had tea; she departed into another part of the house, and he and I played chess. He was my teacher. Only once did I hold him off for very long. Instructions and game over, I would thank them for their hospitality and depart. I looked forward to my next visit, and I think they did too. * Shellbrook’s 9-hole sand-green golf course had not been designed by Jack Nicklaus. But whoever did design it used the terrain very creatively! Up-hill, down-hill, across creeks and wetland, around corners, narrow fairways, trees on all sides… I bought the cheapest set of learner golf clubs and took up the sport. My golfing career was not long… just till we left Shellbrook, and a short time in Yellowknife. No green Master’s Jacket. The goal of the exercise was to play with the local guys. They were never threatened by losing a match to me. But we had some interesting theological discussion en-route. And I was never foolish enough to play for money! * Now I want to tell you about the most important event that happened to us in Shellbrook… I can wait no longer! Our son, Mark Kenneth, was born 16 August 1961 in the Shellbrook hospital. Ruth went in late evening the night before. In those days, fathers were not allowed in the birthing room. But I heard Mark’s first holler – the hospital was small, but he had a powerful voice right from the beginning! And I saw him carried to the new baby nursery. He was placed beside the one other baby in the nursery. The other baby was very small. Mark was pretty big! That helped me accept that this wonderful new person in our life was not so fragile. Then I was allowed to go in to see Ruth. It was wonderful to give her a gentle hug and kiss. She looked beautiful. After several days in hospital (normal routine in those days), we brought our wee (well, not so wee) son home.
193
Rooky Rector
We remember that hot sunny day very well! The “rooky rector” and the “rooky rector’s partner” had become “Rooky Parents”! Another “deep end” challenge for both of us; no longer a couple only… Now a family! From then on, we consulted frequently – very frequently – Dr. Spock’s book on what do with babies. If Mark was quiet, we listened closely to make sure he was breathing…If he was crying, we frantically paged through our “how to” book to make sure he was OK… He was, and has grown into a man and father that we are tremendously proud of. And that is the story of the best event in our lives in Shellbrook! * Ruth sang in St. Andrew’s choir. Mrs. Kerr was the organist and taught piano. Jack Spenser was the head-doctor at the hospital. He led the Shellbrook Marching Band. (He was the doctor who presided at Mark’s birth.) Remembrance Day was big in Shellbrook. It brought the whole Marching Band and school and church choirs together – usually in the town hall. It was far too cold to stand outside around the modest town cenotaph. I, with other denominational clergy of the town, suited up and said the usual things for the occasion. * Like any small Saskatchewan town at that time, Shellbrook was home to a very interesting variety of characters. Each one was unique in some way. Each was a living story. I will mention only a few. But each, and many others, contributed to the richness of our time in Shellbrook – and to my growth as a parish priest. John Bibby was a barber, with his shop in his house, and the classic red and white barber pole outside. He was a natural story-teller, making for a delightful haircut. Frank and Amy Pepper lived just down the street from us. He was a warden who took the role seriously and wisely. We watched many Perry Como shows with them on their TV, and Frank took us for a ride in his motor boat on a nearby lake. Frank and Amy were very hospitable and supportive.
194
Rooky Rector
Herb Jacobs was the post-master. No door-to-door delivery in small towns. The post-office was a community meeting place as we came and went “going for the mail”. Alida Jacobs baby-sat our Mark to free-up Ruth to sing in the Choir. Herb served a term as warden with Frank. The Agnew family, Clayton and Mary, were connected to St. Andrew’s. Clayton owned and operated a garage and sales on main street. It was in his garage that I prepared the little trailer for our move to Yellowknife. I made contact with another Agnew much later, after my retirement… But those stories might come later. Fred and Norma Cornwell were strong and faithful players in the parish. Fred was the pharmacist in town. He was the kind of guy that made a good friend, helped in parish projects, and he and Norma cared deeply about community. Fred died of cancer. We remained in contact with Norma for many years. They sent us a starshaped Christmas card one year. It topped our tree for so long that it remains in our tree decorations to this day. Bill Marshall and Jim Laurie, and their families, were back-bone members of the congregation at Holbein. Both men were farmers and very involved in organizations that worked for the betterment of the rural farming and ranching population. Holbein congregational business meetings were interesting to experience. Never a straight and logical route through an agenda… but all came out well at the end. I never did get the hang of it, but it always seemed to work… Eva Hartman and her family lived in the wee village of Holbein. Before we moved the church to Holbein, we met for services in a rustic community hall. Eva made sure all was ready. The Harvest Thanksgiving services were always magnificently decorated with braided bread, flowers, and vegetables. Remarkably, we have been in touch with Eva and her family via Christmas greetings all the years since! * What is moral and what is not has never been easy to sort out. And when it comes to whether one should play cards on a Sunday, or not, you can see how “refined” moral balance has become. What is “right”, and what is “wrong” ….??
195
Rooky Rector
One Sunday evening Ruth I walked over to an old couple’s house for a visit. No advance notice…just the thing one did in those day. A parish visit needed no warning. Folks just dropped in. The custom was to knock at the back door, rather than the front… Why? I don’t know – that’s just the way it was. At this particular house that meant walking down the side of the house past a living room window. Our parish couple had another couple of the parish in, and they were playing cards. By the time Mrs. Reid had greeted at the door and ushered us into the living room, there was no sign whatever of cards… Even the card table had vanished! “Oh, we did not mean to disturb your card game…”, I apologized. “I hope you had finished.” After the four blushing faces had been assured they had not committed a sin, we had a happy visit. This home-spun story of a Sabbath evening illustrates the confusion about what is moral, what is sin, what is the nature of the Gospel story for Christians. * My beloved Ruth has gently reminded me that I had left out an “interesting” bit of information to do with our Mark’s arrival. On the afternoon of the evening I took Ruth over to the hospital just hours before the early morning birth of Mark, I had played a 9-hole golf game with Eddy Bryant – who had also stayed for supper… I did not realize that I should not have played golf, nor invited anyone for supper. Each of us – Ruth and me – had never been through preparation for birth of a baby before. Ruth had been dealing with signs of approaching child birth all day long. I should have had brains enough to be aware and sensitive to the obvious fact that full-term meant stand-by alert – not golf, supper guest, or the meal prepared by Ruth! Fatherhood was to be another steep learning curve! I have always had to deal with an ample supply of stupidity!! *
196
Rooky Rector
St. Andrew’s had a tradition of Christmas Pageants. I hope you have some recollection of Christmas Pageants past. If not, you are missing something important. Old bathrobes; taped-up shepherd’s crooks; little kids going and coming – not necessarily according to script, dressed in costumes supposedly representing sheep; Mary happily holding Jesus, alias her doll; Joseph having been drummed into the role and not looking happy; tiny wise men appearing, often intermittently, with mysterious packages for baby Jesus… And many waves back and forth between actors and proud parents. Of course, angels of different sizes and wings were all over the place! Add Christmas music and narrator desperately trying to coordinate with the somewhat serendipitous activity of the actors. The Christmas Pageant was inevitably a wonderful mix of hilarity, anxiety, and always played to a full house. But not far below the outward and visible chaos there was an unexpected surprise… some sort of quiet… I guess holiness is the only way to describe it… I have seen it happen many times over the years. The parents caught something they had not expected. Here is an example. One young couple brought their little children to St. Andrew’s Christmas Pageant. This husband and wife had not been attenders in any church since their young childhood. But they wanted their children to… sort of… get to know “The Story”. They had heard from other young parents that the Pageant was fun, and kids enjoyed it. They really had no intention beyond that. So, they came, they saw, their kids enjoyed it. On the next Sunday they turned up in church. They told me they wanted to start again on the path from which they had drifted. Because they loved their children, they brought them to the Pageant. Now they wanted to continue with their children. And they did. *
197
Rooky Rector
Oh, by the way, rivalry over who will play what part in a Christmas Pageant can cause some trouble… Usually the girls were more eager for roles than the boys. Casting Joseph often required some skilled persuasion. From there on, though, the sheep, shepherds, kings and angels were pretty amenable to any role. In some respects, all the work around preparation and performance of the Christmas Pageant was a microcosm of real life. Christmas is a true story of how life is lived out. * Hockey arenas and curling rinks are the real heart of many western Canadian communities. At least their attendance records far outnumber all the churches put together. In Shellbrook I attended the arena – as a hockey player for the Shellbrook Elks. One of the many highlights of my Shellbrook hockey “career” was that I was chosen as an all-star left-winger in the Big V league! The important part for me is that the voting was by opposition players only. Amazing! Perhaps my skill at taking down an opposing player each time I was checked, and the occasional goal, were more impressive than I realized… * It was in Kopang’s Grocery that Ruth overheard the conversation in the next aisle. “That was an exciting game last night. I didn’t think the Elks would win!” “Neither did I” was the response. “I don’t know what it is about that damned reverend. When he is on the ice the team seems to pick up the pace. I don’t know what the hell it is…” They never knew that Ruth had overheard. Because of a parish meeting that “last night”, I had arrived just after the first period. Our team was down a goal or two – I don’t remember – but we went on to win. I actually did score a goal. Just the dumb luck of being in the right place at the right time. One skill I did exploit when checking was to take down the opposition player with me when we collided. I developed this skill to such a fine point that I seldom if ever was penalized.
198
Rooky Rector
My “checking” skill irritated Freddy Sasacamoos, one of Blaine Lake’s best players. “And you call yourself a reverend!” he said with disgust as he struggled to free himself from my hold and get back in the game. I never got into a hockey fight. Actually, there were very few fights in our league. It was not a “no hit” league, but most of the time common sense prevailed… Years later I met a man from Blaine Lake in Rome. He knew Freddy. Paths do crisscross. But I will tell you about that meeting later. * Each of the people I have met in getting “from there to here” contributed to my journey. I cannot clearly define how that happened… But for that reason, I want to name a few of my Elk’s team-mates. Just a random order. I can’t remember all the names. George Richert, High School principal, was a big defenseman. With his long arms and stick spread across the blue-line, it took a long time for an attacking forward to get around him… Just long enough for George to crush him and get the puck up to a forward. John Bazzola was a defenseman. He was not as big as George, but built like a brick wall, and an excellent skater. Clean body-checks, but the opposition took him lightly at their own risk! A good rushing defenseman, too. John was a member of the Shellbrook RCMP Detachment. Jack Topping, owner and operator of a grocery store, was a very tricky and tenacious forward on our team. One of his pet activities was joshing me about stereotypes of clergy as we laced up before a game. The Muirhead brothers, Allan and Neil, were excellent and intelligent players. Each had his own style of moving on the ice. The younger of the two had a deceptive style as he carried the puck… seeming slow, but lightning quick in fact. Terry Simpson, the kingpin of the Shellbrook junior team, the Terriers, that won the Provincial Championship one year, played for the Elks one season. He went on to become coach of the Prince Albert Raiders, and took them to the Memorial Cup.
199
Rooky Rector
Later Terry coached the Canadian Junior Team on the world stage. Jimmie McComas played with the Shellbrook Terriers with Terry Simpson. Our senior team played the Terriers every so often. Jim and I collided at centre ice one night – nearly knocked us both out! These days we would have been checked for concussion. Not back then. We both finished the game. And there were many others – whose names I can’t now remember. But we had a good chemistry on our team. Because my peculiar profession did not get in the road, we were all players together. Alex Shillington was our Shellbrook Elks coach. He was a good man as well as a good coach. He put an article in the local paper that featured me…saying that I scored a goal a game. I still have the clipping, of course, but the more accurate statistics record might be a bit less generous. The article did mention that I was an Anglican priest. Many years later our paths crossed again, in Kelowna, and in Edmonton. We reminisced and chuckled over past glories of the Shellbrook Elks. Historic imagination is a magic land! Enough hockey! … Except for one wonderful 2-part event. The first part was the Saturday night we won the Big V League Championship. The game was played in Blaine Lake – the home of our arch-rivals! Over many years the Shellbrook Elks had learned that a large contingent of supporters going with us assured – more or less – safety within their arena. That Saturday night we had our fans with us in sufficient numbers to keep the game on the ice. We won the game going away! In the first few minutes it was obvious we were out to win… So obvious, in fact, that I almost scored a goal! We were Big V League Champions! The second part of the event was the most amazing…
200
Rooky Rector
The next morning at the St. Andrew’s Sunday service our whole team, every single one of them, and coach Shillington, turned up in church! It was a complete surprise for me, an emotional experience that has never been equaled in all my life as a jock! * In those Shellbrook days ordinary postal mail was the norm. Snail mail, as we have come to call it now. Each weekday Ruth or I would call on Herb Jacobs at our local post office for letters from parents, the Diocesan Synod Office, and so on. One day in early 1962 we received a letter that would change our lives. I can vividly remember the exact place in the rectory Ruth, our baby Mark, and I, were sitting to open our mail. Ordinary communications for the most part – except for one letter. It was addressed from Holy Trinity Parish in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories… It was from an as yet unknown person named Peter Bromley. On behalf of Holy Trinity, Yellowknife, NWT, he was inviting me to become the rector of that parish. Somehow or other we were attracted to the idea. But first we had to look up where Yellowknife was… north shore of Great Slave Lake, a little more than 900 miles (not kilometres) north of Edmonton, in the Diocese of the Arctic. Apparently, Donald Ben Marsh, then bishop of the Diocese of the Arctic, was in agreement. Looking back on that decision moment Ruth and I realize that it took us about 30 seconds to say YES! We replied with our “Yes”; our parents could not believe it – they were worried for some reason… Announcements were made in our Shellbrook parish in the proper manner; and I had spoken with Bill Crump, then Bishop of Saskatchewan. Bishop Crump ruminated with me about such a move. He worried about a priest being in some “backwater” of church land, out of the mainstream, etc. He was, of course, speaking about clergy careers – mine, in this case. That was the least of my worries. The adventure of going north was exciting and inviting for Ruth and me. Since he was only nearing a year old, I’m not sure what Mark’s opinion was…
201
Rooky Rector
So, we said “Yes” to the invitation to go to Holy Trinity, Yellowknife. Once the decision was made, we realized that that was the simple part. In addition to the prospect of leaving a lot of wonderful people in St. Andrew’s parish, very practical matters had to be organized… engaging a moving firm and preparing a little trailer to hitch behind the VW Bug… to mention two. And what does one take with you when you move “north of 60”? Winter clothing comes to mind… We already knew how to deal with pretty severe winter. After all, we were living in Saskatchewan! We learned that Holy Trinity rectory was already partially furnished. What furniture we needed to take – or not take – was sorted out. The big question: do we take our very heavy up-right piano? The piano was important to us. During our time in Shellbrook Ruth had taught several singing students. I was not qualified in much of anything musically, but I did bash away on the piano for my own therapy from time to time. (Not for public performance!) Catherine Douglas, wife of Robert Douglas, the clergy person I was succeeding at Holy Trinity, advised her successor, Ruth, strongly; “TAKE YOUR PIANO! There will be times in Yellowknife that your music will keep you sane!” We took the piano… Damn the cost of transport! And yes, it did contribute in a variety of ways to keeping us more or less sane. Music and laughter are central building blocks of creation. * George Dobson was the owner and operator of Dobson’s Moving Company. He’s the same George who subbed at St. Alban’s Cathedral organ when Jack Hicks was away. His firm was engaged to move Ruth, Mark, and me from Shellbrook to Yellowknife. An appointment was made to set the dates and costs. The details that follow would normally not be important. But in this case, they describe a close brush with death for Ruth and Mark.
202
Rooky Rector
We parked our VW Bug at the side of Dobson’s office. I went in. Ruth and Mark remained in the car. Running north and south through Prince Albert was the main highway. It passed closely by the west end of the Dobson one-story frame building. The door to the office was on the east end. The VW, with Ruth and Mark inside, was parked on the south side. The highway, heading north, came down a long steep hill. At the bottom of the hill was a railway crossing. And just before the railway crossing was the small sidestreet by Dobson’s. A huge semi-trailer truck came down the hill. There was a train on the crossing. Too late to brake. The truck’s only option was a sharp right-hand turn – onto the same narrow alleylike street where Ruth and Mark sat in the VW. He missed the train… The vehicle careened around the tight corner… just missing Dobson’s office… The trailer whip-lashed… and slammed into the rear end of the VW and smashed it into the side of the building! George and I dashed out of the office, ran around the corner. Glass everywhere. Ruth was still in the car – appeared OK – with Mark in her arms… in the front seat! Just a few minutes before, Ruth said, she had taken Mark from the back seat… She had a severely bruised bump on her head, and Mark was not hurt. When the driver of the truck got his vehicle stopped, he leaped out of the cab and was back at the crash almost as quickly as George and I. He was terrified! I was thankful that he was such a skilled driver. But all I cared about was that Ruth and Mark were safe. The VW needed repairs, but not of the slightest concern to me – Ruth and Mark were alive and well.
203
Rooky Rector
The truck driver was beside himself with worry, apology, concern – a bit of a wreck himself, actually. After a time, we relaxed somewhat, and proceeded with the necessary paper work, insurance, statement from the driver, etc. etc. * At first Ruth felt fine and thankful that Mark was not hurt. We made another appointment with George. We went off in shock. Not time for detailed planning right then. It was time to get a doctor’s opinion on Ruth’s bump on her head. She had a headache. The “near miss” reality of the last few hours became even clearer. Our nerves were still jangling. We went to the Emergency of the Victoria Hospital. At that time in Saskatchewan the whole medical network was in critical condition itself. Doctors were on strike, fighting Tommy Douglas’ plan for universal medical care. What would we face trying to get medical attention”? In fact, Ruth was treated immediately, and very well. Yes, she did have a concussion, the doctor told us, and Mark was totally OK. Just take it easy for a while. If headaches or dizziness recur, then check with a doctor right away. Thankfully, Ruth recovered completely. During the “strike” emergency medical service was always available… for the most part. And Tommy Douglas finally won the day – not only for Saskatchewan, but for all Canada. * Before we returned to Shellbrook, the Dobson’s invited us for supper. The Insurance company had supplied us with emergency transportation. In due course the VW was repaired. And all was well … and all was well. * About that little trailer I mentioned earlier: We bought a single-wheel trailer from Easton’s for $108.00. Well, it did seem a good idea at the time…
204
Rooky Rector
The reason for the single wheel was obvious. The VW engine was in the rear. There was no way to attach a normal single hitch. It was necessary, therefore, to put a hitch on each side. That meant that the trailer would swing out to the opposite side of the direction the VW turned. Since the trailer was not very long, there would be no problem there. The trailer arrived from Eaton’s. A little beauty! Now, what follows is a bit like some of my earlier “How to” recollections… The first step was to install the double hitch mechanism, with a little help from Clayton Agnew’s garage. The next step, again with Clayton’s help, was to wire the trailer so the VW lights and signals transferred to the rear end of the trailer. I was able to handle the third step by myself: Build a box with the sides, length, and width same as the trailer. And the final step – again, by myself – was to paint the box bright red. A few test runs… Worked perfectly – with caution on turning right or left that the one-wheeled trailer did not swing too much further than the end of the VW. Never hit anybody or anything. Good. The volume of the trailer with the added height of the bright red box seemed about right. It took us a while to figure out the essentials we needed to take to Yellowknife ourselves. The rest of our stuff would arrive later via George Dobson’s arrangements with Grimshaw Transport. Done! We were ready! * Final farewell time had arrived. That was not easy. Shellbrook parish had helped us in so many ways in our growing up. Mark had been born there, we were newlyweds when we came – rookies in so many ways: parish priest, clergy wife, parents. They were with us all the way. Farewell to my parents on the farm. Ruth’s parents came up from Calgary to see us off from Edmonton, our “launch pad” for going North. They worried about us… But their love and support were rock solid, and we knew it. And it never wavered! Thanks be to God! *
205
Rooky Rector
206
Rooky Rector
207
Rooky Rector
208
Rooky Rector
209
North of ‘60
CHAPTER 15 North of ‘60
We took the Yellowhead Highway west from Edmonton to the junction with #43. Turned right – and the northward trek began! Bright and sunny. Mark in the back in the ‘60s baby car seat = thin floppy canvas sides and seat, and strap handles. No seat belts… Single-wheel trailer following obediently behind the VW. All was well. Adventure into a new territory for us… Northward Ho! Over-night in Peace River. Comfortable and uneventful. The highway had been excellent. VW and single-wheel trailer in good shape. 484 kilometres done. Piece of cake! Next morning: sun shine and the beauty of the mighty Peace River valley! Just a few kilometres and over the bridge and up the other side. Marvelous vistas over the historic countryside. Everything tickity-boo! But then, as we passed the village of Grimshaw, we ran out of pavement… on to a barely two-lane gravel highway. “Only” 485 kilometres to the NWT border. The VW wheels were on the fairly smooth surface that gravel highways develop… But the single-wheel of the trailer had to carve its own path. A bit of a worry, but we gradually relaxed because the little trailer still followed obediently. So, here we come, North! * Chinook Valley, Dixonville, Deadwood, North Star, Manning, Notikewin, Hotchkiss… Does this begin to sound like a trucker’s song?... Twin Lakes, Keg River, Paddle Prairie … and into High Level in time for lunch. Pulled up in front of the only restaurant in town. Back in 1962 – a very little village. 300 km since breakfast! The parking on the side of the road in front of the café was a sloppy mess of mud and grit. Evidently it had rained heavily recently.
210
North of ‘60
The only difference between inside and outside the café was a soggy layer of grubby flattened cardboard boxes on the floor. There were two distinct groups of people having lunch. One was a group of farmers sitting around a table lamenting this August rainfall that had lodged a lot of their grain and generally brought harvest to a standstill. Their conversation reminded me of similar times back on the Saskatchewan farm where I grew up. The second group was a scattered number of fellow travelers – going or coming… – including Tom Doornbos. He was an old bushman from Yellowknife whom we would later meet and learn his name after we were residents ourselves. The welcoming owner, both chef and server, served us an ample and delicious meal. It was a symbol of the camaraderie of the Mackenzie Highway – we were about to learn! * The road greatly improved as we drove north from High Level. No sun, but no rain either. Single-wheel trailer followed as it should. Obviously, our early concerns were unfounded. The little wheel was making its way through the gravel very well. However, about 10 km on… Bump…Bump…Bump…Bump… A glance in the rearview mirror confirmed that the trailer was acting in a peculiar manner – bouncing up and down! At the same moment Ruth looked in the passenger-side mirror and saw the little wheel bounce off into the ditch! Pulled over, stopped, got out… and discovered that the whole wheel assembly had fallen off. And there it was… back lying in the ditch. A serious matter. But for some reason, Ruth and I sized up the situation… and had a great laugh. This was fun? Well I guess so. No use weeping or getting worried. Right? Back a few kilometres there had been a truck stopped by the side of the road… Mmm Maybe… We unhooked the trailer, put the wheel assembly with it, turned around and headed back…
211
North of ‘60
We drove back to the truck. It was still parked by the side of the road. As we drove up the driver was just shutting the engine hood, about to get into the cab. When we learned that he was bound for Hay River, I asked, “Would you be kind enough to load our little trailer and wheel assembly and take it to Hay River?” “No problem” he replied, “There’s lots of room in the back. I have a half-load of potatoes I’m selling in Hay River.” Our little “no wheel” trailer and wheel assembly were lifted into the truck on top of the spuds, and we were off – following our new-found friend. He deposited our trailer at the only shop in town. I offered to pay him… “No chance.” He said. “Another time you’ll help someone else.” He waved and drove off to sell his cargo. Over our years in Yellowknife we learned that no one passes anyone in distress on that northern highway. The cost of the welding job, however, was not part of the “Highway Helping Code”! We stayed overnight in Hay River with Saskatchewan friends of some years ago. Next morning, we headed back to Enterprise on the McKenzie Highway. Hay River is on the south side of Great Slave Lake, not too many kilometres off the McKenzie Highway. And the trailer was once again following obediently… But recall that all the road north of Grimshaw was gravel. Halfway back to Enterprise the trailer wheel itself fell off. Bump…Bump…etc. We pulled over, got out, unhitched the trailer, retrieved the wheel – just as a highway crew pick-up truck came along…heading for Enterprise. He followed the same code, so trailer and wheel went into the truck box. Ruth, Mark, and I followed into Enterprise to the Grimshaw freighter truck station. “What can I give you for your help?” Same reply as the potato farmer.
212
North of ‘60
I explained to the Grimshaw truck station manager how our wheel-less trailer came to be parked outside. He listened with attentive courtesy… which broadened into a grin and then a chuckle. “Would you please throw the trailer and wheel on the next Grimshaw freighter heading to Yellowknife”? “No problem.” he said. “Glad to do it.” “Is there a charge I need to pay for this?” I asked. “Don’t worry about it. Deal with the Grimshaw driver when he drops it off at your place in Yellowknife. The freighters go through here regularly and often. If you don’t drive too fast…and with that VW Bug I doubt you travel very fast…your trailer may get to Yellowknife before you do.” He chuckled again. Ruth and I transferred the essentials from the trailer into the VW back seat and the very small storage space behind the seat. Mostly diapers for Mark – cloth…no disposables in those days; there was just enough room for the car-seat and Mark between diapers and baby gear piled to the roof! Off we went – trailer-less – heading north. Next stop would be the ferry crossing over the mighty MacKenzie River. Quite a few kilometres away. Very strange having no trailer following, and perhaps just a touch of relief. The highway was dry, but very dusty. Our North of ’60 expedition to Yellowknife was now in three parts: First part – VWRuth-Mark-me; Second, the red-top trailer and wheel via Grimshaw freighter; Third, the large transport van with our piano and other furniture. *
213
North of ‘60
The terrain continued to be scrub bush and muskeg. Considering 1962 was the first year of this road to allow all traffic, the gravel “highway” was quite passable. The traffic was not heavy, but the freighter trucks created massive clouds of dust. There was danger meeting one in case someone was trying to pass the truck; and there was equal danger if you tried to pass a truck… So, if we were catching up to a cloud of dust, we would pull over and have a break. If there was a cloud of dust in our rear-view mirror, we either pulled over to let him pass, or sped up a bit to keep ahead. “How long would this last?” We were still heading more or less north-west to get around Great Slave Lake to get to the river outlet of the MacKenzie River as it flowed north to the Arctic Ocean. * We arrived at the MacKenzie River and a very sturdy vessel ferried us across the mighty MacKenzie to Ft. Providence on the other side. The ferry boat had to be big enough to handle the freighter semi-trailer trucks, and the occasional car that appeared from time to time. We crossed over. (Thankfully, it was not the River Styx!) There had been no visible human habitation between Enterprise and the ferry crossing. According to our map, there would be none from Ft. Providence to a bridge over the north arm of Great Slave Lake, 214 kilometres ahead…near Ft. Rae, as it was known then. Over the years since many settlements in the NWT changed from Eurocentric names to First Nation names. Though gas stations were few and very far between, we never ran out of gas! Good planning – and a very economical VW engine. *
214
North of ‘60
Only when we arrived at the North Arm of Great Slave Lake did we see any human habitation. But the thing that caught our attention was the strange physical structure of the bridge… The different elevation on our side from the other side seemed to indicate that the bridge had been installed backward… We learned later that it was. Somehow the blueprints had been reversed. Jake Jacobson, a member of Holy Trinity parish, took some ribbing over the years about that – he was the chief engineer of the NWT. It was not his fault, and the bridge did get the traffic across quite nicely. * Only 98 k to Yellowknife! We were almost there! But you remember our recent query, “How long would it – the passably decent gravel road – last.?” We crossed over that bridge into another world! The road became twisty, rocky, hugely bumpy, and single-direction traffic in some places. Much dynamite needed! We had landed on the real pre-Cambrian Shield. Our little single-wheel red boxtopped trailer would have refused to even begin that last 98 k!! Major road construction was underway here and all the way to Yellowknife. * We arrived in Yellowknife late afternoon on a Saturday. Since the official population in 1962 was 3,700, we had no problem finding the rectory. Inside were three of the most interesting – and different – characters of the North. They were having tea in “our” living room! One was Jack Sperry, missionary stationed in Coppermine north on the Arctic Coast; one was Alex Algiak, lay leader and dog-team racer from the Coppermine parish; the third was a Holy Trinity parishioner Bing Rivet. (Retired RCMP, three-sheets-to-the-wind, and genuinely welcoming to us.) There could have been a fourth person in “our” living room, the Emmanuel College summer student minister, but he was at the sports field playing a wind-up soccer game. *
215
North of ‘60
After having tea with the three, and narrowly avoiding having Mark scalded by tea as he vigorously crawled about on the floor amidst our tea party, Bing left for home, Ruth and Mark stayed with Jack and Alex to prepare supper for…everybody… And I drove over to the soccer match. Nothing like getting started by checking out what was probably a chief gathering place for the folks… All this was a proto-type of our life to come in Yellowknife, Diocese of the Arctic! * I was at the park for only an hour. Integration of new people into a community usually takes time, gradual acceptance with continuing observation. We became members of the Yellowknife community quickly. How? Garth Eggenberger signed us up for the local newspaper and arranged for us to receive milk and eggs delivery to our house by Garth’s parents. “Coffee Bob” Olexin signed me up to play hockey for the Molson Indians, the town hockey team. The summer student from Emmanuel College would be with us for a week more, and then return to Saskatoon. I can’t remember his name. I think he eventually entered medicine so he could be a medical missionary… Then back to the rectory where Ruth had prepared supper (parishioners had stocked the fridge for our arrival) for Jack Sperry, Alex Algiac, the summer student, and me, Mark (special menu) and herself. Yes, definitely, that day was a prototype of our life in Yellowknife. And so, it continued: people in at any time of the day or night, some for meals, some for overnight, some expected, some unexpected, some sad, some glad, some dangerous, some needy, but always unique characters with stories to tell. Yellowknife was the north/south gateway between Edmonton and the Arctic Coast and all points in between. It was frantic fun! *
216
North of ‘60
Yellowknife is situated on the north shore of Great Slave Lake. It lies halfway between the 60th and 65th parallels of latitude, and halfway between 110 and 120 longitude. Yk is still south of the Arctic Circle, but not very far south of the northern tree line. The whole of the NWT is laced with lakes and rivers of every size and shape. In the summer black flies and mosquitoes can drive you crazy; in winter the temperature can kill you. And yet… a most powerful and beautiful land. As the European explorers penetrated the North, they were taught how to survive by their First Nations and Inuit hosts. * A few days after we arrived, our red-topped trailer and wheel caught up to us via a Grimshaw freighter. Once again, “No charge”. In spite of the dust they created on the highway, I have always had a soft spot in my heart for those Grimshaw freighters…even after all these years. “How do you want me to return the trailer?” I wrote to Eaton’s. I included the detailed story of the trailer woes, emphasizing that it had not been over-loaded, nor driven too fast. Very convincingly told and believed, because even considering snail mail, a quick reply came, “No, no, no, do not send it back. You have had enough difficulty. Please find a cheque enclosed in the amount of $108.00.” I vowed never to pull a one-wheel trailer again! But the wounded Eaton’s reject was in our backyard. What to do with it? Ted Butler, one of our parishioners, worked at the Con Mine shop. He volunteered to reattach the wheel and assembly…free of charge! He did. And I sold the repaired trailer to someone who wanted, believe it or not, a one-wheel trailer – for the original cost. With the trailer gone, and with the Eaton’s refund and my sale, the result did offset some of the original preparation cost and welding job in Hay River. So, no more trailer stories…for a few years! *
217
North of ‘60
Because we arrived in Yellowknife on a Saturday, I was on deck for my first liturgical adventures in Holy Trinity the next morning. Since I don’t have the slightest recollection of the service, I assume all went well. Jack Sperry, Alex Algiac, and the Emmanuel student were the only ones I knew – except for the Eggenbergers. (Coffee Bob, the Molson Indians recruiter, was not a church-goer.) Actually, I do remember one thing from that first Sunday morning: Ruth was sitting, demurely (her word) in the back pew. Mark was crawling about exploring. Suddenly he took off, heading up the aisle towards his Dad! Jack Sissons, chief Territorial Judge, and member of the parish, noticed this and encouraged Mark to go for it! Mark was a fast crawler and made it almost to the chancel step before his Mom “rescued” him. This episode did not bother Ruth, and I had hoped Mark would make it. He did a 1-year-old giggle as Ruth scooped him up. I think this little family event greatly helped our bonding with the parish. * Sir John Franklin was the name of the Yellowknife High School. On the same grounds was Akaitcho Hall. This was a residence for high school aged young people from all over the north. Akaitcho Hall was for students from anywhere in the North – Inuit, First Nations, and “Other”. The latter meant white Euro-kids, and any other ethnic background. They were not forced to be there. Not problem free, but a much more normal atmosphere – if you overlook the fact that there were hardly any high schools as yet in the North. But it was “residential”. Too long before and too long after – kids were forced by the Federal Government to leave their families and homes at a very young age and reside at residential schools far from their homes. Not good!
218
North of ‘60
You should know, perhaps you do, that those residential schools were intended to literally remove all aboriginal language and cultural faith systems from the kids to make them Euro-Canadians. The Roman Catholic Church and the Anglican Church of Canada were major denominations contracted by the Federal Canadian Government to run this system. The United Church of Canada and the Presbyterian Church were smaller players in this cruel and criminal enterprise. All the church denominations, with the exception of the Roman Catholic (a Papal statement of sadness, etc. only), have issued formal apologies. All dioceses in the Anglican Church of Canada have also contributed huge sums of money to further the agonizing Reconciliation process. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Canada is supported by all Christian denominations. The work must go on. It is a dark history. What has been done has been done and cannot be erased. But reconciliation is possible. Healed relationships can happen. Little by little. Not giving up hope… Many of the Akaitcho Hall residents came to Holy Trinity during the school year. Many had come from home communities where they went to church and were inclined to come to Holy Trinity and did come regularly. Several sang in the choir. No doubt some came to be with friends or without anything else to do on a Sunday morning. The presence of this large contingent of young people gave a lot of energy to the liturgy! It was great. Over the course of our years in Yellowknife we had all the Akaitcho Hall kids into our house for lunch and visit. They loved hugging, holding, and playing with our kids – Mark, Margaret, and Paul. Some of those contacts with these students resulted in longer-term connections with us and our family. * Mark was one year old when we arrived North of ’60. Margaret and Paul were born in Yellowknife. Greatest events of all in our life in Yk.! More about them later. * The rector of Holy Trinity, Yellowknife, was expected to visit Discovery Mine and Contoyto Lake Mine about once a month, hitching a ride on supply charter planes 219
North of ‘60
to those mines north of Yellowknife… Float planes to Discovery Mine in summer, skis in winter; skis or wheels to Contoyto Lake. Both these places were gold mines. Contoyto was out on the barrens. Discovery was on a lake about an hour north of Yk. These charter flights were frequently – but not always – with Wardair. Most flights were calm and comfortable, and always interesting. I rode in Otters, Beavers, Twin Otters, various Cessna, DC 3s, and once in a Bristol freighter – in winter… the coldest flight ever! *
At Discovery I made several trips underground with the mine Safety Manager. We went down into the drifts (tunnels) leading to the drilling areas. In the upper minedout drifts there were great views of the permafrost. In Discovery I visited all the families – any denomination or none – held a Eucharist to which any and all were invited, ate with the crew, and occasionally with the mine manager and his wife. And modified version of this at Contoyto. On the barrens I saw migrating herds of caribou that seemed like the whole land was on the move, two barrens grizzlies, some eggs in ptarmigan nests, and amazing arctic flowers. I had personal conversations with men working and living at the mines. The subject of those visits was, of course, confidential. While I was received by all that made up those mining communities, there certainly was a very real hierarchy. The Mine Manager was the supreme poohbah of each mining community in the North – and perhaps anywhere in the world. Within legal limits – perhaps some would have said occasionally stretching those limits – he was boss. Many of our Holy Trinity parishioners worked at either Con Mine or Giant Mine in many different levels of the mining culture hierarchy. Because these mines were on the outskirts of Yellowknife, this mining culture was moderated to an extent by the various other business enterprises in Yellowknife. But the collective memory knew that all were in town because of the mining industry in the NWT. * 220
North of ‘60
The lure of gold has always attracted a wide variety of characters. Whenever even a hint of “the mother-lode” being found in some remote valley, creek or river, the lust for riches created a frenzy. The NWT was an immense area “full of gold”!
There were many tall tales of fighting off barrens grizzlies to striking the motherlode. Some went crazy and disappeared…until their bodies were discovered in the spring. Others would drift back into town, go on a binge, restock their gear, and head back north on any flight they could arrange. Of course, gold was discovered – and to major proportions. The Giant and Con mines, Discovery Mine, and other smaller operations are proof of that. But many more, seeking the magic of gold, were failures. * I presided at a number of funerals for bush-men prospectors who had died in one way or another out on the barrens or in scrub bush by a lake. There was an odd statistic: There was a bit of an increase of prospector’s deaths in spring. No one had a firm theory why, just as new life was seeping back into the harsh climate of the north, death overtook them… The congregation at those funerals was totally attentive. The prospector’s friends – a varied collection of people, men and women – had come north of ’60 for reasons known only to themselves. As the casket lay at the chancel steps, each knew the one thing he or she could not avoid was death. The “Singing Swede” would walk with me as he and I led the casket out. I recited the Nunc Dimittis as he talked to me in some tongue I could not understand. What made this more unusual was that he carried an axe…all the way to the door and out to the hearse where the undertaker waited. Wally Smith was the Yellowknife mine safety person as well as the undertaker. We always arrived at the grave site safely. Our conversation tended to be interesting for two reasons: one was that Wally was an interesting person, and secondly, he did enjoy a drink now and then… But we always got there, and he knew his trade well. As far as I knew he ran the mine safety office well, too.
221
North of ‘60
The Yellowknife grave yard was located on a perma-frozen hillside with a grand view – and a pre-calculated number of graves previously dug when the ground was softer. If the number was too few, bodies had to be refrigerated till the permafrost could be penetrated… I don’t remember that happening very often. Better to err on the side of too many than too few. No time to waste because it was cold! Prayers said, coffin let down into the grave as quickly as possible. As many of the deceased’s old friends as could get there were present to put the ceremonial earth in on top of the casket. Ordinarily, this ritual is simple; at these grave-side rituals, though, the whole thing took on a much more robust character. Another Swede (not “Singing Swede) always picked up a massive chunk of frozen crud, fired it down into the grave, and said – more shouted – words…some of which I had used with slightly different intent only a few minutes earlier… I am sure the guy was powerfully angry that death had won again, and angry that his buddy had given in! Those were some of the times when I felt a close kinship with the oft-agonizing experience of the mystery of dying… No neat and tidy answers; just the sacrament of the human presence…and absence. * Every month or so, in turn with other denominations, Holy Trinity did a live CBC (Yellowknife area) broadcast of the main Sunday morning church service. There was no rehearsal, no prescribed script other than the words of the liturgy, and a brief spontaneous introduction and welcome. It was exciting, nerve wracking, always on the edge of disaster… But what fun and experience! * A Red Coat wedding is a colourful event! I officiated at one such RCMP wedding in Yellowknife. Bonnie and Tom Charlton. Tom and his attendants were in full RCMP dress. Bonnie was a nurse at the Stanton Hospital in Yk, and had been at our house many times prior, among the folks who dropped by any time. We have kept in touch with Tom and Bonnie.
222
North of ‘60
Speaking of weddings…. A year or so after our arrival in Yk, having officiated at a number of weddings, the RCMP Staff Sergeant phoned me and requested I drop in at the Detachment. What crime had I committed? It seems that all the weddings I had taken thus far did not have my signature on a certain paper… Each civil jurisdiction has some differences in registration requirements. My pre-arrival instructions had missed this NWT form. (Actually, I had had no instructions.) The Sergeant assured me my infraction was not severe, would not require jail time if I did some wedding records signing, and would not appear on my record… He was quite amused by the whole thing. We chatted as I signed. (I played fast-pitch softball with some of the Detachment.) All signed…all good…and now legal. And the couples were never the wiser. I was a bit embarrassed for my professional incompetence. * The Dog Rib First Nations band lived on Latham Island, part of Yellowknife and connected by a small bridge. When we lived in Yellowknife there was, sadly, not a lot of intermingling of these folks with many of the residents of the town. Their Christian connection was with the Roman Catholic church. But we did have a “business” relationship with Jimmy the Wind. He travelled by canoe. He was a good fisherman. From time to time Jimmy would knock on our door and sell us a freshly caught fish. The price was right for him and for us. Brief sociable conversation, and he was gone. Technically, Jimmy the Wind was not allowed to sell privately…Some Department of Fisheries rule. The fish was delicious! Though I never inquired, I suspect Jimmy had other single-fish customers, too. One of my prized memories is seeing Jimmy the Wind and his canoe glide silently into the shore of Frame Lake, just across the park in front of our house. * Ruth’s and my parents visited us in Yellowknife. They were impressed by the warm welcome they received.
223
North of ‘60
Yellowknife was a community of young people. When grandparents came to visit a family, often the whole town knew about it and rejoiced in welcoming the old folks into the community. As the years have gone on, more and more people have worked and retired in YK. In our day that trend had hardly started. The First Nations folks and their predecessors had been in this part of the world for millennia, of course, so grandparents were respected elders, but not novel. The parish of Holy Trinity reflected this age demographic. The Sunday congregation did not have any oldy-goldy folks present – apart from visiting relatives. Sunday school aged children like Mark, Margaret, and Paul, with young parents, singles working in town, individual and partner couples employed in business, RCMP, government employees, mine bosses and workers, etc. comprised the congregation. * Sermons, choice of music, shape and use of the liturgy…all were tested every Sunday by our diverse age range in the congregation. But none were over 60! Because of the large number of teen-agers, there was a huge energy in the building. And what does the church – in this case, Holy Trinity, Yellowknife – say to these kids and the miners, court judges, lawyers, mine managers, nurses, store owners, government employees, movie theatre operators, teachers etc.? To engage this crowd in the liturgy Sunday after Sunday was an exciting challenge! And fun. The BCP (Book of Common Prayer) was the only choice for Eucharist, and Morning and Evening Prayer. I instituted the practice of inviting the congregation to join me in the third paragraph of the “Thanksgiving and Consecration” … the blessing of the bread and wine. This blessing of the elements of the bread and wine was the exclusive responsibility of the priest…But I believed that the lay-congregation should be outwardly and visibly part of that prayer. If I had requested my bishop’s permission to do this, I would have been refused. I did not ask. And no one in our congregation complained to the bishop.
224
North of ‘60
I tried free-wheeling interactive sermons, lots of humour, choir presentations…anything that engaged the crowd’s attention. But l was always focused on the one we were all seeking to follow – Jesus. I think it worked…most of the time. They kept coming. * Music was, and I believe remains, of central importance in worship. Ruth sang in the “senior choir”. She also formed and led a children’s choir. This choir became an excellent addition to the parish. Ruth made enormous strides in teaching singing and encouraging the kids to have confidence in themselves and what they were doing. WCC (World Council of Churches) in RISK magazine, and the Medical Mission Sisters, and Afro-American spirituals, were good repertoire for Children’s Choir. During the 1960s there was a new growth of contemporary church music, accompanied by new “experimental” liturgies. It was like a breath of fresh air, and we welcomed it with open minds and hearts. * The Senior Choir had its moments…a grand group of men and women, including several girls from Akaitcho Hall. Our organist was a good musician but became increasingly short-tempered with the Akaitcho Hall members. She and her husband were away every summer. During her absence, Esther played the organ. Normally when our regular organist returned in the Fall, she took over. On one of those returns I did not invite her to resume her long-standing role… It was a bit tricky, but Esther became our parish organist. She, too, was an excellent musician. And all was well. * The only other Senior Choir hiccup was skillfully solved by Ruth. Those were the days when the rector (me, in this case) chose the hymns for Sunday liturgies…
225
North of ‘60
One choir practice evening a few of the choir were complaining about the hymns chosen…by me. (I did not attend choir practice.) But they were getting on to Ruth with their irritations. After one or two of these sessions, Ruth told them she did not pick the hymns – in a clear and forceful voice I suspect – and left practice, and went home. Ruth told me what had happened and that she was fed up with this, and that she had no intention to return to the choir. The rectory was only a few metres from the church. I went over, told the choir that I picked the hymns, and that if they wanted to complain, then speak to me – and lay off Ruth! And I left. Ruth did decide to return – actually that very night – continued practicing with the choir and received no more guff. That took courage! But that’s the way she is. She is the one that solved the problem. We both realized that the choir was really a good group – and growing as friends to boot. There was always a great Christmas party for the choir at the rectory. * There are many times when a parish priest must bear sad news to a family. Clair Cowles, and Maude, his wife, had a son, Howard. Clair was one of the lay-readers back in Shellbrook. Howard was a pilot in Yellowknife. He was killed in a stunt-plane crash. I had to tell his wife. During a change-over from wheels to floats a plane fell on the installer. He died. I had to tell his family. In one of the mines an underground worker was killed when something went wrong in moving the muck (blasted-out rock from which gold would be refined) was being readied to bring to the surface. He was crushed to death. I had to tell his family. Those are a few of the events that occurred. No words can change anything. The whole community mourns. *
226
North of ‘60
Ruth and I remember with love and thanksgiving many from our Yellowknife days. Many have died, of course, because I’m writing this in 2018 – the ‘60s are a long time ago. In our six and one-half years at Holy Trinity, YK, they helped me grow up. You may get very tired of what follows…but I have a need to mention some of those folks. * George and Elda Dundas lived at Giant Mine. He had come north as an aspiring goalie and miner. George became part of mine management, a hockey referee, and with Elda, a tireless faithful supporter of Holy Trinity. Elda was a magnificently generous person, hostess to all the world, and a lover of dogs. They were in Uganda when Paul was born and became his Godparents. We caught up with them in their retirement in Vernon, B.C. * Peter and Barbara Bromley and their four kids lived in YK. They owned Bromley Hardware. It was the letter from Peter that came to us in Shellbrook inviting me to become rector of Holy Trinity, Yellowknife. Peter became my best friend. In 1967, Canada’s Centennial year (the year of our Paul’s birth) Peter, his son Bob, and Ian Calder, planned a major arctic canoe trip. The expedition started from Musk Ox Lake down the Back River to Chantry Inlet on the Arctic coast. Wardair flew them in, with a scheduled pick-up rendezvous at the end. The date arrived. No one there. Air search started. It turned out that a sudden unmarked eddy on the river tipped the canoe. Peter and Ian drowned. Their bodies were never found.
227
North of ‘60
Bob survived eleven days on the barrens before he was found and brought home safely. He survived because of his inner strength and the fact that his Dad knew how to pack their gear so it would float if the canoe capsized. Tears still come to my eyes as I remember… The Memorial Service in Holy Trinity was the most difficult liturgy I ever had to do. Bishop Harry Cook, elected bishop of the Mackenzie Region of the Diocese of the Arctic, and living in Yellowknife, assisted me. Ruth and I visited the Bromley household many times over the next while. The sacrament of the human presence was all we had to offer. We all gradually learned to laugh again in recalling the joy and fun in life that Peter spontaneously shared with others. * Scotty and Betty Stewart and their two kids were strong members of Holy Trinity. Scotty was Sheriff of the NWT. Betty had worked at Aklavik Residential Hostel in the Mackenzie delta on the western Arctic coast. She was diocesan president of the WA (Woman’s Auxiliary), and member of our choir. I remember well hearing Scotty and Boris singing lustily – Scotty in English and Boris in Russian – as they worked together remodeling our church basement kitchen and facilities. Boris was a mysterious person who turned up one Sunday and continued on with us. It turned out that he was a defecting former Russian spy…quite possible in those days. Canadian Sheriff and Russian Spy – what an unlikely combination. But again, that’s how Yellowknife was back then. * Albert and Gladys Eggenberger were both active in every part of parish life. Gladys not only delivered milk, but sang in the choir, was active in the WA, and was allround bringer of good cheer to all. They were genuine entrepreneurs, and in following years initiated many enterprises. In our time in YK, Albert ran a “mechanical dairy herd” … Milk powder transported in tonnes, mixed to a precise formula, and bottled for delivery by Gladys.
228
North of ‘60
The vats, tubes, mixers, etc. were enough to arouse the jealousy of any distiller – legal or not! And absolutely hygienically clean. I called by the “dairy” from time to time and lifted a few sacks of milk powder. Gladys and Albert had four kids. Garth, you may remember, signed us up on his paper route about an hour after we arrived in Yellowknife. A chip off the old entrepreneurial block! * Ken and Lois Philpott lived at Con Mine. They were among the earliest mining residents in Yellowknife. Gold was the game, and that’s why they came. Lois was a welcoming hostess. Ruth and I had tea and crumpets from time to time. Ken frequently asked if I was interested in joining the Masons. I was not. Lois had a very successful way of getting along with and supporting Ken. “Yes, Dear.”, she often said. Ken was a man of strong opinions in many things – actually, in most things… At the time I was attracted to his theory that the NWT should establish “The Mackenzie River Renegades”. There was much irritation that the NWT was dominated by the Federal government. The NWT did not have any political clout till a capital was established in Yellowknife in 1967. Hordes of government employees moved in, some from Ft. Smith (south of Great Slave Lake) and others appointed from Ottawa. The status, and increase in business, resulted in a more financially prosperous Yellowknife. * Bill and Esther Braden, their five kids, a cat and dog, arrived in Yellowknife in 1964. They came from Rosthern, Saskatchewan. Bill was employed in a YK car sales and service. He had owned a farm implement and car dealership in Rosthern started by his Dad in the 1920s. Esther started as a receptionist at CBC YK and worked her way up to more and more work responsibility. The kids fitted in well. The Bradens included a grand piano in their move north. Esther was an excellent musician. You may recall that Esther was the one who bailed out our parish from a “sticky wicket” when she became our permanent organist. *
229
North of ‘60
Bill and Rollie Holden were warm friendly unique characters in Yellowknife. Bill had been a commercial painter in an earlier life. Rollie worked at Con Mine. In 1962 when we arrived, Bill and Rollie were custodians of the Yellowknife Public School. They, with the assistance of some of the teachers and school children, built a huge flower bed to celebrate Canada’s Centennial. Details of getting the project started were too many and too complicated to recount here, but the sheer determination and “smarts” of Bill Holden overcame government red tape. The Centennial Garden bloomed – with soil from across Canada! I had many conversations with Bill and Rollie over the years. Sherry, their daughter, sang in Ruth’s children’s choir. We were entertained many times in their home. * John and Helen Parker (active members of the United Church) lived just across the street, with their two kids. John worked for Norm Byrnes in the mining exploration and expediting business. In 1964 he bought the business, Precambrian Mining Services. We always remember Helen with thanksgiving because she came over to look after Mark when I took Ruth to the Stanton Hospital for Margaret’s birth (1963) – and then to take care of Mark and Margaret while I took Ruth to the (new) Stanton Hospital for Paul’s birth (1967). John was a strong community man and eventually became Commissioner of the NWT. * Scottie and Isobel Gall and son Jerry lived next to Holy Trinity churchyard. Scottie ran the Hudson Bay store, and had sailed on La Roche, the small ship that sailed the Northwest Passage long before the Arctic Ocean ice pack had melted to the 2018 degree. (The boat is in a drydock museum in Vancouver.) In the days when Mark was learning to talk he called Jerry “owy”. Very friendly neighbours. Isobel cared for Mark when he was too young for Sunday School so Ruth could sing in the choir at the morning service. Isobel attended Evensong and came into the rectory for tea with all the others after service.
230
North of ‘60
The after-Evensong numbers in the rectory could range from few to many – but they were always interesting! Ruth provided tea and cookies for everybody every week! * There are so many families and individuals we remember fondly. Around all of them revolve fascinating stories…but too complicated to recount here. Each made an impact upon us and taught us much about the complexities of life… * The Lovells lived across the street near the Parkers. David Lovell often babysat our kids. He grew up to be mayor of Yellowknife some years after we had left. And one of the Robinson girls also babysat our kids occasionally. The Robinsons were members of our parish. Robbie was head of the NWT Liquor Commission. He will turn up in one of my personal sports stories still to come. * Back in my Shellbrook stories I noted that the best thing that happened to Ruth and me back there was the birth of Mark (1961). I want to tell you (again) that the best thing that happened to us in Yellowknife was the birth of Margaret (1963) and the birth of Paul (1967). We love them as unconditionally as is possible and are proud of them and thankful for their presence in our lives. * Those first years of Mark’s, Margaret’s, and Paul’s lives in Yellowknife were the most varied and surprising years for Ruth and me. I was a young almost-rookie husband, father, and priest. Ruth was a young almost-rookie clergy-wife, mother, and manager of a household that was a 24-7 hospitality centre. Our kids witnessed it all. *
231
North of ‘60
We had clergy from the Western and Central Arctic (and sometimes families) coming through heading north “back in” or heading “out” south. Depending on flight arrangements and weather they could arrive at our door any hour of the 24. Jack Sperry – often with a frozen Arctic char – was our favourite. Occasionally Betty would accompany Jack, but not often because they had two children in Coppermine (Kugluktuk now). * After Sunday Evening Prayer in the church whoever was there was invited over to the rectory for coffee and goodies. People in town called at our door… looking for help or protection and refuge from dangerous relationships or just needing a safe bed for the night. I recall some of the needy ones: A mother with a small child who was convinced she was cursed by a shaman and afraid of her husband. A young woman who worked at one of the hotels. She had been raped and needed a place to stay safely while her case was working its way through Courts. She was referred to us by the RCMP and lived with us for several months. An about-to-give-birth mother from a small Inuit village on the Arctic coast, who could not speak English, stayed with us till her baby was born. The baby almost arrived in the movie theatre where Ruth and Helen Parker had taken her one evening… They got her to the hospital on time. A family of 5 – Mom, Dad, and 3 children from Fort Simpson, the Clee family, had to be evacuated because of flooding. They stayed with us several days till the water receded. Also, the Fort Simpson missionary and his wife stayed with us for the same reason – and at the same time!
232
North of ‘60
A man from down-river on the Mackenzie, a Louchsheux, sobbing at our door with frustration and anger because he could not get a job…and because he was lonely, frightened and abandoned through circumstances beyond his control. I remember a messy family circumstance, where the husband had abandoned a wife of many years for another woman, and yet stayed on in town continuing business as usual. These few references could easily be added to, but you get the idea. The only thing I had to offer was what I call “the sacrament of the human presence”. There are no magic solutions for the human challenges on the journey from birth through life to death. Ruth and I learned much about that fact. And at the same time – even in the midst of the most complicated and dark situations – all of us were able to hold on to joy and laughter…most of the time. We were and are all in this together. * Yellowknife was a place like many in Canada’s North in those days. A whole lot of skill training and experience was not needed before one could plunge into any job or challenge. Just arrive in town, look around, and immediately a whole range of opportunities and challenges presented themselves. Equally true for a rookie Anglican priest. For four or five years I was a regular member of a CBC radio panel called, I think, “Viewpoint”. We were questioned about, and discussed, a wide range of topics – often beyond the expertise of the panel. We offered our responses as wisely as we could… I also became a member of the Hospital Board. The Finance Portfolio was my responsibility…signing cheques a lot of the time. The Board meetings were interesting. To top that off, during my tenure the Stanton Hospital, where our Margaret had been born, burned down. No one was hurt due to the immediate response by the community and the brave nurses and staff who evacuated every patient.
233
North of ‘60
That disaster left no alternative but to call in the Canadian Emergency Organization. A whole “hospital” was flown in from Edmonton in a huge air transport plane. When it arrived, trained personnel, local carpenters, etc., and local medical staff, turned the Elk’s Hall into a fully functioning hospital – and in record time. It was a remarkable transition. Babies were born, emergencies dealt with, as nurses and doctors went about their usual calm and efficient duties. The construction of a new Stanton Hospital was already underway, but the Hospital Board was under pressure to speed up the process. * During those years there was quite a bit of study about problems of alcohol addiction in the NWT. I was asked to do some work with a man who had been assigned by the government to produce some creative way forward in dealing with this problem… A good idea, but… the Liquor Board made quite a bit of money for the government. It’s the same across Canada. * Alcoholics Anonymous had a group meeting in Yellowknife. Like many clergy, I was called upon to “5th Step” work with AA. Finding a meeting place in YK was not easy. Peter Bromley generously allowed us to meet in the basement of Bromley Hardware. AA meetings were so poorly attended that sometimes no one turned up but me. There were, of course, many individuals across the community very much in need of AA. Normally AA keeps a contact name in their Canada-wide Directory. That person has to be a bonafide member of AA. I was not an alcoholic, so I could not be that contact person… However, in this case, since I was the only stable contact person for this AA meeting, my name was printed in the Directory. A trusting honour of sorts, I suppose. *
234
North of ‘60
I regularly visited the Stanton Hospital. I visited everybody – all of any or no faith connections. There were often Inuit folks from the Arctic Coast. I got a Prayer Book with the phonetic pronunciations so I could at least pray the Lord’s Prayer… more or less. As well, from time to time, there were old prospectors in hospital. One of them asked me to be an executor of his will. Unfortunately, he was not a rich man. Fortunately, most of the executor work was done by another of his buddies. * In our days in YK there was no internet. Only the phone and personal face-to-face visits. I took ordinary “parish visiting” seriously. I visited consistently and regularly throughout the parish. In addition to crisis visits, there were mostly happy encounters. I enjoyed this part of parish ministry. I came to know the folks quite well – and they got to know me quite well, too. * The senior Loutitts lived in a little log house in what was called “Willow Flats”. It was the area of YK first settled. The visit with them I remember best was a day when the temperature was about -50 degrees. I bundled up and walked to their house. To drive would have been iffy on several counts: car probably would not start because of all the places we had lived, this was the first that did not have a garage; the tires would have been frozen almost square; and even to try to go by car I would have had to take the VW car battery out of our warm house and put it into the car in the freezing cold! The walk was worth it…great tea and goodies and happy visit. The Loutitts were the parents of Mabel Braathen. She married Nels Braathen. They adopted two children. Mabel was a child of the North, born in Fort Resolution. Her contribution to YK is too long to recount. Mabel’s faithful involvement with Holy Trinity and the business community at large was huge. She had inherited a great sense of humour from her parents. She knew how to laugh at life and with life. Our friendship with Mabel remained on into our future days in Calgary and beyond. *
235
North of ‘60
All the folks mentioned in our YK time made a profound mark on our lives. There are many more – many of them gone on their final human journey. Some of them will turn up in the concluding sections of my story, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. Though none of them knew it, each helped us grow up one way or another. We are thankful. * In many ways I am an old retired jock rather than a retired Anglican priest/bishop. Playing sports has kept me balanced…as much as possible. Sports next! * Three sports – hockey, fast-pitch softball, and curling – were the best connections I could have ever had with the wider YK community. I had played quite good bushleague hockey in Shellbrook and Fort Pitt. I grew up playing baseball in northern Saskatchewan. In YK there was only enough room among the Precambrian rock formations to accommodate a fast-pitch softball diamond and field. I had been curling since my very early teens in Paddockwood. * I was recruited to play hockey for the Molson Indians only a couple of hours after Ruth and Mark and I arriving in Yellowknife. Those were the days before using First Nations names for sports teams became an issue. There were three teams in the Yellowknife league: Con Mine Cougars, Giant Mine Grizzlies, and Molson Indians. No travelling – all games were in Gerry Murphy Arena. Handy, yes, but frequent encounters with the same teams developed a heated rivalry very quickly. The “only-three-team” league games were the only show in town. No TV in YK in those days. The arena was packed every night. On some occasions there was vigorous disagreement with the refereeing. During the final minutes of one game an irate fan threw a half-full garbage barrel on the ice. League wisdom stopped the game, and time was added to a future game… Our good friend, George Dundas, refereed a lot of games. He was an excellent and honest ref… but that was irrelevant if you disagreed with the call.
236
North of ‘60
Another game had just finished when a group of miners, in from the bush, and primed with large quantities of potent liquid, started a ruckus. Their team had been dealt a game-deciding penalty. (I think George was one of the referees that night.) The refs had to lock themselves in their dressing room. The League called in the RCMP to get the officials safely out of the arena! Attending a hockey game in Gerry Murphy Arena was a serendipitous experience. You never knew what might happen… One of the players on our team was so high that he walked from our dressing room to the ice on his hands. He was one of the several players in our league who might have made it to the Bigs. Instead, he continued on the circuit of hard-rock mines around the Precambrian playing hockey for whatever mine he was working for at the time. * Many of us were journeyman players sometimes having a good game, sometimes not. The most goals I ever scored in a game was 2, and that only once. After a few years playing, Ruth and I took stock: two little children; no insurance for players; long before helmets were mandatory… I decided to retire from hockey before some really severe injury. The only damage for me was a severely bruised shoulder – probably dislocated. It healed…more or less. * I was then asked to go on the League Board of Governors. That was fun. We did have to call the RCMP from time to time. But all was well… I do remember one interesting side-light at a game. First period had ended. I noticed one of the players still sitting on the bench. He appeared to be drunk… He was. So, instead of helping the Rink Rats scrape the ice, I went over and sat with him to persuade him not to attempt to cross the ice to his dressing room. I knew him well. We both played fastpitch softball. He stayed put. How he got out there in the first place I could not imagine. He sobered up by the end of the game…more or less. *
237
North of ‘60
As a member of the Board, I became a regular member of the Rink Rats. In those days the ice was scraped between periods pushing hand scrapers. The “Zamboni” was a 45-gallon drum on bicycle wheels, full of hot water, and dragging a sack-cloth to evenly spread the hot water. Primitive but effective. The arena ice was natural, so the in-arena temperature was certainly cold enough to have no post “Zamboni” water lying around – like often occurs in arenas these days. * Louis Prince was one of the stars of the league. He played for the YK Indians and was not one of the “crazies”. Betty, his wife, managed the arena confectionary/coffee bar. She kept everyone happy, but in orderly decorum. I had great respect for the Princes. * Fast-pitch Softball operated a 3-team league like the hockey league. And, as you might have guessed, they had the same names – Giant Grizzlies, Con Cougars, and YK Indians. The teams were made up of a few of us who played hockey, but the larger numbers were ball players only. So, the hockey rivalries were somewhat diluted, and not just a continuation of the ice wars. Except for the odd collision on the base paths or at home plate, the physical clashes were much less than in our hockey league. We played a clean game except for one or two isolated incidents, for example: stepping on the 1st baseman’s foot as the runner lunged for the bag; tossing a little dust by the second baseman as he tried for a double play. There was no spiking on the slide. The quality of play was high and competitive without the macho level getting out of hand. I played 1st base, occasionally short-stop, and outfield. I was a high-average hitter, on base most of the time, and I could run fast. My only challenge was to fit the games into my parish work schedule. Sometimes in the late innings I had to take off for parish interviews or meetings. Church was beginning to interfere with my sports career! *
238
North of ‘60
I curled quite a bit in YK. I skipped several teams in bonspiels that included other clergy in town, the Liquor Commissioner for the NWT, and Peter Bromley. And I curled second with several excellent curlers in the competitive league. The spiel had Liquor Commissioner, Robby, and two other clergy. We were called Three Saints and a Sinner… or the other way around… * A minimum-security jail was built in YK in the ‘60s to accommodate prisoners from the North so they could be closer to home. (One of the rare humanitarian acts of the penal system…) On a once-a-month schedule I visited the jail for a service – very modified Evening Prayer – for any who wanted to attend. Ruth brought the Holy Trinity Junior Choir sometimes… good experience for the kids and enjoyed by the inmates. Attendance was good most of the time. This Yellowknife prison was a total contrast to the Prince Albert Prison I had visited when working those few months as a deacon in St. Alban’s Cathedral in PA. That “PA Pen” was high security! * During our time in YK we attended a couple of Red Coat RCMP balls. The VIP traffic was frequent and varied in Yellowknife and increased as the time got closer for YK to become the capital of NWT. As I was the only Anglican priest in town, Ruth and I attended many dinners to which we would not have been invited in a big city. At one of these, we met the Danish Ambassador to Canada. He told us about “Genga” – Danish pronunciation for Genge, and that there was a novel about Genga. He was a secret agent of the 1600s when Scandinavian countries were at war. The Ambassador promised that, when he returned to Ottawa, he would see if it was written in English. He wrote a couple of weeks later to say that, unfortunately, it was only in Danish. I had first heard of “Genga” from a Danish parishioner. How I could have added to my personal story, maybe even worked myself into a Shakespearian play! *
239
North of ‘60
The Caribou Carnival was a huge winter event in YK. Originally the Carnival took place totally in the Old Town on Yellowknife Bay. Smokey Heal, driving his ancient wide-tracked and covered snow-mobile, marked the 50-mile (not kilometres) dog team race course across ice, snow and bush. A great many dog-mushers, local and from across the North, competed for the prize money – and bragging rights! In our time Frame Lake was the centre for car races on the ice, snow shoe races, log-sawing and chopping competitions and even a fire-lighting and tea-making competition! All this happened just a short walk over the little park across the street from the rectory out on frozen Frame Lake. It was a fun time. Our kids, little as they were, enjoyed the excitement. * Twice we had dog-team racers and their dogs from the Arctic Coast stay with us to compete in the Cariboo Carnival. Alex Algiac form Coppermine (Kugluktuk) was the first. Remember him from our first day in Yellowknife? Paddy Klenkenburg was the second, from the Central Arctic Coast. Fortunately, they did not come the same year. The dogs were tethered outside in our front…back…side – everywhere in our small rectory yard. The dogs were basically friendly, but were not used to a lot of people, vehicles, and noise. Only two escaped. They were found with no harm to them or anybody else. All good, as they say… But our neighbours did wonder. Fortunately, no one complained to the police. Neither Alex nor Paddy came even close to winning. But they were a delight to the other Carnival attendees – and to us. *
240
North of ‘60
Bishop Harry and Mrs. Opal Cook arrived in Yellowknife in 1963. Barbara and Peter, two of their adult children, accompanied them. We enjoyed their friendly and generous hospitality. Harry went to courteous extremes in acknowledging that I was rector of the parish. He even got my permission before making pastoral visits to the hospital. Harry Cook had been the Anglican Church of Canada head of the Anglican part of the Residential School system. Ruth and I are thankful that Harry Cook is no longer alive to suffer, as he would, through the painful but absolutely necessary reconciliation journey with First Nations and Inuit people which is now finally going on. I do think, though, that he would have worked through his complicity and struggled valiantly in the ranks of the Reconciliation process. Harry had been elected Bishop by the Electoral College of the Ecclesiastical Province of Rupert’s Land to be responsible for the Mackenzie River area of the Diocese of the Arctic – a kind of assistant bishop to Donald Ben Marsh who was the bishop of the whole Diocese of the Arctic. They were expected to work together in collegial harmony. But for some reason these two men did not get along very well. One wonders why the Electoral College made that choice. The dysfunctional relationship between Harry and Donald became increasingly difficult for we clergy of the Mackenzie Region. At a clergy conference of the Mackenzie River Region held in Inuvik, we clergy composed a document that said that, while the personal relationship between the two bishops was none of our business, when that conflict was in danger of afflicting the diocese, then it became our business. *
241
North of ‘60
All of the clergy of the Mackenzie River part of the Diocese of the Arctic signed the document. We presented it to Harry and Donald Ben. We said that if this failed to heal the relationship, we would take the matter to the Archbishop of the Ecclesiastical Province of Rupert’s Land – Howard Clarke. The Bishops’ response was not a mutual warm embrace… But neither of them lashed out at us or each other. I think, as committed Christian men, each heard our plea for the spiritual health of the Region and whole Diocese. I think each knew in his heart that we had taken this direct action because we desperately cared for them and the whole Diocese. It took a lot of courage for the clergy to sign our “reconciliation…or” document. All of them, and their families, depended on the Diocese of the Arctic’s system of oncea-year supplies, vacation time, etc. – except me. Yellowknife did its own thing in these matters. I was not as vulnerable. Therefore, I was spokesperson for our gang as we presented our worries and concerns to Harry and Donald Ben. The flight home to Yellowknife had Donald Ben and me on the same plane. He stayed at our house as planned. Jack Sperry was already there. Donald, Jack, and possibly me, were due to fly to Cambridge Bay for a Central Arctic clergy conference. I deemed it the better part of wisdom to remain in YK. Jack knew there was something up by Donald Ben’s and my demeanour as we stepped off the plane. This was picked up by Ruth as we arrived at the rectory. Ruth had a delicious dinner ready. Donald Ben helped with the dishes. He and I were most civil…and perhaps discovered a bit of humour in the whole escapade… *
242
North of ‘60
Subsequently, things were reorganized a bit. The Mackenzie River Region was assigned to the Episcopal oversight of Reginald Pearce, Bishop of Athabasca. Harry Cook was now under the episcopal direction of Reggie Athabasca. That meant that upon Reginald’s call, Harry and I had to fly to Edmonton, then back to Peace River. And the reverse back to Yellowknife at the end of the diocesan council meetings. That’s the way the flights were scheduled in those days. Very costly for the Diocese! Harry became very agitated about the short notice for these meetings and the cost. But he was a gentle man. Confrontation was not in his character. So, I wrote to Reginald. Short notice, frequency and the cost were not acceptable, I said. We would not be coming anymore. Reginald’s response was long, pious, demanding, and didactic about matters of obedience commitment, faithfulness, etc. etc. etc. I responded with utmost courtesy that I disagreed on every point. That was the last letter to Athabasca. I never heard from him again… Perhaps Reginald was away in the Riviera… * I have already mentioned the relentless comings and goings of people through our house. However, we could not expand into the basement because it was not finished at all. Odds and ends all about, much of it left from someone else’s past. One of those was the archaic washing machine, with an equally ancient handoperated wringer attached! The wringer wrecked my surplice… the white garment I wore over my black cassock for church services. I had only one. Ruth managed a temporary mend job until Opal Cook bought me a new one. Of course, the wringer attacked a number of other garments until the parish finally bought a modern washing machine. *
243
North of ‘60
A family of five can get along quite well with one bathroom. But in our house-hold we very often had several other people living with us – sometimes for quite long periods of time. In addition to properly repairing a malfunctioning bathroom door handle, we could have used a second bathroom! * The ancient washing machine and wringer were not the only basement problem. Two fires: the electric clothes dryer caught fire. Ruth put the fire out. I was not at home; and the electric fuse box caught fire. Ruth put that fire out. Again, I was not at home. A level head and quick action are two of Ruth’s many characteristics! * Hanging in a carefully chosen place in the rectory basement was a high-powered hunting rifle. It was not mine. I had confiscated the weapon from a miner who was acting strangely, frightening his family, and possibly dangerous to them and others. We had a little chat. He agreed to let me take the rifle…just for safe-keeping. Fortunately, the lad had occasional lucid moments. The rifle was still hanging in the rectory basement when we moved to Calgary. I often wonder what happened to it. * Yellowknife is below the Arctic Circle but far enough North that in the winter the arc of the sun is pretty low on the horizon. It seemed even shorter light in the town because of the ice fog from vehicles and building heating. In the summer the day is long! The natural light is sufficient that we painted the interior walls of the rectory at midnight. One could easily read the Edmonton Journal at midnight. And the tennis courts just across and down the street from us were often in use any of the 24 hours. *
244
North of ‘60
In addition to the rousing voices of Scotty and Boris singing – English and Russian at the same time as they worked on the renovation of the kitchen and washrooms, many other activities took place in Holy Trinity basement. There were turkey suppers and pot-lucks, tea parties and Christmas bazaars, square dance lessons, Sunday School lessons, kindergarten classes (led by Dorothy McCorquodale), Vestry and AGM parish meetings, coffee-house once a week for young people…mostly Akaitcho Hall residents, parish parties…and so on. * The parish office was in the church. Most of the year it was far too cold. The real church office was in the rectory, near the front door. Very practical and useful. Occasionally the “practical and useful” adjusted to fit new circumstances. The RCMP asked us to lodge a young woman who had been raped. My rectory office became her bedroom till the trial of the accused. She became a part of the family. Often, as she returned from work, she brought little children’s book for our kids. * Holy Trinity church was situated just a few metres from our back door. The huge oil storage container was just around the corner. The parish had installed a warning system that would ring – very loudly – in the rectory if the furnace in the church went off. It did – and a couple of occasions! In the middle of the night, of course. Up and at it – emergency calls, hustle and bustle, repairs done – as was our sleep for that night. One year the oil delivery for the town was the wrong grade – too thick! Huge problems for the whole town. Fortunately, no one froze to death. In the most frigid weather you can imagine, I wound heating tape around the lines leading from our fuel tank to buildings and installed an ordinary light bulb at the bend in the line – enough to keep the sluggish fuel flowing. Thawing out my hands is still a painful memory! * The exterior door to the church basement was quite often that blocked by snow.
245
North of ‘60
Geoff Battersby, a young doctor in Yellowknife, and member of our parish, was also an enthusiastic builder of things. He loved hammers and nails and saws and levels and lumber. I acted as his assistant as we built a walled-in cover over that lower door. Though the steps down were dangerous, it functioned beautifully. Not code even in those days. However, no one fell – as far as I know – and it was completed long before town authorities knew anything about it. * In the inter-play of rectory and church building, the “turkey saga” can not be fortotten.
Even though Ruth was still a young almost-rookie clergy wife, she had learned very quickly how to coordinate many tasks. Turkey suppers were big back in Ft. Pitt and Shellbrook. Her many tasks that afternoon in YK included looking after our three children and their supper. Moving a large turkey in and out of the oven is no small task. It’s hot, heavy, and the grease in the pan is flammable. Somehow the grease in the roasting pan round the big bird caught fire! Again, Ruth’s cool, calm and efficient character meshed instantly. Baking soda on the bird; fire went out; good…but was the turkey salvageable? Turkey supper time over in the church basement was closing in… Careful scraping of the turkey carcass worked! The bird still looked good and fully cooked. Carving knife out, and action. With perfect timing Ruth walked over to the church basement taking turkey and three kids along. All was well… But why was I not there to help? Well, as it happened, I was in a church basement…in southern Saskatchewan at a Family Life Conference…learning about “family life” … while at home Ruth was doing it. I was even stupid enough to wonder, sometimes, why Ruth was not vitally attentive as I recounted all the good stuff I had learned. With measured intensity, she told me the story of the flaming turkey… Ruth was my real teacher, and I gradually learned – am still learning after all these years. *
246
North of ‘60
Clergy and their families in the high Arctic had a vacation out of the North every 3 to 5 years…depending. In Holy Trinity, Yellowknife, the priest had a month vacation each year. The newly constructed Mackenzie Highway was the deciding factor in the parish’s decreasing dependence on the whims of weather or beaurocracy. And that highway improved a bit each year. It was still gravel and dust or snow and ice depending on the season. Beginning to pack for our vacation drive “out” was exciting. We usually departed on or around 1 July, depending on the Sunday dates. And we were always ready for and needing a break! In those days (and for too many years following) I did not have the brains to regularize a day off a week. I acknowledge that it was not easy since we lived right in the middle of the parish 24/7. But I should have smartened up sooner. As our family numbers were increasing – Margaret and Paul arriving – the faithful VW Bug retired to give place to a new bright red Ford Comet! I built a dust-proof (more or less) roof-top carrier for the car designed to hold a folded playpen, camp chairs, and camping odds and ends. The trunk was expertly packed (crammed) to the absolute limit (including my learner’s set of golf clubs). To get at the spare tire would have been a challenge. The need did not arise, thankfully. We purchased a 12x12ft tent – ample accommodation for us all…once it was set up. I’m not sure it was harder or easier to set up than the 7x7 pop-tent of our honeymoon. With no practice, the first time for the big tent was late at night after a long drive from YK to near Grimshaw. We all moved through the original exhausted irritability stage to the exhausted calm and peaceful stage…once we got the tent up! Our holidays “out” always included visiting our parents in Calgary and at the farm near Paddockwood. Twice we went to Crescent Beach, BC, and one summer we spent a couple of weeks at Crimson Lake, AB, in the Bromley cottage, and another summer ventured as far as Vancouver Island. Sorrento entered our lives in 1965. We drove out via the Mackenzie Highway, hung a right at Grimshaw, crossed the Alaska Highway at Dawson Creek, and took the John Hart Highway south. We visited old friends from Emmanuel days, Dick and Ruth Hunt, at Williams Lake. They urged us to drop in at Sorrento Centre on Shuswap Lake. 247
North of ‘60
The road south became the Caribou Highway. We hung a left at Cache Creek onto the Trans-Canada, through Kamloops to Sorrento. We camped on the beach at Sorrento Centre…a wonderful experience! For us, in 2018, Sorrento Centre still remains a “Holy Grove”, a “thin place” … a beautiful blend of “vacation” and “holy day”! I will have more to say about Sorrento Centre later. 1968 became a year of decision. The Diocese of Calgary invited me to become the rector of St. Michael and All Angels parish in Calgary. That year Barbara Bromley had arranged with her Rocky Mountain House family for Ruth and me and our 3 kids to use their cabin on Crimson Lake for July. Lovely time in a beautiful setting. My parents visited us there. But the idyllic nature of all this was tempered by the Calgary invitation. We drove to Calgary to Ruth’s parents. I had an interview at the Synod Office. The request was that we move to the parish as soon as possible. I explained that we could not do that for two reasons: the new parish would have to supply the St. Michael and All Saints rectory with not only a stove and fridge, but also washer and dryer. The Diocese of the Arctic supplied those, and we had no money to purchase our own; secondly, we could not move till the ice road over the Mackenzie River was passable. The answer from the Diocesan official: No can do. So, we returned to Yellowknife at the end of our Crimson Lake time with a happy heart. We had been open to the Calgary invitation, but that was not to be. And that was AOK with us! A scant two weeks after returning home at the end of July, we received a phone call from the Diocese of Calgary. They had changed their mind. Our conditions would be met, and they needed to know my response asap. Decision time once again! I had said yes originally… What to do now? Like a yo-yo… Finally, Yes, we would come. And yes, my employment would start 1 January 1969 – subject to the ice bridge over the Mackenzie being passable. September, October, November, December to get ready! * The obvious things to be done were put in motion: Sensitive informing of Wardens, Vestry, and congregation of Holy Trinity. Not easy. Arrangements for moving van – 248
North of ‘60
usual quotes etc. – to be paid by the Diocese of Calgary. Sorting out what and how to pack. Not easy, because parish life was going on at the usual pace… And so it went. Our three, Mark, Margaret, Paul, were young enough that it was all more or less part of our daily life. It was also a time for remembering… * On my last trip out to Discovery Mine I took Mark with me. He was excited to be in a bush plane. On the flight back, we landed at a prospector’s camp to pick up some of his things. The lake we landed on was in the form of a slightly disjointed X…with one part longer than the other. Wind was right – no problem landing. However, the wind changed when we were down. We had to use the shorter arm of the lake for take-off. We taxied as close to the down-wind end as possible, turned into the wind, and our pilot gunned the motor. He expertly rocked the plane just enough to get the pontoons up on the step and headed for the only dip in the hills. Bit of a tense moment…but we made it! Experienced pilot! Mark thought the whole event was great. I was a bit nervous. * We remember Margaret as a wee little one sitting on the rectory dining room table cutting out valentines. Margaret was, even from a very young age, always interested in family life and other’s happiness. (She still is.) She was too young to take on a bush plane expedition. * I can still see Paul’s little face beaming over the edge of a cardboard box as his brother and sister pushed him rapidly down the hall towards the living room. On the Pacific Western flight south to Calgary near the end of December, he managed to get cookies from the stewards in generous quantities. * I must mention that Pacific Western Airline (PWA) was also known as “Probably Will Arrive”, “Pray While Aloft”, or “Please Wait Awhile”. During our years in YK I flew with PWA quite often. * 249
North of ‘60
After the moving van was full, the driver got the flu. Consequently, our household goods did not arrive at the St. Michael and All Angels rectory in Calgary for three weeks after our arrival! Ruth’s parents were gracious hosts, although it was a strain on them. It was quite a little commute for Mark and me – Mark to school, me to the parish office. But that is getting a bit ahead of myself… I was very sick for the last Christmas Services I led in Holy Trinity. I managed to get through the Christmas Eve liturgy without being obviously ill. But the early morning Christmas Day Eucharist was on the brink of disaster the whole time. I had the server read as much of the Service as possible, and did take a quick dash down stairs to the toilet! Very understanding congregation. The main Christmas Day Eucharist went off reasonably well. I had recovered somewhat. But it was downhill for the rest of the day. Ruth and the kids had Christmas Dinner with Barbara Bromley and family. I was in a guest room bed, hardly aware of anything. By the end of Christmas Day, I was feeling a bit better. Of course, nothing in the rectory had been packed because of the Van driver’s flu. All we could do was tag what was to be left in the rectory and what was to be packed and taken to the rectory in Calgary…and hope for the best. * In our memories Ruth and I can still look out the YK rectory windows…each window framing a multitude of pictures in our minds. Ruth and I were feeling sad to be leaving. Margaret and Paul had been born here, and Mark was only a year old when we arrived… The main front window looked out over the little park to Frame Lake. Ruth had nicknamed the jackpine and birch just across the street “King and Queen”. Before Christmas I would trudge across the kilometre or so of frozen lake to cut down a classic “Charley Brown” Christmas tree. At their ages our kids just looked up at the scraggly lighted and tinseled tree – with the Fred and Norma Cornwall Christmas card star on top – with angelic faces. A little to the right across the street were the tennis courts… Looking the other way, was the Gerry Murphy Arena. The ravens often tumbled and played in the up and down air-drafts off the end and side of the arena.
250
North of ‘60
The living room end-window looked out on the little treed yard… a lovely place when the mosquitoes and black flies were not in season. In the winter ptarmigan in their white feathers rested at the foot of a lovely white birch. The window off the dining room looked out on the path from our back door to the street entrance to the church. It had been travelled unnumbered times by us – and by many visitors; some happy like Gladys Eggenberger with her milk and eggs, some sad and angry like the Loucheaux man who felt rejection by society, and many afterEvensong visitors. That back step was also the place where Mark and Margaret posed for first day of school and kindergarten photos. Just a few metres from the back door was the fuel oil tank for church and house, which had frozen on us twice! From the children’s windows you could see where the car was parked – vulnerable to the extremes of the climate without garage protection! Behind the car was the back lane. The town used 45-gallon drums as garbage bins in the lanes. The ravens are smart strong birds, and regularly tipped the barrels over to feast on the garbage. Our bedroom window always showed us the beautiful changing seasons of the year… and the Stanton Hospital. That was the place in which Margaret was born – just a day or so before the assassination of President Jack Kennedy! Before Paul was born, that Stanton Hospital burned down. Enough remembering! Holy Trinity rectory, Yellowknife, had been home for us for six and one-half years. The rectory has been changed, improved, etc. since our time. The basement has been finished. But we remember how it was “back then”. It was a good home for us. We are thankful. * Ruth, Mark, Margaret and Paul flew out of Yellowknife 27 December 1968 on a PWA flight destined for Calgary and our new home. We could not chance a long deep winter drive for Ruth and the kids. Farewells were not easy. Ruth was feeling sub-par, too, with a touch of the flu. Next day I started driving the 1,400 kilometres to Edmonton, and then on 300 km to Calgary. Farewells still not easy. Barbara Bromley suggested Bob, her son, go 251
North of ‘60
with me as a kind of backup and companion over the uncertain Mackenzie Highway. Bob was happy to do it, and I dropped him off in Edmonton to visit his Granny Bromley. I drove on to Ruth and the children at her parents’ home. Our Calgary adventure had begun! *
252
North of ‘60
253
North of ‘60
254
North of ‘60
255
North of ‘60
256
North of ‘60
257
North of ‘60
258
North of ‘60
259
North of ‘60
260
North of ‘60
261
Crabapple Jelly
CHAPTER 16 Crabapple Jelly How many van drivers does it take to move a household from Yellowknife to Calgary? Only one – if he does not have the flu. But he did have the flu. So, we were three weeks with Pop and Mom Bate before our furniture arrived. Three weeks is too long for a family of 5 to live with two parents/grandparents not having had any family living with them for many years… Ruth’s parents were happy and ready to do it, but it was hard on them. St. Michael & All Angels church was on the North Hill on 16th avenue – the TransCanada Highway. The rectory was about 4 blocks west of the church, half a block south of 16th. Mark’s new school Rosedale, was 4 blocks further west from the rectory. Ruth’s parents lived considerably south from my work headquarters and Rosedale School. During the three weeks, Mark and I would take off each morning of the school week for our respective work-places… I picked him up at school for lunch. Though we each took our lunch, the A&W, across 16th from the rectory, sometimes won. In the rectory there was not a stick of furniture. So, the clean hardwood floors were great for sliding on! Fun! * The parish house, the rectory, had four bedrooms upstairs, and one reasonably useful in the basement. The promised washer and dryer were installed. Once our furniture was in the house – and thawed out, after the long time in the freezing cold of the moving van – we settled in to our new and comfortable home. We discovered, though, that it took a long time for mattresses to warm up enough for us to sleep on them without getting pneumonia! Mark settled in to school very well. The extremely cold weather in Calgary did make it difficult for Ruth to get out and about with Margaret and Paul. I had to get out into the parish, but it took longer, because of the weather, for Ruth to get a sense of the community.
262
Crabapple Jelly
Calgary was the largest city we had ever lived in. This was the largest parish I had ever worked in. This was the first time I had a regular secretary. It was the first time I had paid parish assistants. The choir was the largest choir I had ever had in a parish. Our organist was full-time – choir director, and the first time I had been rector of a parish church with a pipe organ. It was also the first time I had lived and worked in a community with many other Anglican parishes in the same city. The list of “first times” could go on. In fact, it seemed like every time I turned around I encountered another. It was challenging, demanding, and, for me above all exciting! It did not take long for Ruth and me and our three kids to fit in and flourish. * It was here that a wonderful addition to our family arrived! Mary Cottrell was 17 years old when she came to live with us. She stayed with us for two years or so, but from that moment on she became a member of our family. She is our “dopted” daughter. Mary was (and is) a gifted person. She crash-coursed secretarial proficiency skills, held several interesting and challenging jobs in Calgary, moved on to university, and became a teacher. Mary has travelled extensively and was married for many years to Ruth’s and my old friend, David Tatchell. (David died last year- 2017). David was an Anglican priest. Mark, Margaret, and Paul have always looked on Mary as part of our family. And she is. * Throughout all my working life my family base has been the safe harbor for me. All hell could be breaking out in parish, diocesan, or pastoral demands, and often was, but Ruth’s steadfast support and presence gave me strength. And her wisdom was a key factor! You who know me well can attest to that! *
263
Crabapple Jelly
In every parish in which I had worked, the people – wardens, parish organization leaders, and others with no formal leadership positions, always gave me much more than I gave them. The same became true in my time with St. Michael and All Angels, Calgary. What follows is a kaleidoscope of the life of the parish and Diocese of Calgary as I experienced it. It was a rich adventure! * I succeeded Murray Starr as rector of St. M & AA. He and Ruth, his wife, became close friends through the years. When we arrived, the parish assistant was a Church Army Captain, Karen McKinley. She was a wise and able person, and she helped me a great deal as I got to know the parish. Next came Church Army Captains, Graham and Barbara Goode. Last were Gordon and Diana Dixon. Gordon was a new deacon. All were gifted people and excellent team members. Again, I learned more from them than they from me. * There were two other small parishes that had been intentional off-shoots of St. M & AA. They were examples of the 1950s urge to build small church buildings to foster relationships with the immediately surrounding neighborhoods. They could not afford paid clergy. Each had a very small cadre of lay attenders with no ministers of the sacraments. The Diocese was planning to close them. So, Francis Fry, Jack Cooke (both licensed Diocesan Lay Readers), John Buck (priest without a parish, and teacher at Southern Alberta Institute of Technology), and I, presented a proposal to the Diocese and the two small parishes. Obviously, the two small parishes were faced with a choice: accept the Diocesan decision to close them and sell the property, or work with us in a three-parish ministry relationship. The latter was chosen and worked reasonably well. I think Morse Goodman, our bishop, worried a bit sometimes that we were establishing a rival diocese on the North Hill… *
264
Crabapple Jelly
Jack Cooke was a life-long Lay Assistant. He had no aspirations to ordination. Francis Fry gradually recognized that he was called to ordination. I had the great honour and responsibility of preaching at his ordination in the Calgary Cathedral, The Church of the Redeemer. John Buck was already a priest-in-good-standing in the Diocese. His freedom from other parish duties was very important to our 3parish ministry. (John showed me the massive 1970s computer at SAIT.) Those three, plus our parish assistant made a first-rate team. Add to that the parish wardens meeting with me regularly, and the seven of us made a strong leadership group. * Liturgical change bubbled to the surface in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Good! I was discovering that I yearned for some new shape of the liturgy…a new way or ways of worshiping, a more relevant way of seeking and affirming “faith”. That had been reflected in a small way when, in Yellowknife, I had invited the congregation to say with me, aloud, the second part of the consecratory prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. From an orthodox point of view, that was inviting lay people into the sacred and exclusive domain of the ordained people! I say “Good!” “Bad!” say the conservatives… * Ruth developed a Junior Choir in the parish. This was applauded by all the congregation. Therefore, it was the avenue for new words for the old faith expressions. Ruth used a repertoire with the Junior Choir that steadily and beautifully – and subtly – helped us all in our spiritual imaginations. The Junior Choir, with Ruth at the helm, was like a breath of fresh air at St. M & AA. Good music, good words, good theological growth, and young people in the chancel!
265
Crabapple Jelly
Those were the days when the Anglican Church of Canada and the United Church of Canada were trying to work out some sort of functioning union. There were reams of printed material about how this task could be accomplished. Committees, discussion groups, etc. were formed. I was in favour of the plan. In the end the House of Bishops put the kybosh on the proposal. In the U.C. many were disappointed, some disgusted. Many Anglicans felt the same. Considering the traditions and structures of the Anglican Church, the idea was far ahead of its time. But the 21st century has seen much progress made in full inter-communion. We are now in full communion with the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Canada. And new talks with other traditions are positive. Good! * During that ‘60s era the Woman’s Auxiliary (WA) was trying to remove the ‘club” atmosphere, membership required, etc. and to become The Anglican Church Women (ACW), and thus representing all women of the church. The ACW name change represents the rejection of the word “auxiliary”. That word implied women are of lesser importance, and only helpers and not full members of the church. I became an honorary (encourager, advisor, consultant) member of ACW…without a sex change! One year I even attended a national Church Women’s conference in Vancouver. It was a little weird but interesting. There was one other man present with same status as me. And the WA did become the ACW. But not all women felt a strong part of the re-branding. There were no men allowed in ever after! ACW, successor to WA, remains a vigorous force in many parishes today. * The Diocese of Calgary asked me to write a paper for an up-coming Diocesan Synod. The subject was something like “future goals of the diocese” … As a result of this I was asked to spend a few months part-time in the Synod Office fabricating a logistics plan to put some new stuff into action. That was hard work in its own right, and I was still full-time in the parish!
266
Crabapple Jelly
I have no recollection of the enterprise going anywhere… But in spite of the work schedule it was fun to do. * Morse Goodman, bishop of Calgary, might have been a bit “thin-skinned” and subject to worries about criticisms. But he was a creative person. He developed the Mini-Sabbatical program. Each year Morse took 10 diocesan clergy to England for an experience of retreat, learning, and broadening of horizons. My turn came in 1973. We went to Lee Abbey on the North Devon coast, Coventry, and Lincoln College. In Lee Abbey the staff community were struggling to break out of the restrictions of the traditional ways of doing church… all in a beautiful coastal setting. Coventry Cathedral had a huge team ministry. The Cathedral was active in crosscultural and cross religious faiths relationships. The new Cathedral was physically integrated with the bombed-out shell of the old Cathedral. The Allies had devastated the German city of Dresden. The Germans had devastated the city of Coventry. The two cities and their cathedrals formed a deep relationship. The nails from the old Cathedral have become a world-wide symbol of reconciliation possible in a conflicted world. I con-celebrated the Eucharist in the Cathedral Chapel of Unity with Fr. Charlie Brown, a Roman Catholic priest Morse had invited on the Mini-Sabbatical. That was the first such celebration in the Coventry Cathedral Chapel of Unity! We were boarded with members of the Cathedral Community. One evening I went by myself to the Cathedral. There were very few there. A trumpeter and an organist were presenting a concert. Just the two instruments. The music was indescribably beautiful. One of those benchmark moments…
*
267
Crabapple Jelly
The Lincoln College experience was not a highlight of the Mini-Sabbatical. The Colonial and Continental Missionary Society representative gave a most boring presentation. Part way through, I left, went out on the nearby College putting green and putted. One of my fellow Diocesan clergy reprimanded me… But I received no official disciplinary word or action… And Lincoln town was interesting. During World War 2 the Lincoln airbase was an important bomber and fighter base. Lincoln Cathedral was a useful coordinate for aircraft returning from raids in France and Germany…especially if they were damaged and in trouble. On the steep street down from the College area into the lower town there were some excellent East Indian restaurants. * After Lincoln we all dispersed for a few free days before flying home. I went to London and stayed with Colin Cuttell (Ruth’s god-father) at St. Dunstan’s in the East, the rectory for All Hallows by the tower. This was the church of Tubby Clayton, a famous 1st WW padre. Colin was the rector of that parish. St. Dunstan’s had been demolished by raids during WW2. Only the Wren Tower survived the bombing because it had been dismantled and stored. The tower was reassembled after the war, and became the rectory for All Hallows by The Tower. A young man from Saskatchewan was staying with Colin at the time. He and I did a lot of walking about, and I went out on my own as well. London was and is a great city. I also visited Ruth’s cousin, Marjory, in Worcestershire. * It was wonderful to be back with Ruth and the kids! Paul was young enough to be slightly wary of this man busting back into the family scene after a long time away…Reconnection did not take long. Of course, I had written letters regularly and frequently while away, but it was pre-email, so one or two probably arrived in Calgary after I was home. *
268
Crabapple Jelly
This trip re-awakened my childhood yearning for “Far away Places…”. I still have the sheet music for that song. I play it on the piano sometimes. And because of our parish team, nothing had skipped a beat in the parish. Actually, the respite from me was probably enjoyed by the parish. * One day Mark and his buddy were playing on a nearby street. “Want a dog?” the man said. He was walking his dog, and a pup was with them. “Yes!” Mark responded…And Fuzz entered our life. Mark brought her home. She was welcomed by all. We agreed with Mark – we called her Fuzz because of her fuzzy coat. She became the seventh member of our household. One week after Mark brought Fuzz home, we took her with us on holiday… great time of mutual bonding for Fuzz and us. She was an extremely intelligent and friendly dog. Fuzz actually wrote a book in her later years. It was called “Part of the Family”. But that’s another story. You can borrow it sometime if you want to. Why the crabapple jelly chapter title? There were two crabapple trees in our yard. They produced a cornucopia of fruit. In apple-jelly-making-time there were cloth sacks oozing crabapple juice into containers hanging all over the house. We all picked and Ruth turned it all into the most delicious crabapple jelly in all the world! A little side-line was the production of some crabapple liqueur. I can’t recall the formula, but I do know that the ingredients included some vodka. It was a small operation – far from enough to start a neighbourhood distillery…but delicious! Ruth and I enjoyed our Sunday evening parties with other clergy and spouses. After the last liturgy we would gather at one of our houses and solve the problems of our parishes, the diocese, the church at large, and ourselves…and feel safe. *
269
Crabapple Jelly
Since retiring from parish and diocesan work, I have often described myself as a retired “jock”. Baseball, hockey, and curling figured largely in my life. In Calgary I played fast-pitch softball in a very high-quality commercial league in our area. That put me in contact with a totally different “community”. Mark was our unofficial bat-boy. I had to retire from ball after a few seasons because parish work increasingly got in the road of playing ball… sad about that. So, I took up running as a way to “blow out the carbon” as we used to say about cars. I began running even before the dogs knew what to do about runners. Running became recreation that I continued well into retirement years. * Ruth and I curled on Monday mornings on my “day off”. It was a mixed league including all denominations. Ruth was my third. Each season the other team members varied. Two stand out: Ralph Milton, United Church, who became Editor in Chief of Woodlake Books. We considered our team fortunate if Ralph’s rocks came to rest anywhere over the hog-line without hitting the side-boards on the way, but he was great fun to have on the team. And that was the main thing. The other was Walter Krewsky, Roman Catholic priest. Walter was not a bad curler. With him we won some hardware. In our after-the-bonspiel time we always went out to dinner. Walter brought his sister-in-law to make a happy foursome. Our “rule” was – buy the first drink and then replenish from the little shot-bottles Walter had stowed in various places about his person. Ne Plus Ultra, I think it was. The real delight, though, was the season Ruth’s Dad, John Bate, curled with us. I had curled with my Dad in Paddockwood when I was very young. And now Ruth was curling with her Dad. We so enjoyed picking him up on our way to the rink. He was a pretty good curler! We left Paul with Grandma Bate while we were curling. Margaret and Mark were in school. *
270
Crabapple Jelly
In the curling off-season I golfed Monday mornings with Bill Way, David Tatchell, and Bob Greene. My Shellbrook learners set of clubs were still with me…and did not perform any better than they had in Saskatchewan. * Several times when we lived in Calgary Ruth and I would leave the kids with Grandparents and have a few days on our own in Banff. Many years later as we drive past the little bungalow-cabins on Banff Avenue we have fond memories! Over the years we have also camped with our family, and by ourselves, on Tunnel Mountain camp ground in Banff. * St. Michael & All Angels church was on the Trans-Canada Highway, on 16th Avenue, which ran through the heart of north hill Calgary. We had many people hitch-hiking right past our church door. A church is always considered an easy score for food and money, or a bus ticket or wine. Working in my office in the middle-late afternoon, with our part-time secretary gone home, I was alone. I took many individuals over to the near-by diner for a meal. I did not dispense money. Several times I had to be wary and on guard physically when the “no money” answer provoked anger. I often felt sad and frustrated that I could not be of more lasting help. * Those were the years of the American draft-dodgers coming into Canada for refuge from the military draft to soldier in the Viet Nam war. A senior United Church clergyman regularly went south from Calgary to bring back into Canada men who were avoiding military service in the American army. If he had been caught, he and his passenger would have been arrested. I still admire the bravery of the man. One day our family shared our picnic with draft-dodgers in Banff, who had nothing to eat except bread and ketchup! Many of these Americans stayed, became Canadian citizens, and made worthwhile contributions to their adopted country. *
271
Crabapple Jelly
Changing attitudes of any society is a hard struggle – equally for those who seek change and those who resist change. It is extremely difficult, perhaps impossible, to know when a paradigm shift is taking place. Looking back historically, one can see where the shifts have taken place. Not so easy when we are living in such a time…as we always are. * Two related illustrations of the trauma of change occurred at the Cathedral Church of the Redeemer during our time in Calgary. Dean David Carter, with some parish leaders and other clergy, set up bunks in the Cathedral Hall to accommodate the hundreds of mostly young people who were on the move across the country. Some folks in the Cathedral parish and Diocese considered this effort dangerous and wrong. Yet this activity was exactly in line with Christian hospitality and pastoral care, however risky or uncertain the outcome. The second “trauma” for the Cathedral was essentially racist. Some cathedral members and others in the general community, complained about “unsavoury” characters (mostly 1st Nations folks) lingering about the front of the Cathedral. This was back in the ‘70s. The struggling work of Reconciliation, commissions around the missing indigenous girls and women, and the ruined lives from the Residential Schools, are crucially important in the first decades of the 21st century. It’s a long time since the ‘70s. Change? Hopefully, painfully, slowly… *
The big issues start with the relatively small stuff. Music still seems central to all cultures. And laughter and joy can be life-giving. Our senior choir, under organist Eric Houghton’s direction, was a collection of singers, amazing, talented people with strong opinions! Every so often, usually at Christmas and/or Easter, we had a choir party at the rectory. I tended the mixing and heating of the Mulled Mead. Ruth was at choir practice. All were invited back to our house for mead, goodies, and a rousing good time! I believe events like that are joyously sacred…without syrupy piety. * 272
Crabapple Jelly
One parish picnic Sunday we used the Bowrie Liturgy. This came from a priest and congregation in New York city. It was a relatively brief Eucharistic liturgy. OK, I admit that I did not test it out on the parish in advance…or look for any consensus. I seem to recall that I found it in a copy of Risk Magazine… That World Council of Church’s publication was a great resource. The church was packed to the rafters with families, kids, old folks, the works. It was great fun and went over very well…except for one man. He stomped out, muttering “What’s he trying to do? Empty the church?” Francis Fry had a chat with the old lad. The “stomper” came to the picnic…in a fairly pleasant mood. He and I chatted without rancor as we ate our hotdogs. * Another Sunday we invited Marjorie Snowden from St. Timothy’s, Edmonton, to bring her Youth Jazz Band to play for our liturgy. Again, new words and music not often heard in church in those days. Mixed review from the congregation, but with the positives well outnumbering the negatives. * Another Sunday we invited YWAM (Youth With A Mission) to speak about and sing about the Christian faith. This involved dialogue, acting, and sharing their faith with the congregation.
273
Crabapple Jelly
Some of the YWAM expressions of the faith were not my style. That did not matter. We all were invited to travel a new path, but on the same mission: “Follow me”, said Jesus to all the world. * In St. Michael & All Angels our team – Francis, Jack, John, the current parish assistant, and I – met from time to time to discuss the state of parish life. We sometimes used a spontaneous and unscripted form of liturgy. I called it a “Coffee Table” Eucharist. (Yes, we did use bread and wine.) For those occasional Eucharists I never asked permission from Episcopal authority. * During our time in Calgary, Morse, our Bishop, invited Roy Bonisteel to the diocese to give a workshop for any clergy interested in preparing short radio presentations. Bonisteel was a well-known broadcaster of the day. My “radio presentation” was intitled “The Sacrament of the Coffee Cup”. It expressed my belief that the fellowship over the coffee cup at home or at the café was a very real “communion” time. That little piece represented my understanding of the potential universality of Holy Communion. * John Bate, Ruth’s Dad, had served as a licensed Lay Reader in the Diocese of Edmonton in his early adult pre-marriage years. Gradually a latent calling to ordination brought him to the Vocational Diaconate in the Diocese of Calgary. By then, of course, he was married to Mona, and they had three adult children – Ruth, Peter, and Dick. His ordination was in the Cathedral Church of the Redeemer in Calgary. Sadly, Pop was not treated well by the Diocese neither in his preparation for, nor in his after-ordination time. He should have been given better and more thorough care all along. Pop was not happy in his ordained ministry. I was angry at the whole situation. John Bate was an extremely intelligent and capable Christian witness to his faith. He felt that he was not measuring up to his calling…not a good feeling.
274
Crabapple Jelly
Pop died of a heart attack 10 February 1973. It was an unexpected shock to Mom Bate and to us all. His ordained ministry was all too brief. But John Bate’s real ministry had been life-long. It’s 2018 as I write this part of HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. I still feel the strong emotion about Ruth’s Dad’s hurts and frustrations to do with his ordination. My residual anger with the church will not change anything that is past… I have come to grips with that in the context of many other things over the years. So, onward. * Like all the places I have worked and lived, St. Michael & All Angels parish taught me immeasurably beyond anything I gave to the parish. What follows is a list of some people who impacted my life in positive ways they were probably not aware of. * Charlie and Phyllis Carle: Charlie had a tire sales and service business. He and Phyllis had weathered the dirty ‘30s when Charlie was a travelling sales person. Both Ruth and I had grown up in families that did not have much money. Our grandparents were far from rich. So, we had a tendency to worry too much about money. “What’s it for?” Charlie would often ask. “Money is to be used, not hoarded. Be prudent, of course, but not anxious or miserly.” His life-experience had not starved his and Phyllis’ generosity. * Francis and Ethel Fry: Chief among the “Elders” of the parish; their gentle wisdom untangled many “sticky wickets” in parish life; Francis was called to ordination, but his deep faith and lay ministry were at the core of his calling by God – and functioning long before his ordination. A quiet model for me. *
275
Crabapple Jelly
Geoffrey and Mrs. Bell: They sat in the back pew of St. M & AA on a slightly raised section. The choir called it “The Senate”. Geoff was considered a curmudgeon. Some parishioners and not a few of my clergy peers warned me that no one could get along with Bell. Mrs. Bell was a gracious lady who had long figured out how to get along with Geoff. She would make tea when I arrived for a “parish visit”. (In those days many elderly women seemed to have no first name…hence “Mrs.” Bell.) Geoff and I would retire to the basement for a game of pool. My Paddockwood pool hall experience proved more valuable than I could have guessed. Geoff and I got along famously – much to the mystification of my clergy peers. Geoff was a veteran, and one of the first into Hitler’s suicide bunker as WW2 ended. Geoff did not suffer fools gladly…and his range of “candidates” was quite wide. * Eric Houghton: Our organist and choir master. He was an excellent musician from England. His father had been an Anglican priest. One of his other talents was piano tuner. He tuned our piano – and many years later, Eric came up from Calgary to Edmonton to tune our piano again! * Florence Michener: member of the choir; a kind of “caretaker” for Eric. They often went to parish events together. As far as I know, they were not lovers, but very good friends. They were good for each other. Florence was a gracious and dependable person. * Marlene and Carl Stevenson: tireless workers and faithful attenders at church. Marlene was one of those people who saw a job to be done…and did it; often with others but never complaining about others not doing their part. (Ten or twelve years on we met them again at Sorrento Centre.) *
276
Crabapple Jelly
Beryl and David Woods: Beryl was a supporter of programs to strengthen family life. She ran an Observation Nursery School in the basement of the church. Parents brought their pre-school kids, stayed to watch and discuss parenting while the kids played. Ruth participated, with Paul. (Mark and Margaret were in school.) David was a teacher, scholar, and musician. He taught at SAIT. I met David and Beryl at a national Anglican Church sponsored Family Life Conference in Qu’Appelle, Saskatchewan, when Ruth and I were still in Yellowknife. I think it was the Woods who vouched for us as the Diocese of Calgary searched for a rector for St. M & A A. * All these folks gave me a great deal of help as we lived and worked in St. M & A A. But there were many others. And I am very thankful. They probably never realized how much they contributed to me, Ruth, and our family. Of course, there were times when I was frustrated with the parish – and the parish with me. That’s the way communities are in real life. * Bob Greene was rector of Good Shepherd parish. David Carter was Dean of the Cathedral Church of the Redeemer. Each made a significant impact on Calgary city, and the Diocese of Calgary. (And on me.) The city of Calgary was about to demolish several houses to make way for “further development” – which meant ousting people from their homes. Bob Greene came to bat for those people. Bob stood in front of the bulldozer and refused to move. The house was not demolished. There was front page coverage in the papers, complete with photos of fiery Father Greene planted firmly face-to-face with the bulldozer. Wonderful! Bob decided to run for City Council. As a priest “in Holy Orders” he had to have his Bishop’s approval. Our Bishop, Morse, formed a 6-person (clergy) group to help him decide between two options: 1. Bob resign his parish to run in the election (Morse’s favoured position); 2. An interim priest for Good Shepherd while Bob ran.
277
Crabapple Jelly
Bob chose 3 clergy – I was one – and Morse chose 3 clergy favouring his position. I think that was a wise move by our Bishop. Bob’s request won. Morse was reasonably happy and the Mayor of Calgary had a Councilor who could not be intimidated! A holy standoff was resolved without Episcopal authority being compromised. Looking back on it now, I think Morse, our bishop, was rather proud of fiery Father Greene… * David Carter was Dean of the Cathedral during the time that the Cathedral completed the construction of a senior’s residence. Of course, there was controversy around that – as there had been when the Cathedral housed so many transient young people in those years when hitch-hiking across Canada was the mode of travel. When David ran for the Progressive Conservatives in Calgary City Central he did resign as Dean. David won the seat, and eventually became Speaker of the Legislature. During the exercise of his various vocations, David also wrote poetry which was inspired by the Prairies. An aside: My Monday morning curling team, with Ruth as my third, once scored an 8-ender against David and his team! * Re-creation is essential for everyone. Not all were as fortunate as we were. The Canons (laws) of the Diocese allowed us four weeks of vacation each year. Our old tent was too vulnerable to the weather. We needed a loan of $700 to purchase a tent-trailer. Pop (Ruth’s Dad) took the risk of lending us the cash. The trailer was the standard type of those days: hard-top, pull out beds at each end, nothing in the interior except a fold-down table to make a bed (rather narrow, but Ruth and I managed). Pure luxury compared to the tent, which we sold to a parishioner. *
278
Crabapple Jelly
Every year for 5 years – 1969 to 1973 – we spent at least two weeks at Sorrento Centre. You will recall that Dick Hunt in Williams Lake had pointed us to Sorento Centre in 1965 as we drove out of Yellowknife on vacation. For the first several years we camped under the apple tree near the camper’s washhouse. As the cabanas were built, an upper wash-house was added. I remember the odd apple dropping on the trailer hard-top. As we drove through Salmon Arm heading to Sorrento, our kids would vie for Ruth’s front seat. Why? Because whoever was the lucky one could extend his or her legs further than the driver and be first in Sorrento Centre! When we arrived – almost before we pulled to a stop – car doors opened and our kids didn’t appear again until supper. It was a place where everyone quietly looked out for others. Sorrento Centre still is! * I write about Sorrento Centre for three primary reasons: First, it’s there that Ruth and I met so many people that have remained friends over the years. Those relationships endure and continue to nourish us. Second, I had a vision there one of those summer holidays. I was lying on the outer edge of the lawn on the lake-side of Richardson Lodge. Just resting…No one around, sunny and comfortably warm…. I “saw” myself gently enfolded in the arms of the universe. Acceptable just as I was. At ultimate unity within myself and all creation. It was a promise of life-long worth. That happened many many years ago. It was a touch of eternity that lasted only a brief moment. I could draw the “shape” of the vision even after all these decades…But I will not because it cannot be contained in any way…even by these words I use to try to describe it. And I do not speak of the vision often, though it remains as vivid and real as in that original moment.
279
Crabapple Jelly
Third, at Sorrento Centre courses were offered, stories told, campfires shared, wonderfully passionate arguments engaged in, games played, fun on the beach…On clear nights the stars were bright, not blotted out by civilization’s light. Boundaries of thinking were pushed. Liturgies stretched and encouraged imagination. And, as Ted Scott of blessed memory used to emphasize, the only stupid question was the one you were afraid to ask. Jim Cruikshank, also of blessed memory, was the original full-time Director of the Centre. Our oldest, Mark, was a little boy when we first went there. He would ask, “Mr. Grimshanks, would you please take me for a motor boat ride?” And Jim did. * The healthy, the halt, the lame, the blind, the outcast…all were welcome at Sorrento Centre. That is so today. Jim and Ted remain much more than holy icons for me. Being at Sorrento Centre, especially in those years, saved the core of my vocation as priest. Holy ground, thin places…all that and more. In St. M & AA we had a good time. Great people. All, or most, were interested in doing some exploring of the faith journey. But my yearning for more… What? Maybe my dayto-day faith journey needed nourishment… However I try to describe my yearning, I found it fulfilled at Sorrento Centre. Mr. “Grimshanks” was the spark for me. Over the years there were many others who helped keep me more or less on track. Many were course leaders – Herb O’Driscoll for one.
280
Crabapple Jelly
Many, like Ruth and me, both lay and clergy, were at Sorrento Centre to keep alive spiritually. There was laughing, weeping, story-telling, music, teaching, arguing, challenging, learning, failure, success. All that and more! I will return to Sorrento Centre again and again in the pages to come. * During our tent-trailer days we camped in Alberta, B.C., and Saskatchewan. In the mountain parks bears appeared sometimes too near our tent-trailer for comfort and safety. My Dad made us a hinged box for our kitchen equipment. When our tent-trailer was down the box was just inside the trailer at the door for easy access at lunch breaks en-route. One of those times a big black bear ambled into our lunch site!!! --- family quickly into car, kitchen box into trailer, trailer step up and closed, and I hopped into the car. Safe! A very much more dangerous incident than it seemed at the time. We were lucky. * Another over-night camping encounter with the wild: We’d had supper, kids were in bed asleep, and Fuzz was in her place in the trailer. As Ruth and I were tidying up and ready to step into the trailer, a huge mother bear and cub came into our site looking for food! We quietly stepped in – difficult because the trailer step squeaked – but we made it. I quietly picked up the axe in the trailer. Last resort if necessary… Mother bear bashed our kitchen box a few times. Nothing there. Then she wandered under each pull-out bed where the kids were sleeping. The beds were barely high enough for her shoulders to miss…Silence…Fuzz never moved. After a few minutes mother bear and cub moved on. We were lucky. In the morning we learned that mother bear had rampaged through several campsites getting food. In those days anti-bear garbage bins had not been invented.
281
Crabapple Jelly
In the morning light, there was mother bear’s cub, sitting on a log at the end of our site. Since mother bear had been trapped earlier, I was quite brave in shouting, “Get out of here!!” Then we did. Again lucky. * One more bear story: At Red Streak Campground in Radium, Mark and Margaret were sitting on a log in our sight brushing their teeth. A big black bear ambled by at the end of our site entrance…bear kept going…kids kept brushing… All was well. * Ruth and I were prairie born. Along with our love of the mountains was a love of the open spaces – fields of grain, hay, grazing cattle, the haze of harvest time, the frantic expectancy of spring planting – small villages, small cities, and horizons that could go on forever. The northern horizon had led us to Yellowknife. We were about to explore an eastern horizon… * The glorious blossoms of our two crabapple trees at our Calgary home were about to blossom for us for the last time… * For a number of years, perhaps going back into the late ‘50s, ‘60s… maybe into the early ‘70s… I do not recall exactly, the National Church office sent out a form to all the clergy to update general information. The only question I remember was: “In a 1-2-3 order of preference indicate the region in the Canadian Anglican Church in which you would be interested to work.” My choices were always: 1. Saskatchewan/Alberta; 2. B.C.; 3. Quebec. The Diocese of the Arctic, Yellowknife, had been a bit of an anomaly, but our time there had been marvelous. And remember that Margaret and Paul were born there. Looking back now, in reality, we were prepared to consider anywhere in Canada. It had always been a bit of a lark to put in Quebec as a preference.
282
Crabapple Jelly
While Ruth was excellent in the French language, you may recall that I had required several assaults on the Saskatchewan education system before I was finally granted a pass for my Grade 12 French… But I do know that there was a, perhaps, mystical attraction – maybe I could actually learn French one day… * In December 1973 a letter arrived in the midst of other Christmas mail with the return address: Walter Laduke, St. Lambert, Quebec. Upon opening the letter, I discovered he was a warden of St. Barnabas Parish, St. Lambert, Quebec, Diocese of Montreal. “Would you be interested in letting your name stand in the process of St. Barnabas parish choosing a new rector…?” he asked. And thus another “Yes or No” confronted us. Had my mentioning Quebec in the national clergy survey stuck in someone’s memory? We asked ourselves if this was another adventure in the rhythm of our lives… Leaving – going – arriving… each part of that sequence was always full of sadness, joy, anxiety, excitement, anticipation… It was always hard to know the “right time” for any major decision. Mark, Margaret, Paul, were the right ages for a move…or were they? Ruth and I had never actually been in the Province of Quebec… And where was “St. Lambert”? We had to look it up on a map – like we did to find Yellowknife. We tried to pray. We tried to make a list of pros and cons. We tried to discern any indicators on any level of perception that might point us to the right decision. We were happy in St. M & AA in Calgary. But it was a moment in the parish when leaving might be the right choice…or was it? I talked it over with our parish wardens. They promised to support me in either choice. Good…but no closer to decision. The haunting melody of my teen years… “..those far away places…with strange soundin’ names…callin’ callin’ me..” floated through my head. *
283
Crabapple Jelly
Accompanying Walter Laduke’s letter was the Parish Profile. It described a large active parish, with a parish assistant…the usual “good” parish looking for an active team player kind of guy (no women priests anywhere yet). Fluency in French was not listed as a requirement… Finally, with no awareness of a nudge by the Holy Spirit one way or another, I responded “Yes. I would let my name stand in the search.” I dashed off a resume and sent it with my response. We were scary excited! And we waited. * Just before Christmas I received a phone call from the then Bishop of Montreal, Kenneth McGuire. He wanted us (Ruth and me) to come for an interview – at Diocesan expense – between Christmas and New Year’s! Not possible, I replied. But we could come very early in 1974. That would do, he said. This had become serious very quickly. Odds had tipped from very unlikely to quite possible… * Walter and Iris Laduke met us at what is now called the Pierre E. Trudeau Montreal Airport. As we came up the escalator from Arrivals, we saw the smiling faces of Iris and Walter. They made us feel like the decision had already been made by the parish side of the question… We were there only for an interview – an interview initiated by the Diocese and parish. However, we were there to “interview” the parish. * The interview included dinner with the Parish Council, a tour of the church and rectory, all accompanied by friendly questioning without grilling. They asked about my response to the parish profile, as well as other “getting to know you” conversation. And after two days of talking, listening, and observing, the wardens asked me to become rector of St. Barnabas Parish, St. Lambert, Quebec, Diocese of Montreal!
284
Crabapple Jelly
Back to the hotel and time for Ruth and me to make our decision. That was difficult. The choice between “Yes” and “No” was ours to make… No one else could do that for us. And so, Ruth and I took the risk and decided to say “Yes”. Next morning at our meeting with the wardens when we said “Yes” to them, they appeared to be very happy. Ruth and I were still not sure how we felt… The Wardens took us on a whirlwind tour of St. Lambert, with more time in the rectory and in the church. We met Bill Derby, the parish assistant. Bill had been there a year or two already. The Wardens were concerned about that…I assured them and Bill – I would be in charge. Good insight on their part, though. And we met Hilda Lucas. Her official title was Parish Secretary. In fact, she was really the Parish Administrator. She had been in this work a long time. She knew the parish well, and the parish knew her well, too. Hilda made Ruth and me feel very much welcome and at home immediately. Hilda Lucas will figure frequently in my story to come. * Bishop McGuire’s urgency for me to come to Montreal for the parish interview was connected to his desire to have the rector of St. Barnabas in place so the rector could attend the Diocesan Synod in May. It would allow the new rector to meet the whole diocese, so to speak, all at once. So, in May I flew to Montreal, attended Synod, and returned to Calgary to start our family migration east in June. While in St. Lambert, I stayed with Bill and Joan Armstrong and their family. The oldest was already on her own, but the three younger, a girl and twin boys, were preparing for school graduation events. Staying with the Armstrongs for those few days formed a special bond with them that Ruth and I could always count on in our St. Lambert years. * In June Ruth, Mark, Margaret, Paul, Fuzz, and I drove from Calgary to Montreal (St. Lambert) via the Trans-Canada Highway. Not a single wheel fell off the whole way!
285
Crabapple Jelly
There was no camping on this trip – motels all the way. It was the first time driving across the country for our kids…and Fuzz. Paul observed, “Lake Securier is huge!”. The land around Sudbury looked like a moonscape. The journey was a grand experience for us all. As we entered the outskirts of Montreal, we knew we had to get across the St. Lawrence River. St. Lambert was on the “south shore”. At the last minute a friendly truck driver hand-signaled us over to the right…Otherwise, we would have ended up driving down-town Montreal pulling a trailer and lost! He knew that would not be a good idea, and because of his frantic signals, we got on the Champlain Bridge, over the river, and into St. Lambert. * With this new adventure we had replaced Alberta “Crabapple Jelly” with Quebec “Maple Syrup”! *
286
Crabapple Jelly
287
Crabapple Jelly
288
Crabapple Jelly
289
Maple Syrup
CHAPTER 17 Maple Syrup The Province of Quebec is one of the most interesting provinces in Canada. The history of Quebec encompasses many important dates in the history of our country. I mention only a few dates just before and after our 11 ½ years in St. Lambert, Quebec. * The word “politics” arouses wild and sometimes dangerous passions in any country. The enterprise of governance is a daunting task. But no group of people – whether a family, organization, community, city, province, or nation – can avoid the art of governance. And that is “politics”. * Charles de Gaulle, then President of France, visited Expo ‘67 in Montreal. On 24 July he said, “Vive le Quebec libre!” as he prepared to leave Canada to return home to France. That encouraged a growing political urge in Quebec to separate from Canada. We arrived in Quebec June 1974, four years after the “October Crisis”. In October 1970 the Front de liberation du Quebec (FLQ) kidnapped James Cross and Pierre Laporte. Laporte was killed. Cross survived. Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau called in the military. When asked how far he would take the military intervention, he replied, “Watch me!”. There was turmoil in Quebec and shock across the country. The agitation was still evident in 1974. Pierre Laporte had been a resident of St. Lambert. In 1976 Rene Levesque was elected Premier of Quebec. Parti Quebecois! This scared the hell out of English Quebec…and the rest of Canada, too. The night of the election results I was at the St. Lambert Curling Rink, after a game and in the locker room. Mostly Anglos…the gasp was audible. “They are going to take Quebec out of Canada!!” The end of life as we know it here, they thought – and said. Next day at the banks many Anglos started moving their money across the border into Ontario…
290
Maple Syrup
The next day Aislan drew a cartoon for the papers. It showed Premier Rene Levesque looking at the reader and saying, “Relax! Take a valium.” That was good advice. The world did not end…Quebec stayed in Canada. But it was an exciting time to live in that province. Old animosities are seldom far below the surface… Politics – the arena for figuring out how to live together with integrity, honesty, and differences…easy to say, tough to do. The first Referendum took place in 1980. The arguments both to stay and to leave Canada were loud and vitriolic. Ruth and I voted, among the 60% who voted to stay with Canada. But the urge of many in the Province to seek independence did not die. Language laws were promulgated to make it difficult for many non-French speaking individuals and families to stay in Quebec. Language carries a culture, and the mother-tongue French-speaking population knew that the English-speaking population continued to dominate. * Fifteen years went by before the second Referendum. Rallies were held. FrancoAnglo relationships were at an all-time low. Rallies were held supporting a “leave” vote and supporting a “stay” vote. It was a toxic time for French-English relationships in Quebec. This 1995 Referendum was so close that the results were uncertain to the last vote. 50.58% to stay; 49.42% to become independent. By that time Ruth and I lived in Edmonton, but we sat anxiously by the TV till the result was confirmed. * I took time to describe the bare bones of the above to give you a feeling for the society into which we came in 1974. Though St. Barnabas was an English-speaking parish, the political climate affected us all, as politics always should. Of course, many parishioners were fluent in French, and many worked in a bilingual workplace. St. Lambert alternated in mayoralty elections – mother-tongue French and then mother-tongue English. Quite a unique style of governance… *
291
Maple Syrup
It took a bit of time for our furniture to arrive…but not as long as the move from Yellowknife to Calgary! The parish lent us the bare essentials. It was like camping in our own house. This was the first time we were to live in a semi-detached house. Ruth and I are very adaptable. And when the movers arrived with our furniture, we felt truly at home. Calgary has a very dry climate…Montreal is humid. I learned to live in a constant layer of sweat in the summers. I showered – often – but I could work up a sweat trying to dry off! So, wearing shorts under my cassock-alb was standard procedure from May to August. * A little over 400 mailing addresses were on the St. Barnabas parish list – a goodsized parish. The paid staff included: rector, parish assistant, organist and choir director, caretaker, and parish secretary (really, a parish administrator). St. Barnabas was a full vestment parish. Up till then I had been in parishes that were black cassock, white surplice (remember the one mangled in the wringer in Yellowknife?), and coloured stoles according to the church seasons. One Sunday very early after our arrival, I was getting on what I came to call my “super Christian” costume, and Margaret looked into the office… “Dad! You look ridiculous!” … I laughed, she laughed. Bill Derby, parish assistant, laughed, too – at least a bit. Bill was the expert in Eucharistic gear and taught me all about it as we went along. That was good. Margaret’s observation was even better. In the context of a good laugh she unconsciously taught me about what mattered and what did not. All the vestments were the property of the parish. I became quite proficient in donning each garment in the right order…about the same care required as when one suits up for hockey. And, as in hockey, priestly vestments evolve over time. Gradually the maniple was not used. It signified the servant’s towel. I think that symbol of servanthood was the most important vestment of all.
292
Maple Syrup
Since I retired I have become very familiar again with the maniple… the kind that, for example, actually dries dishes… in our kitchen. And proficient with its use I am! * Parish assistants always taught me on at least two levels. Calgary was the first parish where I had an assistant. They, each in succession, taught me on the same two levels. I experienced the same thing in St. Barnabas, St. Lambert. The first level of learning for me from them was the knowledge, skills, experience, and insight, each brought to our working partnership. I learned at least as much from them as they learned from me. The second level of learning for me was a very interior and personal experience. The new assistant would arrive. I would do every bit I could to help the new one settle in and get to know the parish. But then gradually parishioners would begin to go directly to the new assistant… I was no longer the only “go to guy” … The value of more than one clergy person being available for different situations and personalities is obvious… and good. I fully support that sharing…but each time that pastoral sharing began to work well, I had to evaluate my own “possessive” feelings toward the parish. I knew that this shared ministry was good and healthy… I could even laugh at myself, for I knew what was going on inside me. Fortunately, that jealous or possessive feeling did not last long. * Sunday in St. Barnabas was quite a full day. Service times were 08:30, 09:15, 11:00, and 19:00. There was also a Thursday mid-week Eucharist at 10:00. The clergy team used different patterns of sharing the preaching and presiding over the years. I attended all services. In later years Ken Lee, faithful lay-reader – who eventually retired from teaching and was ordained – led the 19:00 Evensong. * When I was ordained deacon and then priest, I prayed the Daily Offices. It was the thing to do. Gradually, I found this unhelpful in my spiritual journey.
293
Maple Syrup
The traditional routine, pattern, habit… became empty for me. Intentional and formally expressed prayers at different times and places became the norm for me. For a long time now, Romans 12:12 “…continuing instant in prayer…” from the old King James version, has given me a handhold for continuity in prayer. I continue to attend Sunday Liturgies and participate in community prayers. In the serendipitous situations of life, I often say a prayer for or about a person or situation. “Prayer” for me has become integrated with living. Seeing, breathing, listening, attentive to the other, moving, silence…that is prayer – at least for me. I viewed and experienced St. Barnabas parish in that context of prayer 24/7. I find it hard to explain clearly. It was just the way I was and worked. I’m writing this story now in 2018. Though long retired, I still “pray” this way. *
Each of our parish assistants in St. Barnabas were, in fact, mentors for me rather than I for them. There were five: Bill Derby: present when I arrived, and continued for a year or two. From Bill I learned a lot more than how to don my “super Christian” costume. Bill had US roots. Bill Bearance: was a postulant from the Diocese of Ontario. His bishop, Henry Hill, asked that we take on Bill for a year or two as he was starting his ordained ministry. He was with us during our Century 1 – Century 2 year. Don Seaver: Don and Linda and their kids Reed and Rachel were with us for a couple of years. They came from serving in a 1st Nations village in the Diocese of Brandon. They had to leave Quebec because Parti du Quebecois’s Bill 101 forced kids to attend French schools or leave.
294
Maple Syrup
Andrew Wetmore: Andrew and Rebekah, with their kids, came to us from serving in the Diocese of the Arctic on the east shore of Hudson’s Bay. Andrew’s father was a bishop in the Diocese of New York. Andrew was quite a gifted person, sometimes, perhaps, a little wingy. David and Lucy Reid-Howells: In 1983 Ruth and I took a study course in Durham, England. While there we met David and Lucy. He was a priest; Lucy was a deaconess. Though they had done the same studies, the English church still refused to ordain women as priests. “Because Jesus chose only men as disciples, women could not be ordained priests”, the English church insisted. Even the ordering of women deacons had been a very reluctant step… Lucy and David were seeking new fields of ordained ministry in the US or Canada. We needed a new parish assistant at St. Barnabas. It was a serendipitous, I think blessed crossing of paths. Fortunately, they chose Canada and came to St. Barnabas parish, St. Lambert! Reg Hollis, then Bishop of Montreal, discovered that Lucy had done all the study necessary to be ordained a priest. Since the Canadian Anglican Church had (finally) begun ordaining women, he (and we) said, “Let’s ordain Lucy as a priest in the Anglican Church of Canada!” It was done! We had a great celebration and thanksgiving! David and Lucy had decided that each would work half-time, a shared ministry. In practice, the parish had two skilled priests. The teaching, pastoral, and sacramental ministry was greatly enriched. Several of our faithful lay leaders in St. Barnabas were still having difficulty with the concept of women as priests…to the extent that they positioned themselves at communion time so that they received the sacrament only from a man. They did that with respectful quietness. But Lucy finally won them over. The ministry of a wise ordained woman had nurtured them through their difficulty. David and Lucy continued in the parish for a while after we left in 1985. Their three kids, Tom, Kate, Ben, were all born in Canada.
295
Maple Syrup
What follows now in my story HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE is about events, people, and my ruminations about this and that in our years in St. Barnabas. The sequence is not chronological – or even logical… It is a memory ramble on a journey not yet finished… * St. Barnabas had a system of Wardens and Deputy Wardens. The Deputy Wardens succeeded the wardens every two years. The parish “bench strength” was sufficient that during my time we never recycled a former warden. The first woman Warden in the history of St. Barnabas was Mary Baker. I named her as Rector’s Warden. Her leadership, with wisdom and humour, was among the strongest. Mary was a passionate advocate for PWRDF (Primate’s World Relief & Development Fund). * The Servers Guild was very large. The newly confirmed were invited to become servers. Some did. Some didn’t. What helped maintain the large numbers was that the Blizzard twins, Keith and David, were young adults who had stayed in the group…as kind of “elders” in the group. Our son, Paul, was a server for quite a few years. Because we had four services each Sunday, a server who played hockey could assist at the Eucharists or Evensongs either going or coming from the arena by coordinating server times and hockey times. When I arrived in St. Barnabas the Servers Guild was “male only”. We had several votes whether or not to admit females to the ranks. Eventually, and without the rector’s “decree”, females were accepted. * Speaking of women breaking boundaries – I attended the ordination of the first woman priest in the Diocese of Montreal…Lettie James. Some clergy left the ordination service in protest. I must add that at least one of those changed his mind in later years.
296
Maple Syrup
Sadly, there are still some places and individuals in the world-wide Anglican Communion that continue to resist the ordination of women. Happily, women in North America and other regions are now ordained deacon, priest, and bishop! * St. Barnabas had a Charismatic Prayer Group. It met Wednesday evenings. Like any spiritual exercise, charismatic groups can go a bit “wingy”. Fortunately, our Charismatic crowd followed the rule that the rector of the parish was in charge. That meant that if anything got wild, or anyone did “spiritual counselling”, the rector had to approve or not approve. There were a few times when I did not allow certain things to go forward. Our Charismatic Prayer Group welcomed all. This part of my ministry was quite exhausting. I attended every Wednesday gathering. On one occasion a member of the prayer group who had been “spiritually counselling” a parish family was about to do some “teaching” to the group. Louis signed his counselling letters, “Louis the son of God”. I told him he could not continue to council or speak as long as he designated himself as “the son of God”. “A child of God” was OK, but not the former. Some gasps from the bleeding hearts, but he did not continue counselling. Roger and Jan Courtois, and their kids, were faithful attending members of our parish. Every once in a while, the Spirit moved Roger to speak in tongues during the Sunday Liturgy. Speaking in tongues requires an interpretation. We would stop for a moment, I would give an interpretation and the Liturgy would continue. * We instituted a two-year Preparation for Confirmation Course. One of the features was a weekend retreat away from the parish. Fred Glasspoole, Ken Lee, and Bryan Hayman were among the several lay-teachers over the years. As this program developed, it produced two different age-groups of “Grads”. So, we had two different youth groups – the older and the younger. Lots of work! And, of course, not as neat and tidy as it might sound… Not by a long shot! But it was fun! *
297
Maple Syrup
St. Barnabas Puppet Company was formed during our time in St. Barnabas. Every so often the Puppet Company would give the sermon in the Liturgy. This group was not an entertainment company. While it was fun, the message was based on the Scripture for the day, and for adult congregations. Kids enjoyed it too, and some participated from time to time. Anne Hill and Jane Wigglesworth and I met together a few weeks in advance to study the scripture readings for the target Sunday. Anne was the script writer. Jane was the puppet designer. Others made a portable stage frontal at the chancel steps. The pulpit and lectern were also part of the “stage”. I sat in the congregation, enjoying and learning with everybody else. The Puppet Company became somewhat famous in the surrounding area. * Bryan Hayman and a musician friend composed and presented a musical meditation in St. Barnabas for an Evensong. There were some readings. Bryan took a turn as warden, too. * Many parishes stage a Lenten Study Series. Usually billed as preparation for Holy Week and Easter, they continue four weeks, meeting once a week. In St. Barnabas, we instituted an almost year-round study program. Our program included Advent (pre-Christmas) and other times of the year. Each study series offered three or four subject options. I recruited a wide variety of teachers, many from outside the parish. Art van Seders, Presbyterian minister who taught in the Diocesan College, taught one of our series. Norman Hendricks, University professor of Philosophy, and a member of our parish was another. The subjects ranged widely over biblical, theological issues, social concerns, etc. *
298
Maple Syrup
There were two Diocesan priests with whom I collaborated and from whom I learned much… Bryan Pearce and Don Thompson. Don Thompson was in charge of student placement at Diocesan College. He and his wife, Sue, lived in our parish and attended Sunday Liturgies. Don and I worked together because we had a student from Dio with us each year in St. Barnabas. The College used us as a “teaching parish”. That was interesting – and a lot of extra work! We had a wide variety of personality and talent in our Dio students! In the years ahead, I met Don’s father in Winnipeg, and Don’s brother David in Edmonton. Paths cross in church-land. Bryan Pearce’s ministry was primarily as a professional councilor in Montreal. He and I met at an ACPO (Advisory Commission on Postulants for Ordination) event. We were both assessors for the Diocese of Montreal. That led to frequent encounters because Bryan dealt with a number of individuals with whom I was acquainted in the parish. Bryan and his wife/partner, Judy, were also dog-musher-racers! One day years later after Ruth and I had moved to Edmonton, Bryan phoned to ask if he, Judy, their dogs, and the president of dog-racers of France, together with his wife, could stay overnight with us… Of course. No problem. They were on their way to Montreal after racing in Yukon. The dog-team spent the night in their kennel trailer on a nearby supermarket parking lot. Remember, back in our Yellowknife days we had had two Inuit men and their dogs stay with us on two different occasions for the Caribou Carnival dog-team races. * Very early on in our time in St. Barnabas, I discovered that parish financial stewardship was very timid, tentative, and apologetic. Come November the parish would discern how much money was needed to successfully complete the year. The necessary amount would be solicited, the more affluent would put out, the budget would be reached… All was considered well.
299
Maple Syrup
But all was not well! I discussed this with the Wardens and Council. The second year of my tenure as rector, St. Barnabas employed a professional church fund raiser, Tony Mawer. One or two of the wardens knew of him. I knew Tony from our Calgary days. It was a Lenten campaign, with Easter as the conclusion. It was highly successful…but I was never so glad to get to Easter as I was that year! Tony’s mantra included, “The test of your faith is measured by your bank book.” More than a tad irritating to some…and resulted in a number of pastoral visits for me! We exceeded our financial target by $17,000.00. From that beginning we developed a budget that realistically challenged a reasonable degree of solid stewardship – not just financially, but also prioritizing our mission. Minimal effort on survival, and major emphasis on sharing. While the parish budget took care of the salaries, building maintenance, and Diocesan responsibilities, we also budgeted for PWRDF, and support of the Diocese of the Arctic. In each case there was a budgeted amount, and all individual giving to either or both was added on to the budget item. The parish as a whole was committed to the budget item, and individuals could add to that as they wished. Though our parish was not the largest in the Diocese by parishioner number, we were the largest giver to the Diocese through the annual parish financial assessment. * That’s quite a bit about financial stewardship. It is a subject that many folks avoid in parish life. Though Tony Mawer’s statement raised the ire of a number of parishioners, it still remains a pretty sharp insight… “The test of your faith is measured by your bank book.” * Courses in the French language were offered by the Diocese. I took everyone offered! My fluency in French increased a bit. I’m happy that our children and grandchildren are pretty fluent in both our nation’s two official languages. *
300
Maple Syrup
January 1977 marked the 100th Anniversary of St. Barnabas Parish. Well ahead of that date I suggested to the parish Wardens and Council that we should mark this important occasion from Advent 1 1976 to Advent 1 1977. A bit of chin-drop…but the Wardens and Council agreed… I then met with each parish organization to explain this exciting plan. Imaginations were stretched at first…ideas began to emerge, excitement cranked up… Amazingly, everybody came on board. Planning for CENTURY ONE – CENTURY TWO was underway! * The then Primate, Ted Scott, attended the weekend of the actual anniversary. He met with all ages and preached on the Sunday. Mabel Stevens, widow of Canon Stevens, beloved rector from past times, lit the candles – yes, 100! And yes, we nearly burned the place down. * Reg Hollis, Bishop of Montreal, was with us for a weekend, and was preacher of the day. After each of the services on Sunday we had a festive “coffee hour”, so he had good opportunity to visit with the folks of the parish. * The year-long celebration included an invitation to every former rector still living (we could not contact the others…) to a particular Sunday as parish guest and preacher of the day. * Fred Crabb, retired Bishop of Athabasca, and former Principal of Emmanuel/St. Chad seminary in Saskatoon, led a Parish Retreat. *
301
Maple Syrup
Ruth invited all the parish retirees and seniors to the rectory for tea and goodies – and a good old chin-wag. This happened over successive Wednesday afternoons until all had been invited. And nearly all of them came! These were among the ongoing highlights of CENTURY ONE – CENTURY TWO. I remember Jim Brown as one of the parish “taxies” transporting the folks to rectory and back. * The Adult Study Programs continued as normal all through the celebratory year. I was very often among the students. * Jim Brown and Bob Blackstock gave leadership, with others, in planning a parish camping weekend. A huge percentage of our parishioners came to the shores of Lake Memphamagog. With the beauty of the lake in the background, we celebrated the Eucharist outdoors. Rain or shine we prayed, sang, and listened together. My vestment was a towel shirt (coat of many colours) made by Ruth. When it was necessary, someone held an umbrella over the ministers of the elements of Communion… We cooked and ate together, played and swam together, walked together, epic poems were written and recited, music played, songs sung – all on the weekend closest to St. Barnabas Day! Some arrived late on the Friday night…My memory still hears Anne and John Hill setting up their tent in the dark – as quietly as possible. But they would not miss a moment of this weekend! St. Barnabas Camping Weekend continued for several years following CENTURY ONE – CENTURY TWO anniversary year! St. Barnabas the Encourager. Though many of those St. Barnabas Camping Weekend folks are well into their last human journey, they remain deep in my heart. * Advent 1 ’76 to Advent 1 ’77 was a CENTURY ONE – CENTURY TWO celebration!
302
Maple Syrup
It was truly a joyful wonder to see the energy of that year. I think the potential disaster of the 100 candles burning brightly was a symbol of the risk it takes to give God thanks for the gift of life every day… * Our parish was active in the part of the Diocese called The Southshore Deanery. The parishes of this region met regularly – lay and clergy – to share, plan, and eat together. The Regional Dean – a title for the person who chaired these meetings – was elected by the Deanery. I held that position for a time. We also had clergy gettogethers from time to time. They were fun and fellowship occasions. * I had good relationships with clergy of other denominations. One of our RC brothers had a cottage in Bromont. We would meet there for a meal and lively conversation. For those of us married, our wives came along. For those not married…I do not remember any girlfriends there. * Reg Hollis, our bishop, appointed me a Canon of the Diocese of Montreal… That still strikes me as very amusing. In the past a “Canon” was often part of the management of a Cathedral. They were senior clergy and considered persons of power and influence. That was certainly not the case in our time. The designation was an honorary “position” usually given to a diocesan priest in recognition of general good service in the diocese. Our ‘dopted’ daughter, Mary Cottrell, or maybe Mary Baker, gave me a little brass model of a military field canon… That was the spirit in which I viewed the “honour”. It was, of course, a kind gesture on the part of our Bishop, and I courteously accepted… * I was a member of several different national and international committees of the Anglican Church of Canada when we live in St. Lambert. There were meetings in Kingston and Toronto. I was twice in Belize, once in Guatemala, a couple of times in Miami, and once in Baltimore and New York. 303
Maple Syrup
* Jack Sperry, then Bishop of the Arctic, invited me to be chaplain to the Eastern Arctic Clergy Conference in Iqaluit (Frobisher Bay). I don’t know how useful I was to the gathering, but it was a growing experience for me. I met several of the Inuit clergy in following years as we chanced to meet at various national church meetings. * Mark Genge was Bishop of Central Newfoundland when we lived in St. Lambert. While one of his daughters thought I looked just like Uncle Fred in Flowers Cove, Mark and I could not discover common relatives. I called him “Cousin Mark”. Mark invited me to come to Gander to be chaplain to the Diocesan Clergy Retreat. As it turned out, the off-shore oil driller, Ocean Ranger, sank 15 February 1982, just a day or two before I arrived in Gander. All 84 crew were lost, 56 of whom were Newfoundlanders. There were few people in Newfoundland that were not related to, or knew well, some person on that crew. The folks on “The Rock”, as Newfoundlanders call their province, are a hardy and resilient lot. In the midst of shock and sorrow their sea-faring heritage let them weep and laugh at the same time. Mark took me to a comedy night in the Gander theatre. We fell out of our seats laughing at the infectious humour! The Clergy Retreat went on as planned and the profound faith of the participants gave my spirit nourishment. * In the mid ‘70s Bob MacRae, Canadian Anglican priest and friend, head of PWRDF in church headquarters in Toronto, asked me to write a booklet “to provoke us to a deeper Spiritual life”. The result was entitled SOME POEMS, LITANIES, PRAYERS AND MEDITATIONS on WORLD RELIEF AND DEVELOPMENT.
304
Maple Syrup
It was published for use in Lent 1977 “to assist those called to present the word of the Lord to a world broken by unshared bread”. Both quotations are Bob’s words. While I wrote some of the content, I was mostly an “editor”, bringing in other content originating in other parts of the world Later, Bob asked me to write another booklet for PWRDF. That one was titled TOGETHER IN CHRIST: PRAYERS and MEDITATIONS ON WORLD RELIEF AND DEVELOPMENT. Bob took a risk in challenging me to write/edit the little publications. My hope and prayer were that they would be of some use to someone, somewhere, sometime, when she or he needed what they offered. I probably gained more in the writing of them than those who read and used them. * In 1977 I was elected as a delegate to the national General Synod for the Diocese of Montreal. The Synod was held in Calgary. So, using the money that I was given for my air-fare, we rented a Mini-Winnie mobile home. What fun! Ruth, Mark (who had a leg cast because of a car crash), Margaret, Paul, and Fuzz, all together in a rather confined space… The drive across the country to Calgary, Alberta, was a wonderful time. Ruth and I have a great affection for the startling changes that delight us in travelling by road – geography, topography, cultural habits and traditions – from coast to coast. (And the third coast, too, by air.) I confess that even though I am aware of the ease with which nationalism can be destructive, I still get a thrill when O Canada is sung. Back in those days we used to say that the anthem would be so much better if the word “us” was substituted for “son” – and now it is! Our Mini-Winnie was parked next door to Ruth’s Mom in Calgary. We all holidayed as much as we could together. But I vowed never again to combine “vacation” with “work”. Then we spent a week at Sorrento Centre – since 1965 a renewal place for us.
305
Maple Syrup
As we began our drive back home to St. Lambert, we did not dream that Sorrento Centre would one day be “home”. * One year we broke our vacation in the middle to take in some of the Olympics. Another year we taught ourselves to play recorders. Hilarious! Only inside the trailer! Eventually we went on to play the instruments in campgrounds – outside. * In 1975 we took the five of us to England for five weeks! Fuzz stayed with friends in St. Lambert. The adventure was wonderful. We had no reserve money. We just ran on some savings and our regular salary, and the generosity of our hosts. We spent two weeks at Lee Abbey on Lee Bay near Lynton and Lynmouth; rented a car in Bristol; drove to Hambridge in Somerset, the place where my Mom, Grace England, was born; to Lincoln and stayed with Bert and Audrey Morton and their family; visited Trevor and Maureen Wright; and on to Marjorie Bate and Barbara and Charles Hicks near Stourbridge and not far from Birmingham. Marjorie and Barbara are Ruth’s second cousins. At Lorna Doone farm I bought a shepherd’s crook for a British pound. I used it to guide our kids on train platforms as we travelled. That was 1975…In 1988 I would use it for something completely different. In London (without car!) we stayed at St. Dunstan’s in the East. The little church had been bombed out during WW2, but the Wren Tower survived. The reassembled tower became the rectory for Colin Cuttell, rector of All Hallows by the Tower. Colin was Ruth’s godfather and long-time friend of Ruth’s parents. Colin retreated to his house in Seven Oaks to give us free run of the place. Great fun for the kids…circular stairs in the tower, bedrooms on different levels, kitchen at different level again…magical. We took the tube to different places and walked London.
306
Maple Syrup
We did a day-trip to Canterbury for lunch. Traveled 1st Class – by mistake – and were never thrown off the train! This grand adventure is remembered with pleasure by us all. The only downer was that Paul contracted an eye infection. It was dealt with to some degree in England. Treatment was continued in Montreal. But Paul still has a slight impediment in one eye. He has adapted to that courageously and with determination. He has remained a good athlete with a contagious happy outlook on life. But Ruth and I regret that we could not have done something better for him. * Paul played elite hockey. He was good. Though he was learning French in school, he picked up the “real” French on the ice competing in the corners! I was very proud of his skill as well as his determination. For most of the players, their mother-tongue was French. Paul’s happy personality just naturally helped him get along with all kinds. He was often chosen as team captain. The parents of the team players were most gracious and accepting of my very limited French. I was known to parents and players alike as “Monsieur Shoot Shoot”! I never railed at referees, opposition players, or our players…I just hollered “Shoot! Shoot!” when our team was closing in on the goal. I don’t think Paul was ever embarrassed by my team encouragement. In Paul’s teen years he worked gardening and grass-cutting, and installing tennis courts, for the city and private companies. He is now (2018) a high-school teacher in Pointe-Claire, Quebec. *
307
Maple Syrup
Margaret earned her way through university as a life-guard for the town of St. Lambert. She became very well-known at the various pools, and much liked by the kids and parents. Her athletic ability took her to several track meets in town and to other parts of the province. Margaret earned her first degree in Concordia, and the second in McGill. She is now teaching in Langley, B.C. * Like his sister and brother, Mark was an excellent athlete. In addition to ball hockey and basketball, he played very competitive soccer. And one year he and his team won the national touch-football championship. Mark worked for St. Lambert Parks department. He studied photography and worked many years in that industry and had a stint in administration with Young Drivers of Canada. Mark is now an RCMP officer. * Two blocks down the street from our house were the St. Lambert Locks, part of the St. Lawrence Seaway system. Huge freighter ships passed through the locks heading into the Great Lakes or heading out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. It was a while before we became used to seeing these hulks passing by. From Riverside Drive by the locks we could see the geodesic dome, a relic from the 1967 Expo just across the channel on Ile Ste. Helene. We often went onto the island for family expeditions and picnics. And a little closer than the Expo site, on Riverside Drive was the Legion running track. Both Ruth and I used that track often as we ran to keep in shape. I also used Queen’s Boulevard for the same reason. Ruth walked Fuzz on Queen’s daily and used the St. Lambert pool regularly. We both believed that regular physical exercise is an absolutely necessary component for healthy living…and in 2018 we still do! *
308
Maple Syrup
Ruth and I and our kids went each year to “Sugaring Off” events in the surrounding countryside. We wandered through the sugar maple groves listening to the “ping ping” of sap dropping into the pails, eating delicious maple syrup snow candies on a stick, and finishing off with a hearty meal in the Sugar Shack dining area. Mounds of eggs, bacon, sausages, veggies…all smothered in real maple syrup! And sugar pie for dessert! One day when our three were in school, Ruth and I visited one of the maple sugar groves, listened to the sap drip into the pails – and decided to buy a Trillium camper trailer. Fuzz was greatly alarmed when I drove off with the old tent trailer. She recognized the activity. Something was wrong…Was she being left behind? Ruth calmed her down. And when I returned pulling our new trailer, she realized she had not been abandoned by her family. In her senior years Fuzz wrote a book entitled PART OF THE FAMILY. I will tell you about that later. * My parents and Ruth’s Mom visited us several times during our 11 ½ years in St. Lambert. Mary visited us a number of times, too. And Wendy my sister, Peter, Ruth’s brother, and Joan and their kids, my brother Gary, and Barbara Bate, our sister-in-law, all visited us as well. Good times all. * Most years we vacationed in Prince Edward Island. Twin Shores Campground had been referred to us by Ken and Marjory Lee, and Bill and Joan Armstrong, all members of our parish. We loved the ocean – sun, sand, and lobster dinners! Always a drive-in movie, and Anne of Green Gables was a hit! *
309
Maple Syrup
The 1976 Olympics were held in Montreal. Mayor Jean Drapeau and team put the city in huge debt – which took many years to repay. However, the event was a huge success when measured in excitement and massive influx of tourists and their money! Our family managed to take in some of the sporting events…which were expensive but worth it, we thought. The Big O, the main stadium, was a spectacular structure. The retractable roof never worked properly, and in later years parts of the cement structure needed emergency repair. The Montreal Expos moved there from Jerry Park and played some spectacular baseball. I still remember Andre Dawson, Tim Rains, Gary Carter…. and other ballplayers of a by-gone age. But the Expos were sold to Washington… Rats! * The old Montreal Forum was a hallowed building in Canadian hockey life. The Montreal Canadians, the Habs, were the kings of the game! The Richard brothers, Guy Lafleur, Jean Beliveau, Larry Robinson, Cornoyer, Jacquie Plante, Boom Boom Geffrion, Serge Savard, and earlier, Coach Toe Blake… If you love hockey, you will remember many more from the years of the greatest runs of Stanley Cup wins. The years since have seen the NHL expand. The teams are now much more matched because the very best players are dispersed throughout the league. Gordie Howe, Wayne Gretsky, and Mario Lemieuex were not Habs but among the elite players of the “good old hockey game”! We attended some games in the Forum. It was magic…The great run of Stanley Cup wins by the Habs occurred during our years in Quebec. I still find hockey and baseball games on TV as a kind of connection with real life – not withstanding that pro sports are a tough and unforgiving business for all involved… *
310
Maple Syrup
Every time I “digress” into something not obviously my personal story, I wonder why… And then I realize that in some indefinable way each is a part of my journey from “there” to “here”. So, I welcome these little forays into my recollections. Perhaps they are a bit strange for a “memoire” but I enjoy them – even though, for example, I never played hockey in the Forum or baseball in the Big 0… * In 1981 my Mom and Dad visited us. We had a lovely time. They were on the verge of flying home to Prince Albert, to their retirement home. Ruth and I were sleeping in our Trillium so they could have our bedroom. In the middle of the night my Mom knocked on the trailer door. “Your Dad is not well. I think you should come in…”. He was not well. I called the ambulance… first to the Charles Lemoine Hospital, and then to the Montreal General. After seventeen hours of struggle, Dad died of a heart attack… huge shock for Mom and all of us. We went home to tell Mark, Margaret, and Paul, and phoned Wendy and Gary. Tears and hugs…the only kind of “words” that made any sense. Margaret and Dave Kasper were dating in those days. Dave was at our house when we came home with the news that Dad/Grandpa had died. I remember well meeting him on the stairs and being glad he was there. Dave remains our beloved son-in-law. Margaret made a good choice…So did Dave. All the necessary arrangements were made. I am forever grateful that Don Seaver delayed his departure from St. Barnabas to take a brief service in the church for us. That was the kind of pastoral friendship that had marked Don’s ministry in St. Barnabas parish. My Mom, Gary (who had flown in from Saskatoon), and I flew to Saskatoon. Because our children were in school and we could not afford for all to go, Ruth stayed in St. Lambert. Danny and Carolyn, Gary and Connie’s children, were speechless in their grief, as was Wendy and her children, Chris, Keith, and Kevin.
311
Maple Syrup
Dad’s funeral was in the church in Prince Albert where Mom and Dad attended after they retired from the farm and moved to PA. The cremated ashes of my Dad were gently kept till a number of years later. After my Mom’s death, Gary interred both Mom’s and Dad’s ashes on an island off-shore from the cabin my Dad had helped Gary build on Nemeiben Lake, near Lac La Ronge in northern Saskatchewan. I flew home to Ruth, Mark, Margaret, and Paul. Each of us worked through our bereavement in our own way. Ruth and I were in our own bedroom. I was sleeping on the same side of our bed as Dad had slept…For some time I had the strange feeling of not knowing who I was…my Dad or myself… That is the only way I can describe that peculiar feeling… an inadequate description… Perhaps you can imagine or sense what I can’t fully describe… Perhaps you have experienced that yourself… In the course of my parish ministry I had been with many people dying, present with their families, and taking funeral services. I think I had been kind, caring and compassionate in the many scenarios of bereavement… But with the death of my Dad, I realized in a new very personal way that I was just learning to be present with death. * In 1984 Bishop Reg Hollis and Executive called a Special Synod to elect a suffragan (assistant) bishop for the Diocese of Montreal. Some clergy and people asked me to let my name be included in the nominees. That in itself was a shock. But the hard question, once again, was “Yes” or “No” … And once again I, with Ruth, searched for the right response. The lure of a “prestigious” position was acknowledged. Pious imaginations of the good things I could do in the job fluttered into view. And flattery had a bit part to play in the decision scenario… Did I have what it took (whatever that was) to do the job? Was my French good enough to improve quickly? What did Ruth really think? That was very important to me…She did have some hesitations.
312
Maple Syrup
Our kids thought it was great. They could continue to live in St. Lambert with their friends. All five of us knew, however, that I was nearing the end of my usefulness in St. Barnabas parish. Everything was rolling along very well in the parish. But in an important way that was a problem. The likely possibility was that I would not “win” the episcopal election even if I did let my name stand. How would I deal with that – both in the parish and in myself? Whatever happens is the will of God… Right??? And so, the quest was, once again, a collection of uncertainties. I never got a message from the Holy Spirit, as far as I could tell, telling me what to do. I could not sort out the pros and cons…or even trust my list! So, with as much responsibility as I could muster riding with risk – and Ruth with me – I said “Yes” to the nomination and danced off into tomorrow with a relatively light heart. The same week as the episcopal election I had been over to the Diocese of Niagara to give the homily at the funeral of Don Seaver. Don had died of a brain tumor. In the episcopal election I came in second… In the following Sunday liturgies at St. Barnabas I gave a report on Don’s funeral, and how Linda and their kids were dealing with it all. And I spoke about the Diocesan episcopal election. For the funeral: I expressed the sorrow and loss the whole parish felt. We gave thanks for the beautiful ministry Don had given to us all. That was very emotionally difficult for me. About the election: I said that I was thankful that it was over. I really was, I discovered. I acknowledged that coming in second in anything is always annoying… The congregation was able to chuckle about that a bit. That Sunday I almost lost my voice. Tension? Yes, I think so. What had I wanted for that week? The only thing I was sure of was that I had not wanted Don to die. For the rest…well…
313
Maple Syrup
Mark, Margaret, and Paul, knew that I was a competitive person. But they were happy I had “lost” because their normalcy would continue. Ruth knew that I had been under a lot of pressure around both events. She was thankful at the election results – and I was increasingly thankful, too. What would be next? I wondered… I knew that my usefulness in the parish was pretty much over. I was exhausted and needed a change. The parish was humming along well. We had Lucy and David ReidHowells relatively newly arrived as the “two for the price of one” assistant(s). Their ministry among us was blossoming. And so, I now could “wait for what was next”. So, I did. With David and Lucy in the parish, the future of St. Barnabas was bright – even without me. What a brilliant realization…! * Late 1984 brought two invitations to consider. Over the years in parish ministry I had gradually developed the habit of talking over assessment of my functioning in a parish with wardens. That was as close to formal evaluation of my ministry as I thus far had come. In this case, what the wardens told me was: “the parish is healthy and happy; we are thankful for your ministry; it would be good if you are willing to continue; but if you deeply think it is time to move on, we will support you and help you to interpret that to the parish.” That was both affirming and freeing. So, the ball was back in my court… * The first invitation was from the Diocese of Niagara. The Bishop called it “The flagship parish of the Diocese”. The Bishop invited me to come to the parish, meet the Search Committee, view the rectory, etc. It was an attractive parish. They wanted to look me over, and I wanted to look them over, also. My response was, “Thank you for the offer, but I cannot say yes.” I was polite, but rather vague… My real reason was: take that parish’s Sunday bulletin, put “St. Barnabas, St. Lambert”, on the cover; put the Niagara parish’s name on the Sunday bulletin of St. Barnabas…and you could not tell them apart… I needed a real change.
314
Maple Syrup
“No.” was the right answer for me. And so, that “invitation” was dealt with. Ruth and I felt good about that. In retrospect, I suspect that my near exhaustion in St. Barnabas had been a vaguely perceived tiredness with many aspects of “churchland” … * About the same time as the Niagara invitation, I received a letter from Archbishop Doug Hambidge in B.C. I had met him at various national church meetings and enjoyed his sense of humour. Sorrento Centre was looking for a new Director (Executive Officer). He strongly urged me to apply – and right away! In past years Ruth and I had met Doug and Denise and their family at Sorrento Centre. He still reminds me that I had thrown their son, Stephen, into the lake at Sorrento Centre… (I, in fact, was simply teaching him and several others how to walk on water. There were no graduates. On the other hand, no one drowned…) Living at Sorrento Centre! Wow! What an exciting possibility! But our imagination quickly moved to very important matters – moving right across the country… and Mark, Margaret, and Paul…move with us or stay in St. Lambert? Mark’s photography school studies were almost concluded; Margaret was a fledgling teacher; Paul was 18 and graduating from high school. Tough questions each way we turned. Ruth and I knew it was time to leave St. Barnabas. So, I scrawled a few notes on the back of an old CV and sent it off to Doug in Vancouver. Very shortly after, Rusty Brown, then Dean of the Cathedral in Edmonton, and chair of the Sorrento Board, phoned to invite Ruth and me to an interview in Vancouver, including a stop-over at the Centre. Our visit to the Centre was our first in the winter. We discovered that past memories were not buried by the snow! The Vancouver interview procedure was strange. Ruth was not part of the interview; Fran Haberlin, acting Director since Dirk and Karen Rinehart had departed, was around, but not involved in the interview; and neither Fran nor any other core community of the Centre were involved in the search at all.
315
Maple Syrup
I learned in the interview that the Director and spouse were expected to live in a type of communal sharing of food, etc., with a ridiculously small salary! Not for Ruth and me! Community team – Yes. Commune – No. After consultation with Ruth, I told the Search Committee that we were prepared to go home, do some numbers crunching and come up with a proposal under which we might be willing to come. The Committee agreed, and so – home. Ruth and I produced a salary figure, other details and conditions, and sent that to Rusty Brown. The Board accepted this! And so, Game On! Departure from St. Lambert would be August 1985! All the travel, moving van selection, etc. were gradually arranged. The reality of our decision was settling in… * The parish put on the most extravagant farewell party I have ever seen. It took place in late June because many parishioners would be away in July-August. I cannot list the massive number of gifts given to us…including a sizeable gift of money. All the kids I had baptized were gathered. The Youth Group was there enmasse. Servers were present. Speeches were made. Ruth and I had no words to properly respond. We were overwhelmed. I was too exhausted to even weep. Others did, though. It was a hard time for Paul and Margaret… (Mark had already headed west to his photo job in Banff.) Paul and Margaret would be staying, Margaret with Mary Baker, Paul with the family of a friend whom we knew. It was a hard time for us, too. Somehow, we knew the Sorrento Centre plan was right. But my heart still hurts when I remember leaving Margaret and Paul. * As we prepared to leave, I could not figure out a way to say farewell to so many people who were so significantly connected to us through these 11 ½ years… My “people-roots” were so very deep. And in each of our leaving-times from past parishes it had been the same.
316
Maple Syrup
Those “people-roots” were not only mine with St. Barnabas. During our time in St. Lambert Ruth had many connections in the community also. She did a lot of volunteering; some on-call teaching; took a couple of years piano lessons; sang in the St. Lambert Choral Society; gave singing lessons to a large number of kids – including presenting them in public and parish performances; sang in the Senior Choir; directed the Senior Choir after Ray Alexander, organist and choir director, died; managed the Parish Information Board; and when Hilda Lucas was severely injured in a fall and needed a long recovery, Ruth directed the Junior Choir. She walked Fuzz daily, jogged the city streets, and swam in the municipal pools. All through my life adventures Ruth and our family remain my anchor. Over the years many people I have encountered have been part of my “growing up”. But what I have learned and absorbed from Ruth – and our kids – remains central to whatever degree of maturation I have achieved. During my stories telling HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE, I mention many individuals. Why? Because they all, each in their unique way, taught me, challenged me, influenced me, as I continued to grow. And my memories of them still invite me to maturity. I often say, “I still don’t know what I’m going to be when I grow up.” Adults chuckle, kids look at each other and think – often say – “Is this old guy nuts?” But I still affirm that it is true! Back then…and now in my mid-80s. No, not that I’m nuts (though there may be some accuracy there), but that my journey of discovery is still going on. That will continue to be true right on into my final human journey. Makes life very interesting. * Hilda Lucas was the best parish secretary I ever had! She saved me from many a faux-pas such as forgetting items on my increasingly busy “to do” list and giving me important parish info as I was going into some tricky parish situations. She was a good friend to both Ruth and me. A generous and wise spirit.
317
Maple Syrup
A classic example of the character of Hilda came to the fore when she turned the Junior Choir over to Ruth during her long recovery from her fall I mentioned earlier. Not all musicians could have done that so trustingly and graciously. * The others I now mention were, like Hilda, characters who made a positive difference in my life. And they are representative of many others. Jim Brown and Bob Blackstock were initial planners of the St. Barnabas Camping weekend. There was a myriad of others that helped to make it work. Fred Glasspoole and Bill Armstrong were initiators of the 10 years I went to Pratt Whitney in Longueil for bible study and discussion. John Prince was Principal of Chambly County High School where Mark, Margaret, and Paul attended and graduated. Ray Alexander, the sterling organist and choir director at St. Barnabas, was an avid fan of Major League Baseball. In World Series Ray would pop into my office to tell me the current score! Doug and Maxine Morehouse, and John and Judy Prince, both had cottages on Lac des Seize Ile west of Montreal. Through them I was invited to lead church services on several Sundays at the island church on the lake. Ruth and I spent many happy times with these folks. John and I had a number of “world championship” horseshoe matches at their cottage. * Oh yes… and so many more. Geoff and Carolyn Pratt, Marjorie and Ken Lee, George and Cindy Lambert, Walter and Iris Laduke… only a few. Geoff was a warden when St. Barnabas bit the bullet and had a much-needed financial campaign; Ken was the Principal of St. Lambert Elementary School, and was later ordained; George became a priest, and Cindy succeeded Hilda as parish secretary/administrator. Walter (warden when we arrived), and Iris sang in the Senior Choir… Here I am – slipping into recollections of these and just too many others to list, let alone say a few words about them…remembering those distant days of leaving…
318
Maple Syrup
There are so many years between our time in St. Barnabas and the present in which I write. It is hard for me to speak in the past tense because in some strange way that past remains present in me… I must get back to the story. * In the relatively few weeks between the grand farewell party and our departure parish life went on as usual…but not really. We were both in the parish…and at the same time we were not. It was the right time…and the worst time – all mixed together. * Ruth and I were very conscious of the difficult space Paul and Margaret were in… a kind of turmoil of feelings that was theirs alone. Ruth and I were in our own agonizing space. Even Fuzz knew that all was not normal. The fact that she was leaving with Ruth and me may not have been comprehended in any human way but Margaret and Paul felt that very real sadness. Mark had already gone to work in Banff. Now Mom and Dad and Fuzz were about to go. Our family configuration was changing forever… * In the last two or three days before we actually left Ruth and I were often in our back yard saying farewell to drop-in visitors – many of whom were Margaret and Paul’s friends. The memories of those days bring tears. If I tell you about our back yard it may help me deal with my emotional feelings now. * The apple tree: I learned to trim it, and, with some instruction, I shaped it into a lovely tree. The rose bower: it didn’t lead anywhere…just invited us to see and stop to smell the roses and we did. The little garden: we changed that from strawberries to tomatoes. Hand-sifted the strawberry roots out of the small patch. A very earthy and intimate exercise. The tomato crop was magnificent. After work each day I would pick the latest ripening. Delicious!
319
Maple Syrup
There was rhubarb: just behind the tomatoes. One dusky evening as I looked out the back-door I noticed a rhubarb leaf moving…there was no breeze. Under the leaf was a little baby robin, feathered but not yet able to fly. If we left her/him there the neighbourhood cats would get him/her. “Reggie Rhubarb” became part of our family. Reggie lived in a carefully prepared box home in our garage during the night. In the daytime Reggie sort of “arranged” a team of searchers for food in the garden – including us and anyone who dropped by. Reggie bonded to me. I became her/his surrogate parent! (Shades of Dr. Seuss). Reggie would sit on the toe of my shoe as I carefully walked around the yard. I have a photo of Reggie sitting on my hand taking a worm from my other hand. Her feathers grew a little. I taught her to fly…sort of. My demonstrations were a bit like the Chicken Dance. Family and neighbours laughed. She managed a couple of wobbly flights from my shoulder to the nearby apple tree branch…and back! It was exciting. We all knew, of course, that Reggie did not have a future with us. Probably the robin culture would not take her back… Reggie caught pneumonia and died. We had the burial in our garden. We were sad and thankful for this little life. The patio at the back door was a quiet and private little nook. From time to time Ruth and I sat there, had a glass of wine, and a chat. I have lovely memories of those times. The Trillium trailer: (successor to our tent trailer) on the pad was about to have a return journey across country. Ruth and I and Fuzz would soon be leaving. It was under that trailer on the pad that Fuzz encountered a skunk. Tomato juice, water and time did the job. Laughter in memory now, but an emergency then. And as you might expect, I was at a parish meeting as the skunk event happened… * That is an unusual way to end the “tour” of our garden. There was so much more to our garden.
320
Maple Syrup
The kiss of the sun for pardon The song of the birds for mirth You are nearer God’s heart In a garden Than anywhere else on earth * Ruth’s Grandma Blake gave that embroidery to her when she was a little girl. It has hung on a wall in our various homes to this day. On the back: “Marie Louise Blake (nee Keranbrun) for Ruth Louise Bate.” * I can’t put off the story of our leaving any longer. The final day arrived. We had planned our departure for early evening because we had arranged to camp in the driveway of friends in Ottawa. That was not far, and we did not want to be distracted by the view as we drove away… We wept, we hugged. Margaret and Paul wanted us to stay…wanted Fuzz to stay. We wanted to stay…But the four of us knew that we must go. And so, we did. Ruth and I have never wept so much while driving before or since. It was the hardest thing we ever did. * St. Barnabas had taken us in and loved Ruth and me and Mark and Margaret and Paul in an unconditional way. But mine is a travelling story. The folks of St. Barnabas travel in the heart of my memory. I still get a lump in my throat as I remember the Junior Choir at Christmas singing “Go tell it on the mountain…” And that departure day we were headed for the mountains! *
321
Maple Syrup
322
Maple Syrup
323
Maple Syrup
324
Maple Syrup
325
Maple Syrup
326
Maple Syrup
327
Unto the Hills
CHAPTER 18 Unto the Hills It was hard to tell what Fuzz was feeling. As we prepared for bed in our trailer, Fuzz seemed quite content. Ruth and I were not! We knew that this journey west did not have the usual holiday excitement. Far from it. A much different endurance was needed for this trip. I was glad that our friends were away. (They had left a key for our access to the bathroom.) We did not have any desire for a visit that night. One thing we were thankful for was the shift from evening tearful sadness to morning hopefulness. Each new day felt like an affirmation that, hard as it was, our departure was the right thing. While the emotional shift was helpful on our journey into something completely new, that sequence of emotion never did quite leave us. There were no sugar-maple trees at Sorrento Centre. * One of the most remarkable experiences heading west across Canada is to suddenly be clear of the last vestiges of muskeg forest and rocks of the Pre-Cambrian Shield and drive onto the vast prairies east of Winnipeg! We had travelled this road a number of times with our family over the years. But each passage always included so much that you see “again…for the first time”. But, for Ruth and me this trip had a very profound “first time” feeling. * As we neared Winnipeg, we recalled an experience of two or three years previous. Paul and his friend Ian were with us. The ring road around the city was under construction. It was hot. The car windows were open as we inched our way through the work sites. A construction worker, leaning on his shovel right by my open window, upon noticing our Quebec license said, “Get back to Quebec! You f…… Liberal!.” “Have a nice day.” I said…just as we began to move forward. My thoughts were not quite so amicable as we moved beyond the range of his shovel. Happily, this time the ring road was completed and clear.
328
Unto the Hills
Over the years we discovered a sure-fire conversation stimulant in Saskatchewan and Alberta. In any gathering, when conversation was dwindling off into lethargy or boredom, all one had to say was along the lines of, “Pierre Trudeau is a pretty good guy, really.” The embers of political passion would respond as if gasoline was thrown on a fire! A lot of fun… It worked back then…It works quite well in 2018. * We stopped in Saskatoon to visit Gary and Connie and my Mom. She had come down from Prince Albert. They were all happy that we had returned to the land of our origins. It was good to see them… but we had such strong roots in Quebec, and Margaret and Paul were still there – the strongest roots of all! I suppose what had happened was that we now had genuine roots in Quebec, Saskatchewan, Northwest Territories, Alberta, and (about to be) in B.C. In Calgary we visited with Ruth’s Mom, and with Ruth’s brother, Peter, and sisterin-law Joan. Similar rejoicing as they welcomed us back to the Wild West! Ruth’s and my mothers were very happy to have their families at least a bit closer to home. Mark had already come through Saskatoon and Calgary on his way to work in Banff. Even now, after all these years, when we come to that first entrance to Banff as you drive west, we see in our memory that little red VW Bug poised to greet us. Mark was there! It was a joyful reunion! During our years in Sorrento Centre, Mark was close and able to drive to visit us. Ruth and I experienced increasingly something of what our two mothers felt in their passion to have family near. * During those pre-Quebec years living in Calgary, our most favourite corner on the highway was the one where we suddenly saw Sorrento ahead! Fun, friends, lake, camping…all just down the road.
329
Unto the Hills
The kids would be excited. Ruth and I would be excited. And we were never disappointed. When we rounded the corner that day in 1985, Ruth and I were very aware that this was different. Excitement… Yes. But some anxiety also… What had we gotten ourselves into? We turned off the highway into the entrance to Sorrento Centre. So familiar… Couldn’t count the number of times we had made that same turn in years past. We knew the “topography”, certainly… but the “ambiance”, this time, was very new. * The long and the short of it was that Fran Haberlin, Acting Director, and her current team greeted us warmly and graciously. They all made us feel at home very quickly. Before long, our furniture arrived and we set up in the Director’s house – our new home. In our very early years at Sorrento Centre the place where the house now sat had been called “Skunk Hollow” … a venerated place which, in fact, skunks did frequent… None appeared during our time living in Sorrento Centre. * Some things needed dealing with right away. One was the question of where Ruth and I would take our meals. This was tied to the change from a “commune” model. We were supportive of a “core community” model. I had spoken of this difference in my interview agreement with the Centre Board. In spite of the fact that neither Fran nor any other Centre staff members were involved in the search for a Director, they and I worked it through towards a “core community” model. Another centrally important matter: Ruth did not have a described role in the work and life of the Centre! We should have been more alert to the signal of Ruth’s exclusion from the original interview in Vancouver. Was Ruth to be a resident “guest”? Was she a “volunteer” without job description or pay? Did she have to pay for her meals while I, as Director, did not? A frustrating and delicate matter…
330
Unto the Hills
I, with the willing assent of the core community, decreed that even without pay or job description, Ruth was a full-fledged member of the “Core Team”! That established Ruth, with her long experience of volunteering, her musical training and teaching, and her natural pastoral character and skill, a key person in the Sorrento Centre Core Community. As Music Director, her successful invitation to any and all instrumentalists and singers on site in the summer programs created an atmosphere beautifully welcoming and encouraging. Ruth (and Fuzz) did the daily trip to the Post Office up on the highway for the Centre’s mail service. Her natural PR skills benefited Sorrento Centre in the village, in St. Mary’s parish, at the Centre during the hectic times when we were hosting programs, and over the times in the year when only our core community were on site. While I’m aware that my “memoir” stories are supposed to be about me, the beautiful and skillful way Ruth worked in the core community and related to all guests on our site was a gift for me as Director. Very early in my time at the Centre I realized that the Board of Directors did not have any clear vision of the direction the Centre was, or needed to be, heading… That provoked frustration and not a little anger in me. The implicit meaning of this was that I was the one to tell them the vision. But we moved on…with no small credit to Al Millar, a lay leader from Good Shepherd parish, Calgary, who was chair of the Board during my time as Director. * My Covenant (contract) with the Centre Board included a professional Review and Assessment conducted by an outside expert. While it was intended as a review of the whole Centre, I knew that I was the one who would be under the microscope. That would be the first time for me…
331
Unto the Hills
Parish clergy are always under “evaluation”. Sometimes a parish does this overtly – things are not going so well in the parish and everyone knows it. That can be a very creative moment for the clergy person and the lay leadership of the parish. Often the parish and priest grow and flourish in a genuinely new collaborative way. Unfortunately, many times small irritations, agitations, dislikes, disagreements, etc. are never surfaced until there is some blow-up and all hell then breaks loose. A nowin situation for everyone. The church community has moved, in some dioceses, to reviews and covenants between priest and parish. I think this is a healthy partnership. I was looking forward to the review at the end of my second year as Director. Well, OK, a bit nervous, too… * Ruth and I had arrived in Sorrento Centre at the end of the always frantic Summer Season. Back in those days there were some “off season” hosted events, but not many. Those had already been organized by Fran Haberlin. My immediate concerns were the 1986 Program Brochure: confirming course leaders, recruiting the Youth Summer Staff, and lining up adult volunteers for the next summer. Here again, Fran had done the heavy lifting. She was the most gracious friend of the Centre – and of Ruth and me – and an untiring worker. Sorrento Centre owes much of its life and vitality of those years to Fran and her community. * Holy ground…thin places…vision places… Sorrento Centre has been those kinds of paces from the beginning in the early ‘60s. And it remains so now, well into the 21st century. Believer, sceptic, agnostic, atheist, searcher…all describe their Sorrento experience as unique, healing, special, awesome, safe, welcoming, blessing, home. *
332
Unto the Hills
It is much easier to speak about intentional community living than doing it. Before our arrival, staff – the year-round folks – had evolved into a commune style of team relationship. The leadership prior to our arrival, Dirk Rinehart, with Fran as Assistant, had been working toward a commune model, with very low salaries, sharing of Centre pantry, and raising a few animals and a large garden. Nothing wrong with that approach, but not for me and Ruth, nor any longer for the Centre. Dirk and Karen were wonderful people, with a different vision of the Centre. * Each Core Community member made unique contributions. The creative gifts of each one of us helped make the “face” of Sorrento Centre appealing and effective and renewing for those coming in for courses, R & R, or to be course leaders. As I have told my story HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE, I have mentioned some names…only some because I do not have the time or memory to name more… They all represent a multitude that have given my life richness and helped me continue to grow up. The Core Community forged the nature and character of the Centre. This included spouses, such as Ruth, and other volunteers, as well as paid staff. Paid members were: Martina Baier, chef; Terry Mikkenon, office; Bill Mann (summer only), grounds and maintenance; Muriel Arnold, house-keeping; me, director. The salaries were very low and there was much unpaid over-time. The need for salaries that would at least make it reasonably possible for an individual to come on staff for a few years and retain a decent career line, was a financial challenge. The history of the Centre, and the meager financial base that prevailed, was coming to the surface. And needed to! *
333
Unto the Hills
Volunteers came on board for times varying from a few years to a few months. They received room and board, received no income, and worked hard. Tom and Mara Moen and their two children, Jesson and Bronwin; Frank and Mary Reynolds and their three children, Tara, Lara, Pam; Marlene and Carl Stevenson; Howard and Nancy Wood; Tom and Mrs. Marriott; Keith Denman; Joyce Mellor; Pam from South Africa; a young woman from YWAM; Christine Rothery from Deer Creek, Saskatchewan… There were others whose names and roles I forget now. Kay and Emil Fournier lived as volunteers at the Centre full time. They left just before we arrived but were present often during our time. Dr. Don Patterson had a medical practice in Sorrento village. He was Sorrento Centre’s doctor on call! Don was a great friend of the Centre, and for me personally. Regular visitors to the Centre became Ruth’s and my friends, and many have lasted over the many years since we lived there. Folks from surrounding parishes and community often joined us for community worship and social times. Bishop Morse Goodman (newly retired from Calgary) and Pat, his wife, came by frequently. Morse often celebrated the Eucharist for us. A lot of people… and each, unconsciously for the most part, gave me strength, endurance, wisdom, joy and growth. I am thankful.
334
Unto the Hills
Because of all of them and the multitude of unnamed others, the Core Community matured, had fun, wept and cried together, and Sorrento Centre continued to be a magical mystical holy place of peace, learning, and renewal beyond its borders. * Our Core community had daily worship together. Any individual who happened to be visiting us was always welcome to participate. We had six children living with us at the time. That was a joy for Ruth and me. We still ached for Paul, Margaret, and Mark. I think the presence of “our” six on site helped us very much. According to their age and school routine, any or all of the six came with their parents to our Core community worship. They were part of the family. When we were in full swing with Summer programs, the worship was in the outdoor St. Francis Chapel with everybody on site present. Ruth, as Centre Music Director, organized the music, with invitation to all who wanted to be part of a little choir or play their musical instruments. A Joyful Noise Unto the Lord! Everything blended into a glorious affirmation of life! An invitation to all to “Choose Life”. Sorrento life included time and space for peaceful contemplation and confidential conversations, also. * All were welcome at this place. Jim Cruickshank (now of blessed memory), the first Director, starting way back in the early 1960s, set a standard of hospitality that has never changed. Nancy and Howard Wood called in at the Centre one day with much anxiety. Their young son had many social and physical challenges. They and he had been rejected many times. Howard and Nancy were looking for a genuine welcome from somewhere… Without hesitation Jim invited them in. They stayed, returned many times, and became long-term volunteers at the Centre. Many others could tell similar stories of a Sorrento Centre welcome.
335
Unto the Hills
You may know that in the 1960s it seemed almost every young person in Canada was hitch-hiking back and forth across the nation. Sorrento Centre is right on the Trans-Canada Highway. Jim Cruikshank and team provided a place to crash and rest for whatever journey they were on. And during the Viet Nam war there were also many American draft-dodgers moving into and across our country. They, too, were welcomed into the Centre for food and a night’s rest. * In those same years Jim led a 6-month residency program in Christian living and service for a number of young adults, known as the “Winter Course”. I have known a number of graduates who made mature contributions to their respective communities and to the wider Canadian church life. * Jim Cruikshank went on to teach in a seminary, be Dean of Christ Church Cathedral, Vancouver, and become Bishop of Cariboo. Because of the terrible Residential School problems and the Canadian Anglican Church’s taking on the responsibility of contributing to financial support in the Reconciliation work between First Nations and the church, Jim and the Diocese of Cariboo decided to dissolve as a fully incorporated diocese to contribute to the Reconciliation fund. That was a brave and sacrificial act by Jim and the parishes of the Diocese of Cariboo. Jim was also a scholar. Many of us remember him as a student of and expert in the Gospel According to St. Mark. Jim remains for me a hero of the Faith in Practice. *
336
Unto the Hills
Herbert O’Driscoll is another who was, and remains, a hero in my life. We first met Herbie and Paula and their family at Sorrento Centre. Herb led many many courses at the Centre. Even now, 2018, he still turns up most summers to tell the faith stories with the magic of his Irish wit carrying his biblical knowledge that nourishes and restores his listener’s faith. He has written many hymns, many that are now in the current Canadian Anglican hymn book. Because of his humble celebrity status, Herb has accrued many hundreds of “groupies” who still go anywhere he is speaking – including Sorrento Centre. In hard financial times for the Centre, (which is most of the time!) Herb O’Driscoll returns his course leader pay to the Centre. * In all Ruth’s and my years of connection with Sorrento Centre, the courses offered have been helpful to most, and life-changing for untold numbers. The Youth Staff, volunteers, and the Core Teams and course leaders, have all contributed immeasurably. People who have been touched by the ministry of Sorrento Centre have been and continue to be leaders in the wider church life and community life all across Canada and beyond. * However, from the very beginning, maintenance, management, and finances of the Centre have been a constant worry and anxiety for the Director, staff, and Board. That the Centre has survived into the second decade of the 21st century is bordering on the miraculous grace of God.
337
Unto the Hills
Reams of newsprint have been taped to the walls, discussions have gone on into the wee hours of a morning, searches for wealthy donors have seemed relentless…All this went on during my tenure as Director. It is still being done to this day. It seems no viable or continuing solution is possible. Except… that Sorrento Centre is still alive and making profound contributions to the human search for meaning and purpose in the lives of huge numbers of people. Perhaps the “answer” does not lie in some elusive lotto… Christian scripture is full of stories and images that “offer” a variety of ideas… We live in the 21st century. It is obvious biblical literalism has failed. The “way forward” seems to be keeping on keeping on… Perhaps not dissimilar to responding to Jesus’ invitation, “Follow me.” As Rene Leveque said after the PQ had been elected in Quebec, and Canada was so worried that the nation was falling apart, “Relax…Take a valium”. Relaxing (without taking a pill!) and keeping going seems to work. Mind you, it would be a worthwhile act to make a financial gift to Sorrento Centre… * Labour laws regarding hours of work, pay, benefits, etc. necessarily influenced the hiring of staff and director. Over the 50+ years the Boards of Sorrento Centre have been required, rightly so, to legalize/normalize the employment structure. No longer can the Centre Board expect staff to sacrifice personal career tracks while “doing their wonderful sacrificial bit” for God and the Centre. If an individual Centre employee wants to donate all or any part of her/his salary…no problem. But proper wages must be paid. My time as Director of Sorrento Centre was close to the last vestiges of the original shortcomings in such matters. Some Directors who followed me bore the brunt of those necessary changes. It was tough going! * I have said it many times, “Sorrento Centre saved my priestly vocation.” Again, it sounds dramatic…but it’s deeply true. I am thankful. *
338
Unto the Hills
As Director of the Centre, I inherited a Sunday morning routine that connected Sorrento Centre with St. Mary’s parish – just across the highway from the Centre. Early Sunday morning we took the required hymn books, liturgies, etc. up to the church. The Director was the celebrant. All the guests from the Centre came up to St. Mary’s for the celebration of the Eucharist. Those were the days before St. Mary’s was extended in length. The church was always packed. All the little kids were on the floor of the sanctuary around the altar. It was a joy for me to be knee-deep in little people, with the nave full to overflowing, with music and the joyful beat of life, as I lifted the bread and wine in thanksgiving to God for us and all creation! I remember clearly one of the little people standing right beside me, his chin not quite altar-high, looking up and mimicking the priestly gestures as I proceeded with the consecratory prayer. There were many holy moments at Sorrento Centre. This was one of the best for him, his Mom and Dad…and for me. * Time speeds up when you are having fun! The formal review in my covenant with the Board of Directors was due! Al Millar, Board Chair, set up the arrangements. The professional was hired. He interviewed me, all the Core Community Team, and some others, too. From the assessment, I learned some important things about myself. Detailed administration was not my best skill… My dominant characteristic was an aptitude for people relationships. I liked working with people rather than ordering people what to do. I could do the latter, when necessary, to reach important goals, but I preferred to encourage the mutual discovery of a better way forward. I learned, though, that I could fail at that, too. All important in my “growing up”.
339
Unto the Hills
All this was occurring in plain view of my fellow Core Community…and others. Yes, I did some growing…and I remain thankful all these years later. * The result of the Review was that the Board offered me a three-year extension on my covenant. And importantly to me, the rest of the Core team thought that was a good idea. I accepted. The Covenant included another review in two years – and a two-month mini-sabbatical. * All this was an indication that the Board was coming to grips with the need of reallife employment practices at the Centre. * The renewed Covenant helped Ruth and me think beyond what the six years at Sorrento Centre would be for us. My concern was that the Director was continually under what I called a relentless program development pressure. Because that was the nature of the job, opportunities for personal renewal were very limited. And the finances of Sorrento Centre were extremely limited as well. Not healthy for the Director or the Centre. So, we developed a little “plan”. On or about the completion of the six years I would resign as Director of Sorrento Centre. That would be somewhat flexible related to the then current life and needs of the Centre…but not a longer extension. The second part of our “plan” was that I would seek work in some parish in the Diocese of Kootenay that no priest wanted to be in, especially if he/she were wanting a significant-sized parish on their “career” path… Since the Director of Sorrento Centre was licensed in Kootenay that seemed logical.
340
Unto the Hills
Ruth and I thought this would be a gentle way to work my remaining years to retirement in a lovely part of the country…Great hiking, and chock-a-block full of orchards and wineries… and also be of some practical use to the church and the Diocese. I enjoyed working with people…with minimal paper work… But, “best-laid plans…” I’ll tell you later… * Our “dopted” daughter, Mary, had remained working in Calgary when we moved to Montreal and later moved to Vancouver. Mary married David in September of our first year at Sorrento Centre. Paul, Margaret, and Mark, were all able to be present. It was a marvelous time for all of us. Vancouver was at its loveliest, and we were all together. Ruth and I gave thanks and celebrated family. * Our first Christmas Margaret, Paul, and Mark, were with us at Sorrento Centre. Again, we gave thanks. So did Fuzz. That helped alleviate our lonesomeness for our kids – I should say, young adults. On other occasions Paul was able to be with us. One summer we discovered his driver’s license had expired…and he was driving our car, taking friends for some site-seeing around the Sorrento area. These tours ceased, at least with Paul as driver. On several of Paul’s visits to us his luggage was lost in transit. We adopted the habit of going to the Lost Luggage desk rather than the luggage carrousel as soon as he appeared! When we got back to our house at the Centre Fuzz was always overjoyed to see Paul. The feeling was mutual. *
341
Unto the Hills
A year after we arrived in Sorrento Centre Fuzz had what we think was a slight stroke. She recovered well, but gradually declined in health. Her agility slowly lessened. Fuzz still rejoiced in going with Ruth every day to get the Centre mail. Since she was quite deaf you had to clap hands loudly to get Fuzz’s attention. When any of our kids visited, she played like a young pup. She remained fastidious about always going out of the house to “do her business”. And right up to the end when I had to help her out, and hold her up outside, she always indicated clearly when she needed to go out. On the night she died Ruth was gently rubbing her back and I was stroking her head. She seemed happy and comfortable as she left us. We wept. We called Mark, Margaret, and Paul. Our family was one less now, and we each shared that loss deeply. I carefully placed Fuzz’s body on her favorite rug and we buried her in it next day by a flowering bush near the front door. * You may find this a bit difficult to imagine, but as I mentioned before, Fuzz wrote a book. She called it PART OF THE FAMILY. In it she tells how she came into our family in the first place. She tells a lot about her inner thoughts about life as she saw it. Unfortunately, she could not write the last chapter before she died. Ruth and I wrote a short concluding bit for her book. I think Fuzz would have approved. * Mark drove from Banff for visits as his work would allow. He was employed with a camera and film company and so brought his camera with him. We still have one of his photos of a cow looking over a fence near Sorrento. It presently hangs in our family room in our Langley, B.C. home. With it is another spectacular shot of a granary in a harvest field. This one has a William Kurelek’s painting feeling to it. *
342
Unto the Hills
Paul, Margaret and Mark were with us the winter I built a bob-sled… The old road from the Centre down to the beach road below was not for vehicles, only for walking…or bob-sledding! Old cross-country skis, rope to steer - and ready to go! What a way to celebrate the festive season! Test results: 3 failed runs and a sled break-down. Dinner time – finished for the day; Family consultation needed. It had been fun…but sensible decision: abandon project. We did. I suppose this is a parable about discerning reality and facing facts. It did not discourage me from imagining and trying other things. Some failed, some succeeded. Even now, at 85 years of age, my imagination is alive and well. * Larch Hills is a marvelous cross-country ski area not far out of Salmon Arm and a short drive from Sorrento Centre. Ruth and I and other members of the Core community often skied there. In summer Ruth and I ran every day in early morning on the Trans-Canada Highway. We started together and each had our own turningaround point. For fun, I counted the number of semi-trailers and other big trucks coming and going. One morning, as I was running ahead of Ruth, a big black bear crossed in front of me…a quick U-turn for us! In retrospect, I would not suggest the Trans-Canada Highway as a running route. Running, yes, but on a road less travelled – by trucks…and bears! Sports and running have been in my life all my life. And Ruth was a runner, too. *
343
Unto the Hills
Summer 1987 brought both sadness and celebration. My Mom died. She had been sick for a relatively short time. I visited her in hospital in Prince Albert. Mom made sure that her hand-crocheted lace table cloth be used for Margaret and Dave’s coming wedding. Not too long after I returned to the Centre, Mom died, just two weeks before the wedding. The special table-cloth was, indeed, at Margaret and Dave’s wedding reception in Montreal. On it sat the big ceremonial Wedding Cake…a touch of Mom at the celebration. And it was a grand celebration! Of course, we were all there – including Ruth’s Mom, Mona Bate, who represented all Margaret’s grandparents. We were thankful. I was not with Mom when she died. I could not then, nor even now, describe my feelings of sadness and loss. Both my parents gone. One tends to think of strange things around death…I became conscious that I was now the oldest in my family. My siblings, Wendy and Gary, were both younger than I. When my Dad died that was a huge loss…I’ve mentioned that already. But now that Mom was dead…difficult…impossible…to put into words. Even to this day I miss writing to my Mom and Dad to tell them how things are going for us…and looking forward to their reply. * Life and work at Sorrento Centre were going on as usual. The range of subjects and the expert and knowledgeable leaders gave the courses a “world view” challenge to the life of the times. Believers, agnostics, non-believers…all participants had intellectual freedom to express their opinions, listen to other points of view, about everything under the sun. And Ruth and I were anticipating the next three-year Covenant. But a significant challenge to change was lurking. Each time that had happened in the past, the decisions involved were laden with ambiguity for me. And every time all I ultimately had to help me was “intuition and risk”. *
344
Unto the Hills
A letter from a long-time friend, Murray Starr, priest in the Diocese of Edmonton, arrived in late 1987. It was scrawled in Murray’s distinctive handwriting. His letter was a personal request that I let my name stand in that Diocese’s search for a new bishop… The Bishop of Edmonton had been forced to retire from that position and to cease functioning as an ordained clergyperson in the Church… till he fulfilled some rehab requirements. The reason given was alcohol consumption problems. It was a difficult time for the Diocese, and, of course for the bishop himself and his family. * I ignored Murray’s letter. The idea of Episcopal ministry did not fit with Ruth’s and my plan, nor with the next three years of the Covenant with Sorrento Centre. But not long after Murray’s letter, a formal request from the Diocese arrived. The mailing included a letter requesting I let my name stand for the election, a profile of the Diocese of Edmonton, a description of the needs of the Diocese in its difficult time, and a deadline for my response. Here was another agonizing decision filled with ambiguity. Ruth and I thought, talked, tried to pray – though whatever decision we made, we knew it would be based on intuition and with great risk. * I consulted with John Snowden, then bishop of Cariboo, and Morse Goodman, retired bishop of Calgary. Their advice: “Let your name stand.” I asked the Core Community. Their advice: “You have to follow your own discernment.” That and other opinions and advice did not slice through my conundrum to give me a clear enough answer. The decision was like my view about marriage: not mine alone to make. Yes, if I was elected, I would be the bishop, not Ruth. But we were partners, and that was the bottom line for me. It would be a joint decision.
345
Unto the Hills
I had never worked in a parish in Edmonton. I did not have any appreciation of the ambiance, the character, the “real” diocese beyond the profile I was given. I did know some clergy in Edmonton – Murray Starr, and others I had met in various national committees from my time in the Dioceses of Calgary and Montreal, and my time at Sorrento Centre. But the circumstances around the removal of the former diocesan bishop would be fraught with complex and unknown challenges. * Over past years I had declined to let my name stand in several episcopal elections. Each time I had had to ask myself, “When does one risk saying yes…?” I was always told, “… if the Spirit of God calls you, then you have to take the chance”. Was this a time to say “yes”? The experience of saying “yes” to the episcopal election in Montreal was that risk. The answer had been “no” in the election. I had breathed a sigh of relief. But I think most if not all clergy can become aware that lurking around in the human shadows is a strange unnerving attraction to “high office”. In Church Land being a bishop still holds, surprisingly, a certain “success” element. The ever present “status” symbols seductively and gently but firmly knock on the door of the soul. Ambiguity in decision making is the “glass darkly” through which choices are made. * Intuition and risk… That was all we had. If this is what we were supposed to do, then we had to do it. I submitted my “yes”, filled in the paper work, etc. and sent it all off to Edmonton. If I was elected then Ruth and I would go; if not elected we would with relief and joy fulfil the Covenant with Sorrento Centre. * And then…we waited… *
346
Unto the Hills
The “waiting” was not done with feet up and relaxed. The time of year meant that I was well into the intense organizational preparation for the frantic (but delightful) summer programing. That time was not quite like the sword of Damocles hanging over my head…but the thought did cross my mind. * The day of the Episcopal election came. Because Edmonton was an hour ahead of Sorrento time, when 5:30 our time came I confidently told our Core Community that I had no doubt the Electoral Synod would be over. I would probably receive a phone call – perhaps later in the evening – thanking me for letting my name stand and wishing me well in the future…We were relieved. Let’s have supper, I said… Five minutes later the phone rang. * Brian Burrows was the Chancellor of the Diocese of Edmonton. His voice said, “Just a heads up; we are counting the last ballots. I am certain that in about twenty minutes I will call you again to tell you that you have been elected Bishop of the Diocese of Edmonton” … I have no recollection of the brief conclusion of that call. Less than twenty minutes later Brian affirmed the fact…I was “Bishop-elect” of Edmonton. The physical effect of that message on my body’s “electrical system” would have been measurable if electrodes had been attached! I have never experienced anything similar before or since. I cannot presume to describe Ruth’s reaction, but her future, along with mine, was about to do a “180” from our neat and comfortable plans. And nothing was neat and comfortable after that! We were in this together – and I am indescribably thankful for that. * When a person is elected bishop in the Canadian Anglican Church there are two formal but necessary questions.
347
Unto the Hills
First, does the bishop-elect agree to become bishop of the diocese? If the answer is “Yes”, then the second question must be asked. It is required that each bishop in the Ecclesiastical Province in which the electing diocese is located must agree to the election. If each bishop agrees, then it’s game-on for the rooky-elect! The bishop-elect can, if she/he wants, take a brief time to pray if this is God’s will, etc. My approach was that since I let my name stand in the first place, why spend more time messing about? Of course, yes. I’m not naturally pious. Very seldom, if ever, does the newly elected say no… Seldom if ever, do the bishops give a negative vote… though it has happened once in recent times. But that’s another story. In my case the usual agreement was given. Ruth and I were under way – into a new future… * The Sorrento Core Community embraced us in a marvelous way! It was a spontaneous act that I think was truly born of the Holy Spirit. After the initial shock of Brian’s phone call, and supper and dishes done, the Core Community suggested we all gather in our chapel in Spes Bona. Don Patterson, our local doctor and strong supporter fan of the Centre, came down and joined us. He was very much a part of our community. By chance an ordinand from New York was visiting the Centre. We often had individuals dropping by. She was invited to the chapel, too. The details of the gathering are vague in my memory. I suppose it could be understood as “prayer”. We all shared around the circle what each thought about this episcopal election result…Ruth and I mostly listened… I have no recollection how long we sat together and shared thoughts. Nor do I remember what was said. I do remember the loving support that was being shown to Ruth and me simply by their presence with us in this life-changing time. The “sacrament of the human presence” nourished us for the coming journey.
348
Unto the Hills
Of course, we told our kids and all the members of our family about the election. The result was public information from the time of the final ballot count. The Centre Board of Governors knew. We began to receive congratulations from all over Canada in keeping with courteous protocol, but genuine, I think. The most insightful notes and calls included prayerful support in the days, months, and years ahead. * The Electoral Synod in Edmonton was held 26 March 1988. The Episcopal ordination day was set for 14 May 1988. There was not much time for Ruth and me to get ready. And Sorrento Centre suddenly had another big transition to face. On top of this, I really did not have a clue about being a bishop. I guess one is expected to mystically magically “know” how to do it… Once again, I was living in the deep end without knowing how to swim! Oh well, “no turning back” as the old chorus says… * Life transitions are always fraught with uncertainties. For Ruth and me this was a major transition. It was a strange living space: living here – but already gone; living there – but not yet arrived… The Core community continued to give us support as we lived and worked through that time of “in-between”. Now, both in our 9th decade, we realize life is a continuous story of “in-between” time. *
349
Unto the Hills
350
Unto the Hills
351
Unto the Hills
352
Into the Valley
CHAPTER 19 Into the Valley Edmonton is a beautiful city. The great North Saskatchewan River flows through the heart of the town. There were many lovely parks in the river valley. All Saints Cathedral sits in the heart of down town. When Ruth and I first stepped inside the Cathedral, it reminded us of the interior of Coventry Cathedral in England. All Saints was smaller, but the colour and light and beautiful hangings were striking. To be realistic, I must acknowledge that a city on Edmonton’s parallel of latitude tends to have four distinct seasons…with one being rather longer than the others: Winter. * With the mundane but essential matters of the move of our goods from Sorrento organized, the next item on the agenda was for me to meet the diocesan officials, then discover where we were going to live. Ruth did the bulk of the search for a house with Claire Munn’s help. The former diocesan episcopal house had been sold. In the meantime, our “residence” would be a one-room apartment with bathroom, semblance of a kitchen, and small table, in the Cathedral Close. The bed was actually the feature piece of furniture… Well, we were used to camping…and it was temporary… Ruth did find a house that she and I - and the Diocese – thought appropriate to our wants and needs. But we could not take possession and residency till September. * Every ten years all the Anglican bishops and spouses in the world-wide Anglican Communion meet in Canterbury, England, for several weeks of meetings. 1988 was one of those years… That was the time before women were allowed to be bishops. Bishops’ spouses had their own conference while the bishops had theirs. The date was the mid-summer of ’88 – just a short time after the scheduled date of my episcopal ordination, May 14… another “in-between” time!
353
Into the Valley
* To add confusion, the pre-Lambeth material sent to all the Anglican Communion bishops had been sent to my predecessor. So, “my” diocese (!) had to scramble to re-set all that with the organizers of Lambeth Conference. The stuff got to me in time…but frankly I did not have the time nor the energy to absorb it. That fact did not have much or any affect on me during the Conference. More about Lambeth Conference later. I still had much to do in the diocese! * Adjusting to living in a small space, while at the same time taking on a job that was rapidly becoming extremely complicated, required considerable energy…and a lot of patience. The bed-sitting room apartment in the Cathedral Close could have been a fun weekend place. We really didn’t mind it too much. It was in the heart of downtown Edmonton and it was late-spring-early-summer. The one thing we did which helped was to continue our running. We explored the many different routes and distances in the river valley. And this also gave us time away from the confines of the wee apartment. The river valley paths were beautiful. We headed out of the Cathedral Close, hung a left and down the steep hill into the valley…and, of course, the return journey up that steep hill…! It took a while for our glutes to accommodate to the return up-hill segment. * An episcopal ordination can be a very colourful event! Harold Munn was the Dean of All Saints Cathedral, Edmonton. Over the following years I was often thankful for his support and advice. He and I designed the details surrounding the Liturgy for the Ordination of a Bishop. The Order is found beginning page 633 of the Book of Alternative Services of the Anglican Church of Canada. The key action of the celebration is the gathering of the whole Diocese together in a way that will never again take place till the next diocesan bishop is ordained. It marks the birth of a relationship filled with energy and hope. It is a unique moment for the diocese.
354
Into the Valley
There will be diocesan synods, special diocesan gatherings, etc. but none will match the ordination of a bishop in a diocese. Amidst all the music, singing, praying, colourful banners, processions, symbolic objects, ceremonial robing, and blessings, the focus rests on one person… * I find it difficult to describe all that. I had to accept the fact that I was the focal point in all the colourful drama. The excitement and anticipation were palpable. It was like a spotlight was following me everywhere I moved…There was a strange attraction to the moment for me… I was the star of the show! Was this something I had secretly wanted? All my “career” I had always been asked to go to this or that parish. Never did I have to be worried about a job…The only difficult thing each time was to decide between options. Each time the decision was difficult. But it always had worked out well. I was never very astute in figuring out what God was calling me to do…or even “calling” me at all. Intuition and risk, that was always all I had. * My guess is that many if not all clergy, at least in the early years of ordination, fantasize about becoming a bishop. I did that from time to time… Always, of course, with the “humble” proviso that my desire was to do good and be a faithful witness to God…to whatever “office” God would call me. As the episcopal ordination Liturgy began that day, now long ago, in All Saints Cathedral, Edmonton, of one thing I was sure – this was the “put up! or shut up!” for all I professed. Imagination and reality could be divided no longer. * The Collect for Rogationtide was used instead of that for St. Matthias. 14 May was his commemoration date. He was the one chosen to replace Judas, who had betrayed Jesus and was thrust out of the fellowship. I made the decision about that.
355
Into the Valley
The real reason for the need of the Diocese to call an Episcopal election was because my predecessor, Kent Clarke, was turfed out of office not just because of exhaustion due to alcohol abuse, but due to alleged and affirmed moral indiscretions. In my judgement, the use of the St. Matthias Collect would have drawn unnecessary attention to matters of which most of the Diocese was not aware. I was not Matthias. Kent was not Judas. Kent was a gifted and able person. As a matter of record, I had not been informed of this “real reason” prior to my election. When I learned that, I was shocked and saddened. I had also succeeded Kent Clarke as rector of St. Barnabas, St. Lambert, Diocese of Montreal. A strange twist of events. * Scripture and Tradition meet in the Ordination Liturgy. They embrace each other and point to the future. Frank Reynolds, of Sorrento Centre Core Community, read Isaiah 42:1-9. The Choir sang Psalm 99, with the antiphon “The Lord our God is the Holy One”. Gary Genge, my brother, read Ephesians 4:7-16. Ruth, my beloved partner of all these years, read the Gospel, John 15:1-17. These readings are called the PROCLAMATION OF THE WORD. If you are interested, reading these 4 lections will give you an insight as to why I chose them. * In the PRESENTATION the Archbishop, Walter Jones, heard the formal petition of my presenters that he, as representing the whole Church, accept me for the office of Bishop of Edmonton. Walter then directed me to read the formal acceptance of Scriptures, conform to the doctrine, discipline, and worship of the Anglican Church of Canada, and pledge myself to render due obedience to the Metropolitan of Rupert’s Land and to his successors – so help me God, through Jesus Christ. I and my presenters signed the document. But, for the record (my record!) I have great difficulty with much of what was in that document, particularly around the efficacy of the Scriptures. Not the time for my questions…So, on we went. *
356
Into the Valley
Walter then asked the gathered Diocese if they accepted me. They did. Would they uphold me as bishop? he asked. We will! they said. Whew! The response seemed genuine. Then Walter outlined the ancient description of the job of a bishop – in this case, my job. It is a neat condensation of an extremely complex enterprise! Page 646 in the BAS, if you are interested. Continuing in the centuries-old tradition, Walter turned me over to the other bishops present. They asked me the several questions that bishops-elect had been asked for generations. I had the script, so I answered each one correctly. So far, so good. Looking back on it now, I realize that one of the things that helped me keep somewhat balanced through all the hullabaloo was the presence of Eric Bays, Bishops of Qu’Appelle, and Jack Sperry, Bishop of the Arctic, sitting one on each side of Walter, our Archbishop. For the ordination of a bishop there must be at least three current bishops in good standing with the Anglican Church of Canada. Eric and Jack were long-time friends – and respected heroes for me. All the bishops of the Province of Rupert’s Land were there to witness and affirm my ordination. * After I had led all the gathered in saying the Nicene Creed, we moved to THE CONSECRATION. This was the focal point of the Ordination. The Ordination Litany and the ancient prayer, “Veni Creator” were sung. Then there was silence for a time. I knelt on the chancel steps. All the bishops, with Walter, Eric, and Jack, gathered round and laid their hands on my head. I don’t remember exactly how I felt…I recall hoping that, however it worked, somehow the Holy Spirit was doing something… Also, I could smell some of the feet of some of the bishops – not overpowering, just aware. I do recall that it was a good touch of the earthy…a hold on reality… *
357
Into the Valley
The drama continued as I was guided on a Symbols of Office perambulation about the Cathedral. At the Lectern I was presented with a Bible, with words from the Presenters. As the Choir sang, we moved to the pulpit. There I received the Pectoral Cross – gift from my family. The Choir sang us to the font. Here I was robed with the Cope and Mitre – gifts from friends from St. Barnabas Parish, St. Lambert, Que., and George and Elda Dundas. The song of the Choir led us into the midst of the congregation. I was given the Episcopal Ring – gift from my family. Finally, at the door of the Cathedral, I was presented with the Pastoral Staff of the Diocese of Edmonton. Accompanied by the congregation singing a hymn, I headed up the aisle to the Chancel for THE INSTALLATION. A formal conversation was had – the Dean, the Chancellor, and me, and I was formally seated in the Bishop’s Chair! I remember thinking…What a journey! And only a symbol of what the job journey would be! * The Rev. Canon Ray Bray, rector of St. John the Evangelist, Salmon Arm, B.C., in the Diocese of Kootenay, was my choice as homilist (preacher) for my episcopal ordination. He and his wife, Daphne, were good friends. Ray, one of the originals in establishing Sorrento Centre, had presided at my induction as Director of Sorrento Centre in 1985. * At THE PEACE I was presented to the gathering by Walter. After the “applause”, I said, “The Peace of the Lord be always with you.” The urgency of that “prayer” could only be guessed at in the moment… * The most emotional moment of the Liturgy for me was when Mark, Paul, Margaret, and Dave Kasper brought the elements up the aisle to the Sanctuary…during the OFFERTORY HYMN. *
358
Into the Valley
During Communion, “Juba” (a special group of singers recruited for the Episcopal Ordination by Jeremy Spurgeon, Cathedral organist and choirmaster) sang songs of Freedom from South Africa. Along with trumpeters and Cathedral Choir, Jeremy had assembled music and musicians that made a glorious and joyful sound throughout the celebration. * THE EUCHARISTIC PRAYER was sung and said. The COMMUNION was received. The Prayer after Communion was prayed… Just about time to bless and go…. But not quite yet! I had inserted into the Liturgy something that is not found in the Episcopal Ordination order: “Bishop Genge addresses the congregation.” I would guess there was some expectancy… perhaps a few pious words from this rooky bishop. But no, not that at all. My words were to be a genuine insight into their newly ordained and welcomed bishop. Three important things, I said, that I need to share with you as we begin our journey together: The first is that I am committed to the ecumenical enterprise. I believe all people of faith should eat together on our way to the kingdom, rather than wait till we get there. The second is that my family will always and at any time have access to me. The third is that I am asking everyone in the Diocese, from the youngest to the oldest, to call me Ken…not Bishop Ken…but just “Ken”. This has nothing to do with hale-fellow-well-met, or easy friendship. It has everything to do with the fact that each one of us is called not to “status”, but to God’s service – whatever and wherever it may be. * The first was to state my hope that all people of faith – and those with none, and those searching for meaning – could eat together at all denominations’ communion table or altar without restrictions of “membership” requirements.
359
Into the Valley
Exclusive doctrinal and spiritual arrogance, symbolized in restrictions on who may and who may not receive the blessed elements was, in my opinion, contrary to God’s hospitality. That is still my opinion all these decades later. Things have loosened up a bit since then. A number of denominations, including the Anglican Church of Canada, have come together and share the “table” with each other. But there is still a way to go. There were representatives from all the Christian denominations in Edmonton present at the Ordination. * When I described family access to me anytime and anywhere, there was a round of applause…mostly, I seem to remember, from the clergy and spouses… * My invitation to “call me Ken”, from the youngest to the oldest, initiated a quiet but audible comment from an Anglican bishop in the choir stalls, “He’ll live to regret that!”. He was wrong. Kids and young people found no problem with it – new as it was to them. Some parents struggled for a while as far as norms of politeness were concerned. All the diocesan folks grew into this “new” way of speaking to a bishop, except for one old English man. He insisted on calling me “M’ Lord”! We chatted about that… My main concern was that people would talk to me. My request took root. And this practice is much more common now. * All that remained now was for the new bishop to “bless” the crowd, join with all in the Recessional Hymn, and go…just into the hall for the Reception…Would there be no end to this beginning, I thought at the time. The Blessing was scripted. So, I had no trouble remembering that. But a bishop normally wears his pointy hat – the Mitre – and I did not know where it was…or, if indeed, I needed to put it on. Best to ask the Archbishop. “Walter, where is my hat?”
360
Into the Valley
He found it, gave it to me, and I put it on, grasped the Diocesan Pastoral Staff, stepped to the Chancel step and did it! At least my voice sounded like I knew what I was doing… * I designed both my Episcopal ring and Pectoral Cross. The ring is a simple gold band with nine symbols in the gold. Each has a special and complex meaning for me. The Creation Star or star of David is a cosmic symbol representative of all creation. The Rainbow is a symbol of unconditional love for all. The Cup and Bread is a symbol of food and drink for all. The shape can be seen as a celebrant inviting all to the table. All are welcomed at the table. The Fish is a symbol of a communication code used by early Christians under persecution. The Greek letters stand for Jesus Christ. The Circle and Cross symbolizes God’s love for the whole planet, with no exceptions or pre-qualifications. The Flames symbol is a reminder that the Spirit of God is not restricted or confined to any culture, language, or world view. The Acts of the Apostles tells the story. (Acts 2:1-13). The Ship on the Water (the Ark) reminds me that safety and inclusivity are at the heart the central purpose of the Gospel, and not the exclusive doctrine of any one world view. The Dove and/or Eagle symbolizes for me that all stories of human endeavor and creation are stories of the Holy Spirit. The Crucifix symbol is a universal invitation to love and serve others with heart, mind and strength. There is no gem stone on the ring. It is different from many other Episcopal rings. * That’s a long story…perhaps dull to you, but for me it is an important way of sharing my faith and world view. I wear the ring only rarely now, but it still expresses my “Faith”. *
361
Into the Valley
A Pectoral Cross is most often made of silver or gold. Mine is, by my request, made of wood. For some reason, I have a resistance to precious symbols of rich or powerful life-style…especially when they are displayed “in your face” ways. Yes, my many inconsistencies are evident here – my Episcopal ring is gold… Oh well… I requested that my pectoral cross be made of three woods: one native to where I grew up; one from another part of the world; one representing durability and strength. My brother, Gary, knew a noted wood carver – Frank Sudol. He lived not far from the farm where I grew up. Frank and I had been running competitors in school track meets. He always beat me. I had not known of Frank’s artistic fame. Frank worked his carving magic using Manitoba Maple that grew behind my Uncle Fred’s General Store in Paddockwood, wood from Belize, Central America, not knowing that I had twice been in Belize, and Caragana, a very hardy wind-break bush used widely on the Prairies. Like the ring, the pectoral cross was a symbolic indicator of some characteristics of my spirituality. * A strand of moose-hide hung the pectoral cross around my neck at its presentation in the Liturgy. Three Cree friends from Sorrento Centre days gave that to me as well as a braid of sweet grass, a smudging fungus, and an Eagle feather. The moose hide thong soon became stretched and worn out of shape. I replaced it with a leather lace, and that remains as the “chain” upon which hangs my pectoral cross. * I wonder what I will do with these things that are such powerful symbols of my spiritual life. Perhaps I’ll figure that out before I enter my final journey… * We had rented St. Luke’s Parish hall for an evening supper. Guests included all those from across the country – family, friends, and Dean Harold and Claire Munn. Like many friends over the years, we first met Harold and Claire at Sorrento Centre.
362
Into the Valley
The Stanley Cup Finals were on, so we made provision for a TV to be in the hall. The technical reception was “iffy” but kept us up on the score. The Sorrento Centre contingent sang a rowdy song and gave me an autographed copy of the Book of Alternative Services. I used that BAS throughout my episcopal ministry – and, after all the decades, it’s right here on the desk beside me…battered but still functioning. The St. Barnabas “Choir” – Walter and Iris Laduke, Doug and Maxine Morehouse, Gary and Noreen Hawley, and Diane Hawley, Geoff and Carolyn Pratt, and Tracey, David and Katy Pratt, Mary and Mark Erwin-Gibson, Mary Baker - sang a roof-raising song for the celebration. There were three old friends from our Yellowknife days – George and Elda Dundas, and Barbara Bromley. All these folks, and other family and friends present, each in their own way, had been important people in our life. They represented the multitude of unnamed people who had helped us arrive thus far in my story of HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. * The next step for me (and for Ruth) was the Lambeth Conference. Wedged in between my first day of the bishop job and Lambeth was a 90-degree learningcurve of less than two months…again in the deep end and just learning to swim! * The 1988 Lambeth Conference was held at Kent University in Canterbury, England. All Anglican Bishops from the world-wide Anglican Communion gather every ten years to discuss church and world affairs and plan for the future. The Archbishop of Canterbury is the titular head of the Anglican Communion and chairperson of the gathering. I agree with many who think the tradition of Canterbury as chief among equals is long past its shelf-life.
363
Into the Valley
Clusters of Anglican dioceses in all corners of the world form “Provinces”. Each has its own Archbishop who functions in those dioceses similarly to the Archbishop of Canterbury for the whole Anglican Communion. For example, the Anglican Church of Canada, with all its dioceses and bishops, is one of the “Provinces”. Our national Archbishop in 1988 was Michael Peers. Our current Archbishop in 2018 is Fred Hiltz. (Our national Archbishop is called “The Primate” … not to be confused with our ape forebears!) * The Anglican Communion has so far resisted some internal pressure for us to have a more “Central Magisterium”, meaning a model more akin to the Roman Catholic system. I do not support such a style of governance. The Anglican Communion has more of a federal style of governance, with the challenge of integrating by agreement various doctrinal, theological, cultural, and organizational differences. And where differences seem irreconcilable, we struggle to remain together with individual integrity. Not easy and not always possible. Some have left the Communion and named themselves the true faithful Anglicans. It was ever thus in the human enterprise, I guess. * And so, we two pilgrims went to Canterbury in 1988… somewhat later than Chaucer’s characters. But we did see the spot in the Cathedral revered as the place of the martyrdom of Thomas a’ Beckett. We attended a performance of T.S. Eliot’s drama, “Death in the Cathedral” in the crypt. Ruth and I were wedged into a room in a Kent University residence designed to hold one student. The Loo was a wee-way down the hall, to be shared by others… but luxurious, I suspect, compared to accommodation for medieval pilgrims. * Back in the dark ages of 1988 the church had not yet discovered that women could be as good or better bishops than men. So, spouses had their own Lambeth.
364
Into the Valley
Ruth bought several tea towels as gifts for women priests in the Diocese of Edmonton. The purple tea towels said: “The Place of Women is in the House of Bishops”. During Lambeth there were several demonstrations in favour of the ordination of women. England was far behind in ordaining women as priests, let alone as bishops. * Another memory from Lambeth is of a little girl dancing in an empty area just behind where we were sitting in the large plenary hall. The date was 6 August, 1988. Bishops and spouses and others were together to remember an earlier 6 August – 1945 – when the United States dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan, the first use of atomic bombs in warfare… There was singing, praying, processions and incense as we shared deep sorrow and irredeemable sadness as the Japanese Nipon Sei Ko Ki led us in the Liturgy. And the little girl danced and sang quietly…in the unselfconscious innocence that in a beautiful way marked a moment of God’s love in the midst of a crazy world. * Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Leah skipped along the path hand-in-hand… They, and a cinema full of others including Ruth and me, had just come out from viewing the movie, Cry Freedom. The story was about Steve Beko and the fight against apartheid in South Africa. The concluding credits named a very long list of individuals who had been killed in their resistance to the apartheid system in their country. Many of the South Africans in the theatre knew more than a few on that list. As they watched the list at the conclusion, they sang a stirring African freedom song. (I was told that the list was removed from subsequent prints of the movie.) The mood was sombre and sad as we came out. But there in our midst were Desmond and his wife, central fighters against this historic racism, singing of hope and determination! That remains a vivid and positive memory of Lambeth for Ruth and me. Desmond Tutu called himself “a prisoner of HOPE”. *
365
Into the Valley
In those days I always took my recorder and music with me on trips. From time to time in the few free periods in our Lambeth schedule I took my recorder outside, sat down and played. It was far enough from the madding crowd to give me some gentle solitary relaxation. * Ruth and I caught terrible colds at Lambeth and Ruth missed two days of her meetings. A young Nigerian bishop and his wife came by to see how we were. She was in Ruth’s study group, and he was in mine. A kind gesture. Much appreciated. * I discovered that some of the African bishops actually flew to their home dioceses during a weekend break in the Conference…and back! A rather expensive expedition…Of course, I suppose some the UK bishops went home from time to time during the Conference. Ruth and I did not. Nor did the young Nigerian bishop. * The spouses’ Lambeth Conference put on an impressive display of the amazing scope of the women’s work throughout the World-wide Anglican Communion. The over-all learning I took from the 1988 Lambeth Conference was the vast variety of people and places in the World-wide Anglican Communion. Somehow or other it hangs together…perhaps by God’s grace… There are disagreements, political, economic, and cultural differences. Theological, biblical, liturgical opinions differ…and yet we are still here and daring to work for a viable honest and loving relationship within and beyond our denominational borders. It’s a messy Anglican miracle.
* One day at dinner I sat opposite a young woman who was very critical of white dominance and arrogance in the church and world. I made some weak defense of the Canadian approach to our First Nations…
366
Into the Valley
Quite rightly, she shredded my statement. I was embarrassed. She had forced me to face the fact that in Canada we have been complicit in racism, however benign it may have seemed to generations before us – or however arrogant it was! Residential schools, demeaning and unhealthy living conditions on reserves, poverty, missing women and girls, and disproportionate percentage of our prison inmates…all are part of the reality in Canada. The struggle of First Nations, together with religious organizations and others, for genuine reconciliation is staggering forward at a snail’s pace. I’ve never forgotten the swift and utterly true analysis by that young woman way back in ’88. * Of course, it would be equally hard as well to forget that Ruth and I had tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace…ah…oh…yes, all the other bishops and spouses were there as well. A rather large crowd. And since I was not an “Archbishop” or “Primate”, Ruth and I were not invited into the Royal Circle…But the tea was very good. It was reported as having been heard that Princess Diana, of blessed memory, remarked that there seemed to be a lot of men… (no women bishops…) * This was part of Lambeth’s Day in London. It included lunch at Lambeth Palace. Archbishop Runcie’s spouse was a very good pianist and entertainer. A good time was had by all. To start the “London Day”, there was a Eucharist in St. Paul’s Cathedral. As you might expect, the wives were seated separately from their husband bishops… As Ron Shepherd came into the pew in front of me, he turned and asked – with his typical quirky humour – “Is this smoking…or non-smoking?” For some reason, I do not remember a thing from the preacher of record’s sermon… *
367
Into the Valley
Ruth and I had the opportunity to go up in Canterbury Cathedral Bell Tower and witness the bell-ringers at work. Marvelous blending of the ancient and the present. Earlier we had been present, with all the bishops, at a Russian Orthodox Evensong in the Cathedral. Both were timeless expressions of the holy. * Lambeth ’88 had been fun and a learning experience. It had been important for me to be exposed to, involved in, an activity of the Anglican World-Wide Communion. And so, we began a circuitous route heading home…in a right-hand-drive rental car and driving on the “wrong” side of the road… Very tired, we headed west. * We took a short stop at Winchester Cathedral. Much interesting history there, but our goal for that day was Salisbury. We toured Salisbury Cathedral, went up into the tower and saw the original – and still functioning – mechanism that was used to lift up the building materials long ago. In the Cathedral we viewed one of the few copies of the Magna Carta. In 1215 King John was forced to sign the document by the barons of the day. Though it had many faults and was revised many times, The Magna Carta is a symbol of the beginnings of more representative governance… the roots of the English version of democracy. I suppose from that, through the long tangles of history, the ancient document lurks in the shadows of my story, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE… * A kilometre or two north of Salisbury is the ancient remains of Old Sarum. Salisbury and Old Sarum are really one and the same. The site claims to be the spiritual centre of England. As we wandered the site, we were aware of timeless holy ground…
368
Into the Valley
Not much further on, is Stonehenge, the circle of stones that dates back to 2200 BC. At both sites we were able to move around freely and unhindered by other tourists or fenced-off paths. That was 1988… It’s different now. But the mystery is still unfolding. Salisbury for us was much more than a “tourist” stop. We had just come out of the Lambeth experience. The Anglican Church of Canada had evolved from the church history as it played out in past centuries in England – and, I believe, millennia before that, in the mystery and history of the human journey. * We did a very touristy sea-side picnic lunch at Lyme Regis on our way to the only set piece on our wandering post-Canterbury drive to Heathrow and home. We drove through Exeter and Newton Abbot and arrived at the home of Jean and Pat Wells in the little village of Coffinswell. An Edmonton friend of the Wells had arranged for us to spend a few days with Jean and Pat. From our “granny suite” in their house, we looked out across their garden to the beautiful Devon countryside. Jean was a gourmet cook! They took us on various sight-seeing tours, including the coastal path which was a very short drive from their house. We developed a good friendship with Jean and Pat, and their two adult sons, renewed a number of times after 1988. Pat was a very active nature conservationist. He knew the beautiful Devon Coastal Paths well. * After visiting Exeter Cathedral, we drove across Exmoor to Lee Abbey. Back in 1975, when we lived in Calgary, we had taken Mark, Margaret, and Paul, to England. We spent a “fortnight” in Lee Abbey. This time, ’88, we had a cream tea on the Abbey property just above Lee Bay…Happy memories. The Abbey no longer hosted the same sort of events that our family enjoyed back in ’75. *
369
Into the Valley
The mists of ancient times settle around Glastonbury Abbey. The sign on the old Abbey grounds reads: “The site of King Arthur’s tomb. In the year 1191 the bodies of King Arthur and his Queen were said to have been found on the south side of the Lady Chapel. On 19th April 1278 the remains were removed in the presence of King Edward 1 and Queen Eleanor to a black marble tomb on this site. This tomb survived until the dissolution of the Abbey in 1539.” Tradition has it that St. Joseph of Arimathea was sent to Britain about 60 CE to preach the gospel. He landed in Glastonbury, stuck his staff in the ground and forthwith it sprouted and flowered, and has since always blossomed twice a year, in the spring and at Christmas. So reads the official Glastonbury Abbey guide book. We were not there in either season. The third location we explored was Glastonbury Tor and St. Michael’s Chapel. As is common in ancient places, a well of mystical reputation of some sort or other is at the foot of the Tor. * On our way to our final pre-Heathrow stop – Oxford – we passed by Bath. The recollection of the Bath Abbey angels ascending and descending on the front of the building and the ancient Roman baths reminded us that we had visited the place with our children in 1975. * Dr. John Macquarie was a well-known and respected British theologian based in Oxford. He travelled far and wide lecturing and teaching. My predecessor in the Diocese of Edmonton had engaged John for a diocesan clergy conference. I wanted to ensure that the arrangements were still on. Ruth and I had tea with John and his wife, confirmed the arrangements and chatted a bit about the recent circumstances in Edmonton. We left our B&B next morning and headed for Heathrow and home! *
370
Into the Valley
Mark met us in Toronto airport during our time waiting for the flight to Edmonton. First was a hug, and then the news that Wayne Gretzky had been sold by the Oilers to the LA Kings! Short visit with Mark, and then on the plane to home. Much worse news awaited in Edmonton. Martin and Florence Hattersly’s daughter had been murdered. Martin was a priest and lawyer in the diocese. A bishop is pastor to the diocesan priests and families… I did the best I could. Martin and Florence were amazingly brave and strong. But that is their story to tell. * Integrating Lambeth and all our time in England was a process in fits and starts because I was plunged back into the very immediate and complicated challenges of a diocese in pain. There was the need for the episcopal election in the first place, and the death of Martin’s and Florence’s daughter. As is always the case, the bishop is the lightning rod, and looked upon as the final “fixer” of all bad things in a diocese. Of course, if some things work well, then the bishop can be tempted to take credit. The Diocese of Edmonton and I had much to learn – together! And some things can’t be fixed… * The most challenging period in my story “HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE was from St. Matthias Day 1988 to 25 October (my birthday) 1996…about 8 ½ years. The mix of the bad and the good is…interesting. As in all jobs, the “ups” and the “downs” were mixed. What follows now in my story is a reflection of the “good, the bad, and the ugly” – from my perspective as Bishop of the Diocese of Edmonton. Let’s start with the “good”. * Each January, Ruth and I fitted in a week of skiing at Silver Star, near Vernon. The cost was just do-able because we went in the coldest = cheapest season. We stayed on the hill, and skied out from and back to our door. Glorious! *
371
Into the Valley
Both of us continued our routine of early morning runs. It was built into our normal day’s activity. I think these runs were foundational to our general good health both physically and mentally/emotionally. It “blew the carbon” (as they used to say about automobiles) for me. I had always been involved in sports throughout my life, but diocesan work denied me participation in regular team or individual sports. Running took care of that for the time being. * During my time as bishop in the diocese, the first five of our grandchildren arrived. It’s hard to describe how beautiful and renewing that was for Ruth and me. Their parents were pretty happy, too. ’91, ’95, Anna and Graham to Margaret and Dave; ’92, ’94, Emily and Katherine to Mark and Andrea; ’95, Cameron to Paul and Lisa. In my monthly column in the diocesan paper I referred to our grandchildren from time to time…It must have been about the right frequency because one of our parish clergy thought it was too much…the clutz… and obviously not a grandfather. And, more importantly, he did not have “the ears to hear” what the Spirit was saying… * One of the early “fixes” I did was to return the annual Clergy Retreat to a Silent Retreat. Apparently, they had deteriorated into a gabfest between the retreat leader’s talks. I stated that I, too, was on retreat. There were scheduled times to talk to the retreat leader if an individual wished. If any could not stand the silence and needed to talk, then do that on walks outside the retreat facility. I strongly emphasized the retreat was not a parish or diocesan “business” session. I think most if not all the clergy were thankful. * For silent reasons relating to the immediate past history of the diocese, Ruth accompanied me each Sunday in my parish visits. The folks grew to enjoy her presence. She was a good visitor. Her quiet conversations with the folks did much to help the diocese see me a real person, and not simply one “in office”. I designed those parish visits using Reg Hollis’s (Diocese of Montreal) system. I told all parishes that I would respond to invitations for a bishop’s visit in six-month 372
Into the Valley
blocks. Every request would be honoured in accord with practical scheduling. The longer ahead the invitation came, the more likely it could be accommodated. It worked. * The diocese had purchased a new house for the bishop just before Ruth and I left for Lambeth. After returning, we lived in our one-room “apartment” in the Cathedral Close till September. Interior painting, rug-laying, etc. completed, it was good to be in our house. Ruth had scouted the place, took me to see it, we recommended that the Diocese make the purchase, it was agreed, and the deal completed. It was a bungalow. We did not want a traditional “Bishop’s House”. The interior design allowed us to entertain small numbers, but no “New Years Levees” for us! (Eventually we bought the house from the diocese – the first house we had ever owned.) * I enjoyed visiting the parishes. Traditionally, when the bishop visited a parish, the rector presented people both young and old for Confirmation. The Order of Laying Hands on the heads of the confirmees was an ancient symbol or rite marking the completion of Baptism and the entrance into the Church community. In the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s the Anglican Church of Canada gradually allowed non-confirmed folks to receive Communion. Now, an increasing number of parishes simply invite all who wish to receive the bread and wine of Communion. I think that is good. No one is turned away from what is intended to be God’s table. * Often parishes had Episcopal visits only if some were to be confirmed. I gradually persuaded the clergy to invite the bishop for pastoral Sunday visits. There did not need to be “Confirmation”. For the most part, it worked. *
373
Into the Valley
Another thing I made clear was that a Confirmation Service did not need people together from several parishes on a Sunday at a large church such as the Cathedral. If a parish had as few as one for Confirmation, I would go there. * It is very easy, even if not intended, for a bishop to be distanced from understanding that she or he is part of the same team as the parish and diocesan lay and ordained folks. No one is more or less valuable than anyone else. I thought then, and I still do, that a bishop does well to remember that. * It is obvious that different individuals have different personalities…some out-going and lively, others more quiet and reserved…some friendly immediately, some slow to engage. So it was with diocesan parishes. Each was like an individual person, each relating to outsiders – for example, the bishop and spouse – differently. With Ruth’s help, I think parishes and I came to respect, accept, and even like each other as time went on. There is another parallel between an individual person and an individual parish. Some parishes were well organized…some were not. An Episcopal visit always provided me with a “snap-shot” of the variations. Of course, the parish got “snapshots” of the bishop at the same time… * In a parish, the incumbent, pastor, priest, (whatever she or he is called) has an increasingly intimate relationship with parishioners, and they with him or her. That can be a special and holy – and largely unconscious, or dangerous – connection. It has always been primarily the incumbent who is the guardian of the continuing health of that relationship. A priest can lose his/her way very easily. Ego has many shapes and tricks. Pastoral work can be both energy-draining and energy-giving.
374
Into the Valley
One of the subtle but important jobs I had in the Diocese was to be aware as possible of the nature of clergy-lay pastoral relationships. That is where I found such supportive strength among wise clergy and wise lay persons. I was no miracle worker. But we did our best to work together in keeping us all healthy. Details about that kind of work do not have place in my story. But this general reference is important to have been noted. * The relationship between bishop and clergy in a diocese is complex. Many clergy consider the bishop as the Boss. At the same time, bishop and clergy know that the bishop should be the pastor of the pastors. While that ministry can be a renewing experience for both priest and bishop, such work is not easy. Personality, background, training, experience, differ for both bishop and priest. I discovered that some clergy actually feared bishops. Whether the fear was the result of a priest’s personal experience in the Diocese, or based on the history of church polity in general, the fear was real. I was startled each time I discovered a diocesan priest who was at some level afraid of the bishop. I do think the clergy (and lay leaders) grew to trust me however much they might have disagreed with me. The fact that I never had “hidden agendas” helped. * The “Call me Ken” declaration I made at my Episcopal ordination signaled many important leadership intentions for me. One was that as I travelled about the diocese, I referred to “to going in to a parish” rather than “going out to a parish”. If you know anything about the tension between “city and rural”, you will understand… The bishop lived in the city…
375
Into the Valley
Is the office of bishop a big deal? Yes. Is the office of deacon and/or priest a big deal? Yes. Is the office of lay-person a big deal? Yes. Is every parish, whether big, small, or in between, a big deal? Yes. That was my vision for our Diocesan community. Some got it…some didn’t. I worked hard at living that vision. * Our Diocese shared the monthly diocesan paper, The Messenger, with the Diocese of Athabasca. Each edition the bishops were responsible for a “Dear Friends” letter. In my letter I shared my thoughts about diocesan life, some of my hopes, and some of my questions. My itinerary – parish visits, national meetings, etc. – was always listed in the Messenger. * I wrote very few “Pastoral Letters” to the clergy and parishes. One in particular had to do with the kind of money raising enterprises a couple of parishes were using to finance their parish budget. In fact, they had become dependent on this income. At the same time both parishes knew the Anglican Church did not condone parish bingos as fund-raisers. The two parishes were directed by me to cease that activity immediately. They did, but not without much screaming and hollering at me. I recall a number of meetings with the parish Wardens and other parishioners which were decidedly unpleasant. Both parishes knew the Anglican norm in this matter. The practice had been going on for some considerable time prior to my arrival. * That Pastoral Letter went to all clergy and parishes. Not long after, several ACW (Anglican Church Women) groups wrote to me for my pastoral guidance… “Are ACW groups allowed to raffle a cake or some such ‘prize’ at their annual teas?” Those letters were genuine and polite requests for direction about social occasions that had been done for years. They were not designed to save the financial life of the parish, but rather for small out-reach projects. Was this “gambling”, they asked. Of course not. I assured them that, in my view, their souls were not in danger of hell-fire…
376
Into the Valley
Neither were their raffles a major breach of Anglican discipline… My response was couched in more pastoral terms, but essentially, “Thanks for your sensitive concern, and Carry On!” * I ignored the thrashing and shouting of the two Bingo parishes. After the combative meetings were endured by all, the bingos ceased. Regular Episcopal visits continued in the normal fashion. * Whistle-blowing in any organization is scary, often very risky. In 1987, six priests in the Diocese of Edmonton had the courage to come forward together and speak to the Primate. The Primate came to Edmonton. He and the six clergy confronted the then Bishop of the Diocese with an ultimatum: Resign now, giving the reason of abuse of the use of alcohol, or they would reveal alleged serious indiscretions and remove him from office. My predecessor chose the former. The whole event was a major shock to Synod Office staff, diocesan clergy, and the parishes. And I learned all this only after my Episcopal election, and very close to my Ordination date. It became increasingly clear to me that the full story must be shared with all the clergy. The six whistle-blower clergy agreed to tell the diocesan clergy what actually happened, and why. I issued a (firm) request for all the diocesan clergy to meet with me and the six clergy. It took two gatherings to ensure that all the clergy had opportunity to hear what happened and why. * The clergy had come to grips – more or less – with the circumstances as reported in the Anglican Journal. They thought their bishop had resigned because of problems with alcohol abuse.
377
Into the Valley
We sat in a large circle. The mood was filled with tension and suspicion. The clergy looked at me with… hard to describe… perhaps suspicion without definition… perhaps wondering if the whole scenario leading up to my election might have been a coup by some of the senior clergy… Distrust was very close to the surface. I outlined the procedure: The Dean and the Archdeacons would tell all the details leading up to the departure of the former bishop. There would be time at the conclusion of the recounting for individual clergy to comment or ask questions. I remember all this with vivid clarity. Though long ago now, I knew that the health of the Diocese was at stake. It was risky, but it had to proceed. I had made it clear that I knew nothing of this prior to my election. I emphasized to the gathering that the details of the account would include the options that had been presented to the former bishop, and the bishop’s choice. I had also made it clear to the Dean and the Archdeacons that individual names, other than the former bishop’s, were not to be divulged. They agreed. The Dean and the Archdeacons told the story. That took a lot of courage on their part because the diocesan clergy were more suspicious of them than of me. It was not an easy time for any of us in the circle. * The responses from the clergy ranged from shock and surprise to sadness and anger… a mix of all of that. For some there was a vulnerable uneasiness about their ordinations… I emphasized as strongly as I could that their ordinations were valid and holy in every way. And I believed that to be true. I expect that strange feeling took a long time to fade. But I think they came to accept that. * The “ghost of bishops past” began to lift at least a little with those clergy gatherings. Lay-leaders, including Diocesan Executive, were still not aware.
378
Into the Valley
However, their trust in the integrity of the diocesan clergy helped them to accept, if not understand, the whole situation. I also think that as the Diocesan and parish lay-leadership got to know me, our growing relationship helped. It took at least two years for the “ghosts”, as I called them, to disappear. Because it became known that my predecessor had agreed to seek treatment, the laity of the diocese relaxed a bit. As I listened to folks around the diocese, I think they felt safe. * In any dioceses that I had been aware of, there were always problems arising among diocesan personnel. And it was no different in the Diocese of Edmonton. They were always difficult, frequently unsolvable, and causing us all – bishop, parish, and priest in question – pain, worry, and anxiety as we struggled toward working solutions. I had many visits with parish wardens, congregational meetings, and one-to-one conversations with clergy in difficulty. They were tough times – for us all! * One of the vulnerabilities of the office of bishop is that he/she is isolated. Obviously geographic isolation is sometimes a factor. But I’m referring to another kind of isolation – work isolation – and the need for peer support. The relationship of bishop and clergy is not the same as peer relationship. (Of course, clergy need that kind of support among themselves also.) In recent years attempts have been made by the national church and regionally. In my time in office the available aids for bishops were not helpful…at least for me. I hope current bishop relationships are stronger now. The job is increasingly difficult, I believe, and even more challenging. * My concern about isolation as a dangerous factor in the life and work of a bishop arose around the question, “How could a talented and capable person like my predecessor drift into unhealthy habits and compulsions without a fellow bishop
379
Into the Valley
knowing?” And, if another bishop did know, why did he not attempt to help? Early on after the diocesan clergy meetings, I asked the Primate if he would come and meet with the bishops of dioceses surrounding the Diocese of Edmonton and share with them the story of my predecessor. We held this meeting in our diocese. The several bishops present heard the story. They were shocked and saddened. They did not know the serious and real reason for their fellow-bishop’s sudden departure. They had been somewhat aware of the alcohol abuse. This exercise was not a blaming session. It was primarily an information sharing. It alerted us all to our individual need to have supportive relationships with each other, and to be alert to our fellow bishops’ personal needs. In my journey through the diocesan bishop experience I had two anchors of support: Ruth, with her loving and honest wisdom, and secondly, with one or two fellow bishops with mutual trust and honesty. I was (and am) thankful. * Our diocese was divided into small regions. Each required lay and clergy representation on Diocesan Council. The ongoing work of the diocese was shaped and monitored at these meeting. The sheer size of the Diocesan Council made a balance of efficiency and representation difficult to achieve. And not all members were easy to get along with… Finances fueled the fire of clashing opinions. That is inevitable. Less than clear and up-to-date current financial management always exacerbated council irritations – including me! Frustration and anger understandably rose quickly when clear and accurate answers could not be given to Council. Fortunately, that was due to incompetency rather than wrong-doing. Replacement hiring solved that problem – eventually!
380
Into the Valley
Chairing Diocesan Council meetings did not become all sweetness and joy. The Council was still representational of the whole diocese in both region and opinion. But at least the financial reporting was current and accurate. Differences in the use of resources always provided a lively discussion! * When Vic Kerr retired from Synod Office staff after many faithful years as Executive Archdeacon, the results of the search for replacement produced a major surprise for us all, including the Search Committee. We had several applicants. We interviewed each. We found that each of us on the committee independently chose the same person! Lee Bell was a Pentecostal minister. On the basis of our criteria for Vic’s replacement, Lee scored the highest. We interviewed him again – and were confirmed in our choice. He was hired! * The clergy of the diocese were flabbergasted! Had the Search Committee gone off their rocker? Generally, lay leadership were less alarmed, but certainly surprised. Lee Bell soon won over all with his business savvy, and professionalism. He was remarkably able to master the Anglican lingo – titles, ecclesial vocabulary, and Anglican theological terms and meanings, as well. The icing on the cake was his happy and genuine courtesy. Lee initiated our first electronic news letter to all the parishes. Lee began a regular Executive Officer communication with parish wardens and vestries concerning diocesan/parish financial matters. He was clear with the facts, of course, but his communications were courteous and encouraging. Lee thanked parishes for their good efforts in working towards meeting apportionments – even if they were behind. That created a friendly consultative relationship between “them” in the Synod Office and “us” in the parish, rather than a harangue to get their money in.
381
Into the Valley
“Apportionment” was the amount of money arrived at by a common formula that each parish sent in to the diocesan central office (Synod Office) for diocesan support work in and beyond the diocese. I was glad to appoint Lee Bell as a Lay Canon of the Diocese, with the appropriate plaque placed in the Cathedral chancel. Lee was not pleased when he learned of my coming retirement. He got along with my successor for a while, but then resigned. Sadly, not many years later Lee died. A young man. I was never able to learn the cause of Lee’s death. His ministry in the Diocese had come at just the right time in the life of the Diocese of Edmonton. Lee was a gift to the Diocese and to me. * Shortly after Lee Bell came on board, one of the Archdeacons said to me, “I no longer have to have a shot of scotch to calm my nerves when I get home from work!” At last he could relax because the information flow re diocesan finances and general PR were in good hands. Between Vic’s retirement and Lee coming on the job the Dean and two Archdeacons had tried to handle the work of the missing executive officer. The four of us had many meetings…and our mutual frustration with the extra and awkward work increased. We all breathed a sigh of relief when Lee arrived for work. I found that “in between” time very difficult. * My episcopal ministry coincided with a very lethargic economic period in the province and country. The Diocese of Edmonton seemed perpetually in dire financial straits. In the later stages of Vic Kerr’s time as Executive Officer we attempted to build a diocesan-wide financial campaign. We called it “Opportunity 2000”. The goal was five million dollars. There was much consultation throughout the diocese, but for many reasons there was a struggle to get started. There was some clergy and parish resistance.
382
Into the Valley
The short story is that we raised only several hundred thousand dollars – mostly by the hired expert and by me in special interviews. The concept of “Opportunity 2000” was good, in my view; the exercise of the project was not well handled. The concept was based on a community-sharing principle. One of the biblical stimulants was Acts 2, the concluding several verses. Each parish was asked to make a small yearly budget commitment to “Opportunity 2000” so that parishes in financial need could receive help in their mission to their community. Two or three of the more affluent parishes did not like this. Our Synod meetings, as well as individual parish meetings, were not successful. No blame to be laid…we just fell short in selling the concept. Individuals were asked to make contributions, too. I pledged that every person in the Diocese would have the opportunity to contribute to this plan of caring for each other – regardless of the size of their giving. * Our “triad executive officer(s)” wanted to kill the whole project. I refused. Yes, we needed to cut our losses, so to speak, and close “Opportunity 2000”. But not before I sent a letter to every individual in the Diocese to give each an opportunity to contribute – as I had promised at the outset. And so, I did. Till now I have not mentioned the Synod Office lay staff. They were an amazing support group throughout my years as bishop of the Diocese. They kept me on track and did their best to respond to my requests for assistance. Evelyn was secretary for most of my time there, with the partnership of Barbara. When Evelyn graciously retired during the diocesan budget crisis, Barbara came on as secretary. A few other support staff came and went, of course, but these two were the anchors! In those years as well, I was a luddite in the relatively new computer age! Then came that incredible day of work to get my personal request letter out to the Diocese.
383
Into the Valley
That letter to the diocese that I mentioned above had to be written, signed personally by me, stuffed in envelopes, stamped, and mailed, before the day was out. There were thousands! But with the flat-out overtime dedication of Lee Bell and the staff, the letters were into the post office on time! “Opportunity 2000” came to a close with this dedicated effort that no one but they and I knew about. That final appeal yielded around eighty thousand dollars. * Diocesan Synods can be a lot of fun and a lot of stress simultaneously. My role was to chair most of the proceedings, and to deliver the “Bishop’s Charge” to the Synod. The Charge is intended to lay out the bishop’s hopes and vision for the next few years in the Diocese. In my reflections and recollections of my “Charges”, I think I was faithful to my vision of what the church was to be about in its life, work, and faithfulness to the God in whom we professed to believe and follow. That my vision was not totally parallel to everyone else’s is no surprise…But I do not apologize for that…In fact, I still think that some ears would not hear… * In Church Land – at least in the parts of it that I worked – if things go well in a parish the rector is often credited with the success; if things don’t go as planned, that is most often laid at the rector’s feet as well. Same for the bishop. So, parish priest or bishop can bask in the glory of good things happening only in so far as she or he is prepared to be the lightning rod for the mistakes and failures. I have experienced both. It’s the nature of the job, and if the priest or bishop can’t take it, then he or she needs help. More about that personally later. * “The Bishop’s Men” was an organization that had been in the Diocese a long time before I arrived. A dinner at a private golf club was held each year to raise money for the Bishop’s Discretionary Fund. Part of the money raised was shared with the Diocese of the Arctic. It was a worthy and useful cause.
384
Into the Valley
The spouses (wives) of the Bishop’s Men also had a lunch with the special speaker – the day after the main event… I spoke widely and loudly saying that the organization should be called “The Bishop’s Fund”, and that women be allowed in as full members. Many agreed. However, one of the founders of the group was dead-set against such a change. In fact, “…over my dead body…” he pronounced! His wife was equally vociferous in opposition – to the extent of verbally abusing me at one of the (few remaining) dayafter luncheons for the women. Water off a duck’s back…And her beloved spouse did not die when the name was changed and women became active and participant members. (These many years since, 2018, the “Bishop’s Fund” continues with the same goals, format, and fun – with women active on its executive.) * We had many good times during those eight and a half years I was bishop of Edmonton. The best youth worker in Canada was on staff for much of my time in office. Phil was intelligent, imaginative, energetic, and engaging with all ages – particularly with youth and young adults. He and his wife, Kathy, were honest and trustworthy lights in our diocese. I remember Phil’s partnership as we accompanied young adults on ski weekends to Jasper. Ruth and I enjoyed the skiing, but the discussions at group-prepared suppers, honest conversation about things that mattered, were valuable beyond reckoning. We over-nighted in the Jasper parish hall, with mattresses all over the place, and conversation and story-telling on into the wee hours. (Ruth and I placed our mattress on the floor of a conveniently adjoining room.) I recall many other gatherings of diocesan youth led by Phil. He had a way of safely and creatively drawing out the best in others. (Ruth and I are still in touch with Phil and Kathy. They are among my pantheon of heroes.) *
385
Into the Valley
Ruth and I also enjoyed a ski trip to Banff with young people and their leaders, David and Joy Thompson, from a rural parish. These ski trips were a great way to relate to the youth of the Diocese. Several times while bishop of the Diocese, I ran in races to help raise money for different parish projects. These were great times of connecting with parish folks of all ages – without my “Super-Christian” outfit worn at parish churches on a Sunday. Being in good physical shape is useful in relating to a wide variety of people, and it also helps maintain all-round good health. I am thankful. * In 1995 I took a two-month mini-sabbatical. Ruth and I rented a car in France and visited Brittany to see Ruth’s maternal grand-mother’s place of birth – Belle Isle-en Terre. Using chambres d’hotes, we found several places that we think had connections with Grandma Blake and with her English husband. This was our first visit to France. Our language proficiency was sufficient for survival…especially Ruth’s. We dropped our rental car in Calais, ferried to Dover, and trained to Canterbury. The three-week Canterbury Course was the primary study component of the minisabbatical. We were fellow students with people from all over the world. Residency was inside the Cathedral precincts. We arranged with Security to let us out (and back in!) for our daily early morning runs. Our route took us up to and back from Kent University – a familiar area from our 1988 Lambeth Conference days. Course leaders were, on the whole, very good. The course included English Church History, Anglican Communion functions, history of the Cathedral itself, theological and Benedictine spirituality (primarily from an English point of view), and visits to the historical surroundings of the Cathedral. We saw the ruins of 597 AD churches where Augustin landed to begin the reorganization of the Celtic Church. The Pope thought the Christian Church of England needed some spirited spiritual guidance… *
386
Into the Valley
Pilgrims still come to pray at the shrine of St. Thomas a Becket. He was murdered in the Cathedral in 1170. Thomas and King Henry II had been at odds for several years. It was not a good thing for a prelate to be at odds with a monarch in those days. We had seen T.S. Elliott’s play, “Murder in the Cathedral” when at Lambeth in ’88. Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales” is a hilarious story of the variety of pilgrims to the shrine…a bit bawdy at times. But enough about the Canterbury Course. It was a good time. We had other things to see and do… * First, we travelled by train to Birmingham to visit Barbara and Charles Hicks. Barbara was Ruth’s cousin, and married to Charles, a retired physician. They lived in Lydiate House in the little village of Bellbroughton. In 1975 we, with our kids, had first visited the Hicks. Gracious and welcoming, they introduced us to their rector and his wife. Barbara and Charles’s story could easily become a novel…but, of course, that is not my story to tell. * From Barbara and Charles, we went to see our long-time friends, Bert and Audrey Morton in their parish at Dane End, not far north of London. That friendship has continued on into the present. We had first met at Emmanuel College, Saskatoon, when Bert and I were attached to the Diocese of Saskatchewan. * Our next move was to visit Pat and Jean Wells who had given us such generous hospitality after the 1988 Lambeth Conference. During our few days with the Wells, Pat mapped out various day hikes for us along the coastal path that ran not far from their little village of Coffinswell, near Newton Abbot and Exeter. Pat would suggest various hikes, Ruth and I would choose, and Pat would drive us to the start and pick us up at the end. These marvelous hikes are detailed in Ruth’s journal. *
387
Into the Valley
Our fabulous Mini-Sabbatical continued. We had heard about Holiday Fellowship (HF) from friends. Before leaving Canada, we had booked a 7-day Guided Walk with HF at St. Ives in Cornwall. We hiked lovely sections of the Coastal Path seeing and learning much Cornwall history. Bus to trail-head each day, pick up, and return to a magnificent evening dinner. That experience hooked us on HF holidays! * From St. Ives we trained to Truro, then bussed to Portscatho, still in Cornwall but on the English Channel side. Our digs were a delightful little self-catering accommodation over-looking Portscatho Bay, and right on the edge of the Coastal Path. We ate scallops and fish and drank local cider…and walked every day on the coastal path. One day we swam in the sea on a remote stretch of beach. There were only five of us there that day. Four were topless. * The train ride from Truro to London was leisurely and interesting. For the last week of our mini-sabbatical we had the use of a house that belonged to a friend’s brother. We tubed and bussed to St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, Royal Albert Hall, Hampton Court, Kew Gardens. We discovered “London Walks”, a company offering affordable educational and entertaining two-hour walks around London. The mini-sabbatical was renewing, relaxing, and educational. But we were ready to go home. There were many high-lights. Within it all, Ruth and I had a plan evolving for our future… *
388
Into the Valley
Lee Bell met us at the airport and drove us home. After the hot dry English countryside, the fresh green cool surroundings were delightful on our drive into town. Lee helped us in with our luggage. We expected him to depart more or less right away… However, after a few lengthening minutes, he said, “I have some difficult news that you need to be aware of immediately…” I was right back to work! No time to settle in. * One of our diocesan priests had been accused of improper contact with a minor. Dean Harold Munn was Diocesan Administrator while I was away on the minisabbatical. He had removed the priest from all parish responsibilities and referred the matter to the police. Fortunately, our Diocese had an excellent protocol in place for this sort of event, and the police decided to let our Diocesan policies deal with the situation for the time being. Lee Bell, as Diocesan Executive Officer, filled me in on other relevant details before leaving Ruth and me to unpack. I contacted the Dean immediately and commended and thanked him for his right actions in this case. Harold and I met as soon as we could – pretty much right away! I began visits with the victim and family. There were many heart-wrenching meetings with the priest, the priest’s parishioners, and individuals. The accused priest was much loved by the parish and had been a trusted pastor. All appropriate confidentiality was maintained. The priest was permanently removed from office. The profound sadness of the circumstances deeply affected everyone – including me. Our Diocesan Chancellor, David Jones, was of great support in his wisdom and advice as we worked through to the difficult decision. Details of this parish and diocesan trauma are not relative to my story. I recount this tragedy in general terms only to give a concrete example of the complexity of a bishop’s job. *
389
Into the Valley
Perhaps you wonder if diocesan life just lurched from one disaster to the next… I admit that sometimes I felt like that; but in fact, there were many great moments – at least I think so. One of the things I rejoiced in was when a priest of the diocese made some significant break-throughs in her or his ministry, some successful event, or new learning, or renewed joy in the day-to-day life and work of the parish. I celebrated and gave thanks, too, for similar successes in lay ministry. There were many of both. I gave thanks. * I learned that my predecessor was not interested in the Cursillo Movement. Cursillo is a Christian renewal program first introduced by the Spanish Roman Catholic Church many years ago. Lay leadership was prominent in the structure. Both Ruth and I had participated in Cursillo when I was working in the Diocese of Montreal. Our connection and participation had continued at Sorrento Centre in the Diocese of Kootenay. I considered Cursillo the most sane renewal movement going. Shortly after we came to Edmonton I was approached by several lay people in the diocese who had made their Cursillo in other places before moving to Edmonton. They had maintained little support group meetings with each other. The nucleus of Cursillo was ready – if the new bishop gave the go-ahead. Part of the discipline of this movement is that the diocesan bishop must give his imprimatur. I did. A number of Roman Catholic Cursillo grads were part of our leadership teams. Ruth and I participated in many Cursillo weekends in Edmonton. Cursillo still functions in the Diocese after all these years…due largely to the wise (and sane!) lay leadership, and the support of my successors. * EFM, Education for Ministry, is a four-year course in biblical, historical, and theological studies. One does not require any prior levels of education to take EFM. One of our diocesan priests was the spear-head to get this started. It required some financial support from the diocese – not easy to get in a diocese that tended toward a poverty mentality. The participants pay a modest fee for each year of study.
390
Into the Valley
The EFM program needs a qualified mentor, and the participants work hard – readings, discussion, reflection – for four years. Ruth was among the first EFM graduates in the diocese. I was the preacher of record for the graduation liturgy. I suggested – warned – that the Church had unleashed a very powerful force of intelligent and dedicated participants in the Christian mission! * I enjoyed the House of Bishops meetings – Provincial and National – through the years. Those meetings kept me in touch with the bishops across Canada. Because I had lived and worked in other dioceses across Canada, I knew a number of the bishops through former working relationships. * For several years I was one of the Canadian Anglican bishops on the national Anglican-Roman Catholic bishops dialogue. We met to hear what were the current AC/RC issues. In my opinion, we never seemed to make much progress in formal relationships between the two denominations. We studied various joint ecumenical documents with little progress. But we did get to know each other in informal ways. On-going conversation does keep the lines of communication open… At our meetings we celebrated the Eucharist. Good…of course…except that when an Anglican gave the homily, an RC was celebrant, and only the RCs received communion. Roman Catholic homily…Anglican celebrant, and only Anglicans received. The reason: This was an official ecumenical meeting. The RC bishops were not permitted by papal authority to receive communion at an Anglican liturgy. I always expressed my sadness at this, in strong terms, because of the denial of Christian hospitality at God’s table. * All through my working ordained years I was a member of numerous provincial and national committees in Anglican church-land. As Bishop of Edmonton that continued. Each was a learning experience for me.
391
Into the Valley
Because of my support of the Cursillo movement, I did one term as Bishop Appointee for Cursillo in Canada. Not all dioceses had the Cursillo. A number of bishops were frightened that it might be some kind of crazy operation. But I visited several Canadian dioceses that did participate. The diocesan Cursillos that have survived over the years are those that have had wise and strong lay leaders. * Guatemala was and remains a very oppressive and violent regime. I was assigned by our national church to be part of a team of three – RC bishop, United Church person, and myself – to go to Guatemala to visit the many oppressed and endangered organizations. These included families of the Disappeared, Union organizations, and farmers. We were led by two Canadian leaders (one of whom I knew) fluent in Spanish and French. It was an intense time! We had our day-end meetings in a café rather than in our rooms because of the likelihood that our rooms were bugged. We reported back to a government committee in Ottawa whose purpose was to keep a watchful eye on regimes such as Guatemala. * In 1989 Ruth’s Mom, Mona Bate, had a stroke and died. Mom Bate had been so happy and thankful to have attended my Episcopal ordination. She felt that she carried the banner for Pop (John) Bate and for my Mom and Dad, (Grace and Nat) Genge. That was important for Ruth and me, too. Thankfully, Ruth had been able to visit her Mom every two weeks during her illness via the Red Arrow bus, Edmonton to Calgary. * For close to nine years Ruth worked as Pastoral Care Coordinator in the Grandview Care Centre in Edmonton. She had taken diocesan hospital visitors training and visited weekly at the U of A Health Sciences Centre. Then Ruth took a Unit of CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education), palliative care courses and in-service training units. She also graduated from EFM, as I mentioned earlier.
392
Into the Valley
Ruth continued to be my anchor at home and Sunday by Sunday as I moved around the diocese in my work. She was a much loved and respected person as we developed relationships with parishes and individuals throughout the diocese. And just as in parishes we had served before coming to Edmonton, Ruth made two things very clear to the diocesan community: she was not a “go-between” for messages individuals wanted to give to me. “Go direct. I do not carry messages to the bishop for you.”, she graciously responded; and secondly, “The bishop does not tell me anything of his work in diocesan matters. He believes the confidentiality of his work is absolute.” (And I certainly did!) * In 1993 as I was having my annual physical check-up, the doctor and I discovered I had atrial fibrillation… That day I had had breakfast and lunch meetings. In those days I drank coffee – strong enough to stand a spoon in. By the time I arrived at the doctor’s office I had downed five cups…at least. Like most people, I have only one heart. The diagnosis seemed rather serious. But I felt fine…not a good enough response for my doctor! So, I followed her path of medical examinations, etc. etc. etc. They/we tried the electric paddles on my chest…an interesting experience. Sinus rhythm returned for a couple of days – and then back to the irregular beat of my heart. Then came a prescription of warfarin (essentially rat poison) to keep my INR number between 2 and 3…The goal: to keep the coagulation level of my blood a bit thinner than normal to avoid blood clots…a splendid goal, indeed! Ruth and our family were, understandably, worried about all this. (So was I.) Gradually, we found the right level of warfarin. Good news, because anyone who has even a minor thing wrong with the heart is very conscious of having only one of them – a heart, that is.
393
Into the Valley
The right combination of drugs to go with the “rat poison” was experimentally discovered. All that was left was for me to gradually regain my physical routine. Gentle walks, moderate increases in speed, short slow jogs, gently increasing length and pace…all under the loving scrutiny of Ruth and the professional scrutiny of our doctor. I returned to my normal work and exercise life quite quickly. The atrial fibrillation remained with me and always will so long as I live. I am very thankful for Ruth’s healing presence, the skill and understanding of our doctor and other medical people, and the warm expressions of caring concern from the diocese. * Back in my time as bishop of Edmonton the question of sexual orientation was a quagmire of fear, anger, silence, biblical texts fired back and forth, persecution, condemnations, bullying, confusion, illness, rejection, loving sacrifice…all that and more. There were endless “in camera” debates in the House of Bishops. For me in our diocese the discussion was entirely one-on-one or very small groups conversations. There were, of course, many faithful individuals and same-sex couples involved in the diocesan community. It did not seem the right time and circumstances in the Diocese of Edmonton in those years for a knock-down drag-out battle about sexual orientation at diocesan synods. That caused a lot of anger and hurt in the gay community. Things in the western Christian church have evolved since then. Same sex marriages are legal in Canada. The LGBTQ2 community is more understood in the minds and voices of some communities. But long standing – eons of time – cultural differences about sexuality still has a long way to go. Much remains to be understood and accepted. *
394
Into the Valley
Throughout my parish and diocesan working life the role of women in church-land has gradually grown: W.A. to ACW, to full participation in parish and diocesan synods and councils, to ordination for deacon, priest, and bishop. But this sequence has not been easy. Some in the church still strongly disagree. The physiology and psychology of gender remain a mystery to many in science, religion, and secularism. In our diocese of Edmonton, while the ordination of women was formally acceptable, there was still a reluctance to even consider women as candidates for rectorship of a parish. At the same time, I was under a lot of pressure to insist that all search processes must include a female priest. I refused to take “affirmative action”. This is the clergy-search system we developed. 1. Parish profile was compiled. 2. I approved the final version. 3. All names of possible candidates had to come to me first. It was the bishop’s responsibility to vet each application. 4. When the list of vetted applicants reached a satisfactory number, I submitted the list to the parish search committee with the pledge that I would appoint whichever name they chose. I made it clear that if they chose a dud, then there was no blame in either direction – the parish or the bishop. If they chose a good one, then we rejoiced together. It worked… well…most of the time. Sometimes a female priest was chosen. The ministry of excellent women rectors sold itself. And there were many in the Diocese of Edmonton. * How does one know when it is time to move on…change jobs…retire…? In parish work through my years of ordination each time this question had come up I usually had some intuition or hunch that the time might be “now”. For quite a number of months I had been wrestling with exhaustion, depression…and just plain tiredness. Maybe it was time to move on…
395
Into the Valley
At one point I had become so fed up with things that we even bought the odd lotto ticket… At my request, Ruth would nip in to the sales desk, buy a ticket and dash back to the car, and we would speed away. Though I felt like a fugitive, the idea was that should we win, then our financial worries about having enough money to retire would be solved – and away we would go! We never did win, of course. So, we moved into a more logical line of discernment for future possibilities. We did some very detailed analysis of our financial situation. We consulted with our Investors agent. If I was going to retire, the logical time would be the month of October 1996, my birthday. In January 1995, during our skiing break at Silver Star (near Vernon, B.C.) we made our decision. 1996 would be the year. We thought much about our plan, taking into consideration two factors: October of ’96 would be a few months ahead of full pension time, and so reduce retirement income a bit; the next Lambeth Conference was coming up in two years…I could well do without that – as interesting as a second go would be. Decision confirmed. Retirement was on! * Making that decision was a great lift for me! Ruth was certainly on-board. She knew that I no longer enjoyed my work, that it was time for a major change. We quietly rejoiced in our decision. Our family was completely affirmative – confidential information, of course. The next thing for me was to discern the right time to inform the diocese. * The normal mix of good and difficult issues in diocesan life continued. But I tweaked my work schedule so that I could come home for lunch most days. That was an enjoyable change which was good for my general relaxation. *
396
Into the Valley
At a date early in 1996 I called the Dean and Executive Officer into my office. I told them of my decision to retire at the end of October that year. That information was strictly confidential till my formal announcement to the whole diocese. Harold and I had worked closely together my whole time in office. He understood my reasons clearly. Lee was very upset. He and I had worked well together, and he was looking forward to our collaboration continuing. It did continue very well for the time remaining. * The dye was set. No turning back. I felt good about that. And so, at a time I thought best, I made the announcement to the whole diocese. Diocesan-wide response was genuinely courteous, genuinely sad, yet very supportive. My sense was that the clergy felt the same way. Understandably, there had been differences of opinion, major and minor, and disagreements of greater or lesser passion. Through all my years as their bishop, I did have a strong feeling that, notwithstanding my mistakes and shortcomings, there was a warm appreciation of my honest and open way of doing and saying things. I had not operated on secret agendas, and lay and clergy knew that. * The diocese threw a grand farewell party for me (and for Ruth). All the clergy attended along with large numbers of parish folk. There was great food, amazing speeches, music, and gifts. Ruth brought the house down by inviting me on stage to present me with an apron and a book, “Cooking for Dummies”! * From my last Diocesan Synod, I remember only two things: Sister Constance Joanna, SSJD, was our special speaker. She spoke of “liminal” moments…from the latin, meaning “threshold”. This was a threshold moment in the Diocese of Edmonton, a time of new beginnings. We (the Diocese) stood ready and prepared to follow on the Jesus path into the future. She was more eloquent than that, but her words nourished the diocese – and me.
397
Into the Valley
The second thing I remember from the Synod were words of Harold Munn. Harold said, “Bishop Ken’s ministry with us has restored the soul to our Diocese.” He spoke other words, too, but those have stuck with me. I felt at that moment that perhaps my time as bishop of the Diocese of Edmonton had been of some use. Perhaps, but only by God’s loving grace, the much-needed restoration had truly begun. * Near the end of October, I attended my last national House of Bishops meeting. In spite of my thorn-in-the-side personality at times, the House were kind and wellwishing. And, indeed, I knew that some were envious. And it became November…I was retired!! *
398
Into the Valley
399
Into the Valley
400
Holy Serendipity
CHAPTER 20 Holy Serendipity!
The future was a new and open page. We were physically fit…What adventures awaited? During my last year in episcopal office, I had written two work-books for Enabler Consulting Inc. The President of Enabler Consulting was Gary Genge, my brother. He and Mary Ann, his wife, were beginning a company dedicated to extension study for clergy and lay leaders. The first, Leadership and Biblical Characters, was an examination of the leadership style, substance, qualities, and characteristics of 13 Biblical leaders. The second, Faith Roots: A Spiritual Life-Line For Religious Leaders, was designed for group or individuals following Jesus into the centre of spiritual awareness. The plan was for me to continue writing material for the extension study courses. Unfortunately, Enabler Consulting Inc. had to close doors. (Not because of my writing…I want to make that perfectly clear!) Over the years, I have used large parts of those publications myself in some parishes by request. I’ve given some copies to several clergy. And Gary and I did use the material for some parish studies in those early days. * “Serendipity” has always lurked in unexpected moments on my life journey. In midlate October 1996 such a moment occurred. Bishops of dioceses of the Council of The North (Canadian dioceses that needed financial support) were in Edmonton for a meeting. I dropped in to say hello. Jim Cruickshank, then bishop of Cariboo, handed me a letter. It was from Bob Jones, then Dean of St. George’s College, Jerusalem. Bob Jones was looking for a Canadian bishop to volunteer for a year as chaplain at St. George’s College. Bob had asked Jim to be that chaplain – or to suggest a bishop. The College needed someone as quickly as possible. Jim had recommended me to (Bishop) Bob Jones. The job was mine if I wanted it…with no salary, airfare Tel Aviv/return, board and room and job expenses, and starting 1 February 1997… 401
Holy Serendipity
As I came in the door, I asked Ruth, “How would you like to spend a year in Jerusalem?” “What?!”, Ruth asked... After a joint Wow!... Decision made! Correspondence with Bob Jones began. I soon realized that Bob Jones was very welcoming…but not very precise in describing the job. “Play the cards you’re dealt…” was pretty much the substance of his advice. The two requirements: be a Canadian bishop and be physically fit. I fit the qualifications… without knowing even approximately what St. George’s Chaplain’s job was… * Richard LeSueur, at that time a priest in Toronto, had been an instructor at St. George’s. He and his wife’s advice helped a lot in practical preparation for living at the College in Jerusalem. Again, into the “deep end” with only the rudiments of knowing how to swim! Our families were a bit startled and concerned. But Ruth and I were excited and rarin’ to go! Next year in Jerusalem! * All the above was the easy part of preparation. Insurance, airfare, luggage – what we needed/wanted with us, clothes, books, laptop, recorders, footwear, medical and dental checks, meds for a year away, camera, etc. – felt like an avalanche of demands. Arrangements for someone we could trust to live in our house, someone to collect rent and check our property and forward important mail was of major importance. We had two months to have it all in place. With the help of many we got it done. Our old friend, Bill Hladky, agreed to be our agent looking after all aspects of our house – rental, general over-sight, and go-to person for the renters. Bill and June had been parishioners of ours in Holy Trinity, Yellowknife. In ’97 they lived in Edmonton.
402
Holy Serendipity
We rented to a young couple of St. Paul’s, Edmonton. He worked for Young Life in St. Paul’s. She was a newly graduated dietician, and pregnant. We set the “rent” at a level that would cover only the costs of utilities and taxes. We did not view this as a money-making venture. The basics were in place. We stood on the verge of a grand adventure! * The Diocese of Edmonton was no longer on my “work menu”, but we did care about the diocese as it entered a new stage. Spending a year out of the diocese meant that we would be completely apart from the preparation for, selection of, and ordination of the new bishop. That was a good thing. * On any adventure, the anticipation and preparation have an excitement that is almost delicious… But this was not a sight-seeing holiday. It was a trip into a part of the world we had never seen, into a culture that was foreign to us, and into one of the epicenters of political unrest. Neither Ruth nor I knew Hebrew or Arabic. While that linguistic ability was not required because the participants in St. George’s College courses would speak English, we would be in the midst of two conflicted cultures. What would that be like, day after day – all the time? * The last things we had to do before leaving was to spend some days with family: Christmas with Margaret and Dave, and their kids, in Walnut Grove, B.C.; several days with Mark and Andrea and kids in Calgary, AB, leaving our car with them; then several days with Paul and Lisa and Cameron in Pointe-Claire, Quebec. A quick flight Montreal to Toronto – and off into the wild blue yonder bound for Tel Aviv… the longest plane flight we had ever taken…
403
Holy Serendipity
We made our way through Customs, etc. in Tel Aviv. The thoroughness of the Israeli security was impressive – something we would get used to very quickly. Mary Page, wife of Dean Bob Jones, with the student assistant of the time, met us as we emerged in arrivals. Their warm welcome was very good for us! Tel Aviv to Jerusalem goes from sea level up onto the heights of Jerusalem, straight east. It was night, so no viewing of the changing terrain. St. George’s College is in East Jerusalem, and within the Cathedral grounds. Before you could say “What’s going on?” we were in our little apartment in the College and ready for sleep…a sleep interrupted by the Muslim call to prayer when it was still dark. * As I write, it is a little over twenty years since we spent our year, 1997, at St. George’s College, Jerusalem. The mix of the College staff included Muslims, Christians, North Americans and local. The Courses throughout the year included people from all over the world and from a wide variety of denominational backgrounds. There is a gold-mine of personal stories in that mix! What follows is what I now think about my experiences during that year. The beauty of vistas, biblical references, particular locations, etc. will be only the background for my current reflections on the place or event. * I begin with the Pilgrim Way of The Cross. There is a big difference, in my opinion, between a photo-op-walking of this ancient path and walking it meditatively and without needing a picture to prove you were there. The very next morning after we arrived, we were off with the current student group to tread and pray the Way of the Cross. That pilgrim path became my focus in my year as chaplain for St. George’s College. I would lead groups over that route many times in the following months.
404
Holy Serendipity
The route followed had gradually evolved over many years of pilgrims searching for the most practical way of venerating the final path to the crucifixion of Jesus in Jerusalem. The distinct possibility that, with the exception of the final stations very near and in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, Jesus’ path to the cross was different, does not matter. Most holy sites have been located in different locations at different times. And gradually they have settled on a particular spot or mountain because it made practical sense to pilgrims on their journey. “What path was the path?” Faith does strange things to human interactions – absolute certainty about “God” destroys the truth it supposes to proclaim…And many die in the process. * There are now 14 stations in the Way of the Cross in Jerusalem. At the door of St. George’s College, I firmly requested that from that moment on, and through the Stations of the Way, there would be silence and no photo-taking. There would be all the time needed at the end for any to shop, take photos, or wander about. Any wishing to return to the College could come with me and the cross. The rest were on their own. * I wore my purple cassock. Jerusalem was a city of costumes, and as we carried a cross, all knew what we were about. Sometimes members in the group would sing as we walked between stations. We used a script at each station related to the theme of the station, and all had a part to play – taking turns carrying the cross, reading prayers, etc. We kept the group numbers no larger than ten or fifteen. * My experience leading many groups on the Way of the Cross was that each station affected individual participants in different ways and degrees. While we were singing, silent, or praying, the noisy hullabaloo of business and the garbage therefrom struck a note of unavoidable realism on our devotional journey.
405
Holy Serendipity
Walking the Way of the Cross was a new experience for most of the participants. Station 4, “Jesus meets his mother”, always evoked strong emotion. In one group the reader of the script had had a very difficult relationship with her mother. The experience moved her deeply. Station 5 recalls Simon of Cyrene forced to carry Jesus’ cross. All the stations were/are jammed into the working-day business of the old city. Close by and right across the narrow street – perhaps three metres at most – was a shop selling music tapes, etc. The noise was not conducive to spiritual reflection. But each time as I led our group to that spot, the owner, a young Muslim, turned the sales noise down till we finished our devotions. That always moved me very deeply. In a way, he had helped us carry our cross. As we approached the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and near the end of our journey, the mood of our group became more anticipatory – we were close to the challenge of the Holy Mystery. For me, the final events of Jesus’ life in his physical presence forced me to contemplate the meaning for me of “incarnation”. Life continues as humans of every age have the opportunity to live out the life we have been given. That’s how “resurrection” works. We finished by the traditional burial “tomb” of Jesus. Among other words, we said: “Do not dwell on your wounds for he has risen to heal you, he has risen to forgive you, he has risen to change you all and bind us all together now. People of God, he is not here: he is risen, and he is here…”
For me that meant, and means now, that the “resurrection” is in us. And, for me, that was the mission of Jesus. Is there life after death? Of course. Life continues from generation to generation and age to age. It can get messy…but it’s all we’ve got. What an adventure! *
406
Holy Serendipity
During our year in St. George’s College, I was not particularly moved by a sense of being in and on the land that Jesus walked upon. My emotional involvement with the “Holy Land” was much more evoked by the struggle of human relationships. Palestinians and Israelis were fighting over their rights to be safe and sovereign in their own land. Christian denominations were jealous and protective of what each conceived to be their right theology and space. Jews, Muslims and Christians Arabs all struggled to have their ancient and rightful place in Israel/Palestine. The whole country suffered from its history and struggle for a home in a land that was holy. * Henry Carse, Director of Studies at St. George’s College, said, “To experience Jerusalem is like trying to drink from a fire hydrant.” We were reminded by the Palestinian Christians that it was the “living stones” of the Holy Land – the people – that were more important than the historic sites and places. Coming to Jerusalem for the first time, and for some, many times, was like a deluge of emotions and uncertain expectations surging over one all at once. Ruth and I were helped through that tsunami by Henry and all the staff of St. George’s College. Accepting the fact that almost all of the territory of Jerusalem that Jesus actually walked upon was buried under the several metres of human detritus of two millennia, helped anchor us to the reality of the land and people. * During my year in Jerusalem I spent most of my working time preparing for and living with the course participants. Reflection time for my own personal journey was limited… The chaplain’s job was the primary focus. I enjoyed it immensely, and learned much from the participants and staff, and others. My role was to keep in touch with each course member as they encountered the land and the people. The Director of Studies, Henry Carse, led the group in a land and culture he knew well, assisted by Dr. Stephen Need. I learned much from them well beyond the rich content of their teaching. *
407
Holy Serendipity
I prayed with the group each day on the bus as were about to head for our next “holy site”. I also gave meditative reflections on scripture passages relevant to the site we were in. I led post-journey services in the College Chapel to give the participants opportunity to share and listen to each other. The length of the courses varied according to subject and distance from College to the primary sites. During our year, there were varying time-gaps between courses. This gave Ruth and me opportunity to travel. We visited Turkey, Greece, Italy, Cyprus, and some other locations within Israel/Palestine. Those experiences were stories in themselves, but to be told another time. * My personal reflections on that year in Israel/Palestine have marinated, so to speak, in the twenty+ years since. The questions for me now are: How is “God” related to the geography of that land? How is “God” related to the people who struggle with themselves and each other in that land? Much has been written about those questions, with many attempts at solutions. I don’t perceive much progress towards reconciliation of the ancient broken relationships of land and people. * How does one approach life in any setting? As a “tourist” – simply taking pictures without engagement? As an “academic” – studying for some future goal and keeping distance from personal involvement in community daily life? Perhaps as a “pilgrim”? Being a pilgrim requires, I think, an intimate involvement in the vicissitudes of life, and yet continuing “on the move” within heart, mind, and “soul” …no travel necessary. I want to be a pilgrim…and hopefully, a “disciple”. That’s what St. George’s College, Jerusalem, offers – with all the options – to everyone who comes. The Temple Mount (for the Jews) and Haram Esh-Sharif (for the Muslims) occupies the same spot in Jerusalem. The Dome of the Rock and el-Aqsa Mosque are Muslim
408
Holy Serendipity
centres of holiness. Jerusalem is the third holiest site in all of Islam. The great Temple, the Holiest of Holy for the Jews, wherein rested the Ark of the Covenant, was in ancient times resting on the present location of the Dome of the Rock. That does not make for good relationships between Muslims and Jews. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the central shrine of Christendom, and not on the same site as the Temple Mount and Dome of the Rock. Yet again, there are major disputes. Six different Christian denominations jostle each other for space, prominence, and recognition – Latin Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Armenians, Syrians, Copts, and Ethiopians. Jerusalem is an unhealthy city. It is the place where Jesus was killed and buried. But even the details of that are sometimes debated. I did not feel the holiness of the ancient city. Nor did I find it a place to nourish my continuing faith journey. But perhaps it is one of those special places that the Celts call “a thin place” … where “God” and humanity touch… Perhaps I was/am not perceptive enough. Probably. * Since I do not have to follow a traditional pilgrim route to holy sites, what follows is some of my current reflections on a random selection of “holy” places. They are not in geographic or logical order, simply what nudges to the top of my memory all these years later. They all mark, however, significant influences on HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. * It is not always easy to get a person’s attention. Stars and angel choirs figure in the nativity story in the gospels of Matthew and Luke. Shepherds and Academics, and everyone in between, have special moments which get their attention. It took a burning bush that was not consumed by fire to get Moses’ attention. Each time I was in the pilgrim places of “attention getting” in Israel/Palestine, the Sinai, and Jordan, something happened to me…What I saw, felt, learned, made a difference that I continue to work at understanding. *
409
Holy Serendipity
The Monastery of St. Catherine is an Orthodox monastery established over 1400 years ago in the Sinai Desert at the foot of Moses Mountain (Mount Sinai). Over its long existence, the monastery has never been conquered or destroyed. Mohammed, the founder of Islam, Arab caliphs, Turkish sultans, and Napoleon, all took the Monastery under their protection. For a time during the Crusades (1099 to 1270), Crusaders were protectors of the Monastery. I was in St. Catherine’s several times. The symbology of the enduring Christian faith is everywhere within its walls and church. I was allowed into the Chapel of the Burning Bush. Walking or riding on a camel up Mount Sinai is a mystical journey. I have celebrated the Eucharist on the mountain just as the sun was rising over the rugged and barren mountains. We read the 10 Commandments on this mountain where Exodus tells us Moses received the Commandments. We walked on part of a traditional route Moses led the Children of Israel over 3300 years ago. We met Bedouin and were invited for tea at their travelling camp on the ancient sands of the desert. In a way I cannot explain, I was changed by the Sinai experiences. We slept in the open on the desert in the lee of mountains and rocks. Henry Carse tapped on a seam in a rock…and water came out as in Exodus 17 and Numbers 20. The intimacy between the earth and heaven can come out of the stories of human pilgrimage even in the 21st Century. Probing space and the scientific search for understanding life on our planet and beyond, is our new story line. * Great leaders are always put on a pedestal. Often leaders lose their earthy humanity in the adulation and adoration of their accomplishments. It’s easy for a leader to get sucked into believing her or his own press. I’m sure Moses would have dearly liked to lead his people into the “promised land”. Deuteronomy 34:1-8 describes the magnificent view he and his followers had looking west from the top of Pisgah on Mount Nebo. The goal of his mission as
410
Holy Serendipity
leader of the Children of Israel lay before him. Yet he was denied the glory of a triumphant completion of one of the most amazing journeys in human story. Moses died before he could enter the “promised land”. There is no record of where his people buried him…no cairn, no shrine. This fact reminds me that great leadership is focused on the pilgrims and their destination, and not on the leader. * Bethlehem was the birthplace of Jesus. Each group of students visited the caves under the Church of the Nativity to view the “Manger” Altar and the “Birth” Altar. Each time I was struck by the emotions of our St. George’s group in singing “Oh come all ye faithful” as we stood before that place of pilgrim mystery and awe. The Word was made flesh…made human…a miracle of hope. Not very far away in those caves was the writing-study of St. Jerome who, in the last stages of the 4th century, translated the Bible from Hebrew and Greek to Latin – The Vulgate – which remained the official translation of the Roman Catholic Church till the 20th century. Some think that perhaps Jesus might have been born in Nazareth. I think it was Bethlehem. He did live in Nazareth for quite a while and worked with his Dad, so the story goes. Maybe they worked just north of town in Sepphoris where there was a lot of construction. I wonder if Jesus had a girl-friend… He was precocious and independent. But he was obedient to his parents…and he “grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favour of God was upon him.” (Luke 2) An idealized picture of Jesus, perhaps? Matthew tells us he was a refugee, with Mary and Joseph, in Egypt. We have an olive-wood carving of the Holy Family – with Mary on a donkey – which reminds Ruth of the current refugee crisis in the 21st century.
411
Holy Serendipity
Now to the Galilee, and several places of significance – for the Christian story, of course, but important to me in my interior spiritual journey. I was not making light of Jesus in speculating about his childhood and early youth. What was it like having father and son working together…? I worked with my Dad on the farm in Northern Saskatchewan. I knew who my father was. There was no question as to who impregnated my Mom. There was some question about that sort of thing in Jesus’ case. At least, that is how the Gospel story goes. Only the Gospels of Matthew and Luke tell the story of the birth of Jesus. There are interesting differences of detail, but in both it is clear that Joseph did not impregnate Mary. The couple did, in fact – as the story goes – get married and parented Jesus together as best they could. Those were dangerous times, but they made it through until Jesus took off on his own “career”. Things from then on were no less dangerous. Mary, his mother, hung in with him till the end, as the story tells us. Joseph, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen. * Born in Bethlehem, then a sojourn for safety in Egypt, returned and grew up in the Galilee, and died in Jerusalem…it was a short career, perhaps less than 30 years from birth to death. The story is a lot more colourful than that, and has made an amazing impact on the world. * We Christians often affirm that we are an “Easter people”, that we believe in the resurrection of Jesus whom we call the Christ. I believe that we are more importantly a “Christmas people”. The earthy circumstances around the conception and birth of Jesus need to be understood as real and as “ordinary” as all the births from time immemorial. I believe that the “humanness” of Jesus is the same as the “Christ” of Jesus. *
412
Holy Serendipity
This is a major factor in my personal life journey…HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. The academic study of Christology has always interested me…deeply. I am far from being an academic, but the decision I made at my confirmation as an early teenager in that wee church in Paddockwood, Saskatchewan, still strengthens me. I now know that my pledge to attend church, come hell or high water, was an unconscious child-understanding of the human invitation from Jesus to follow… For me, this is an old Christology translated into 21st century reality – where I live now. And so, I have the energy to walk through the valley with a view of the next horizon. Of course, that is not as simple as it sounds. * Much of Jesus’ ministry happened around the Sea of Galilee. Josephus, a Jewish 1st century historian, says of the northern part of Galilee: “There is not a plant which its fertile soil refused to produce, and its cultivators in fact, grow every species. The air is so well tempered that it suits the most opposite varieties. The walnut, a tree which delights in the most wintry climate, here grows luxuriantly, beside palm-trees, which thrive on heat, and figs and olives, which require a milder atmosphere. One might say that nature had taken pride in thus assembling, by tour de force, the most discordant species in a single spot, and that, by a happy rivalry, each of the seasons wished to claim the region for her own. (War 3:516-18)”
The Gospel stories of Jesus’ inclusivity, offer healing and freedom to all “discordant species”. What an earthy challenge this is now, to not only the people of the “Holy Land”, but to all cultural tribes – including all faith communities – everywhere! * Mount Tabor is a “breast-like” shaped little mountain a bit south-west of the Sea of Galilee. It came to be venerated as the place of the Transfiguration of Jesus. Archeological evidence shows that the mountain had been a holy place from ancient times. I have seen the ruins of ancient worship under the present Christian church. The Christian building has side chapels that are dedicated to Moses and Elijah. There are ruins of earlier buildings on the mount as well.
413
Holy Serendipity
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and 2 Peter 1;16-18, all tell of the Transfiguration. Peter feels compelled to speak, interrupting the conversation of Jesus, Moses, and Elijah. God says, “This is my son! Listen to him!” Peter, James, and John all wanted to mark the place with three shrines (dwelling, tent), one each for Jesus, Moses, Elijah. They wanted to preserve the moment…to capture the beauty of the experience, and to prove the authenticity of that holy event in the future. The Mount of Transfiguration is a holy place. Though it has a pilgrim-place geographically, I believe Transfiguration can happen anywhere. While this story focuses on Jesus, I believe that Peter, James, and John were “transfigured” too. They came down from the mountain into the valley – and didn’t tell anyone for some time. Transfiguration, for me, is a continuing process. The initial event may be – often is – very short. But it is like a seed planted. The Transfiguration continues as I struggle, even at 85 years of age, to figure out how to “believe in God”. The story of the Transfiguration continues to help me recognize the occasional transfigurations I stumble upon. Actually, the journey, with the struggle, is exciting! I have not been back to Mount Tabor…but in a sense, I have never left. * I suppose I’ve never left many of the places I visited in Israel/Palestine…even though I have not been back to any of them. The Mount of the Beatitudes, for example, has left me with the impossibility of living up to the list in Matthew’s Gospel, chapter 5. What do they mean? Then? Now? I work away at those questions – and come away each time still looking and trying. *
414
Holy Serendipity
The Old City of Jerusalem is divided into 4 quarters: Christian, Muslim, Armenian, and Jewish. Also, within the walls is the Haram Al-sharif/Temple Mount. Central is the Dome of the Rock, the third most holy place in Islam. For the Jews the Temple Mount is the site of their ancient Temple. To whom does it belong? There is still no mutual resolution. I was up on the Temple Mount many times. I often went east out of the Old City, through the Kidron Valley, and up onto the Mount of Olives. That afforded me a magnificent view west over the Old City, and east out across the Judean desert to the Jordan valley. On the Mount were three key locations significant in the life of Jesus, Gethsemane, Bethphage, and Bethany. Jesus prayed for God’s guidance in Gethsemane, and was arrested. Bethephage is the traditional site of the starting point of Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem, and from there the Palm Sunday Processions have continued. Bethany was the home of Jesus’ friends, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. There Jesus raised Lazarus from the grave. Again, though I have never been back, spiritually I’ve never left… * Megiddo, an ancient fortification in the Galilee, once dominated the main trade route between Egypt and Damascus. Its elevated location gave it strategic military importance, and so was the site of many battles. In 1997 the Primates of the Anglican Communion held a meeting in Jerusalem. As we stood on Megiddo, with the Primates looking out over the view, I gave a reflective meditation on the historic futility of war as a way toward genuine peace. * One morning, at breakfast in the College refectory, I was sitting opposite George Carey, then Archbishop of Canterbury. I asked him if it would be OK with him if I called him George rather than “Your Grace”, or “Archbishop”. Yes, he said, that would be fine. George Carey went up a good deal, in my opinion – even though in some circles of the “pomposity department” of the Anglican Communion, George was not looked on as the most noble of prelates. *
415
Holy Serendipity
During the meeting of the Primates, I was present in my College chaplain’s role for all the lectures, field trips, and expeditions around and in Jerusalem. This was the same pattern for all our courses over our year at St. George’s. The Primates’ meeting ranked as the most concentrated collection of “prominent leaders” within our Communion. Each course throughout the year was interesting, challenging, and an important part of my personal maturing growth. (At least, I think I was maturing…I also know that I had a long way to go! And still do.) * I sailed on the Sea of Galilee 14 times, and never ran into a storm or caught a fish. The fact that I also swam in it was not because I was sinking or thrown overboard. We viewed the discovered and preserved 1st century boat that was found during a low-water time of the Sea of Galilee a few years before our time there. It was very likely exactly the same as those that fished the lake in Jesus’ day. * I visited Jericho many times… an ancient oasis providing fresh water for millennia, fruits of every kind, camels for riding (at a cost), nearby archeological digs that might have been remains of the wall that came tumbling down when Joshua arrived…(probably not), and the tree that Shorty Zacchaeus, a rich tax collector, climbed so he could see Jesus…a sycamore tree just over there at the crossroads…(See Luke’s Gospel, chapter 19, verses 1-10…a delightful story worth a quick read.) * The Pool of Siloam in Jerusalem, associated with John’s Gospel story of the healing of a blind man in chapter 9, is one of the many “holy” places I visited often both with the College Course folks and on my own. Many times, I prayed as I walked up the steps that Jesus and his family had walked up to the Temple Mount when they came to Jerusalem. I was one of millions of pilgrims who touched the “top of Calvary” in the Church of The Holy Sepulcher. *
416
Holy Serendipity
Up on the Golan Heights, looking west over the Sea of Galilee, and east towards Syria, I came upon the rusted remains of a field artillery gun…a skeleton symbol of the failure of military might to heal human relations. And on that same side of the water is the traditional place were the pigs rushed into the Sea and were drowned, carrying the demons that had come out of the Gerasene man who was out of his mind when he first encountered Jesus. The man was now sane. But, after this strange event, the Gerasene people asked Jesus to go away for “…they were seized with great fear.” (Luke 8:26-39) Perhaps they had become accustomed to having this sick and dangerous man with them, and could not imagine anything else… Change, even of that kind, is not easily accepted. * In John’s Gospel, chapter 4, Jesus was heading north to Galilee. He was thirsty, and stopped at Jacob’s Well for a drink. A Samaritan woman came along to draw water. What follows is amazing! He, a Jew, spoke to a Samaritan…and a woman at that. And asked her for a drink! Jesus’ disciples were astonished. Samaritans and Jews did not share anything with each other. The reasons were historical/religious and deeply rooted. What a story for our 21st century relationships! The reasons for divisions change, but the actions, sadly, keep being duplicated…I visited Jacob’s Well in 1997. * Where in the River Jordan is THE place Jesus was baptized? For some that question is important. For me it is not. But I have stood in the Jordan, with various of the College Course groups, as we joined in renewing our baptismal vows. It was not a plunge head-long into the water, just a shoes-socks-off-rollup-pantlegs “plunge”. The footing was safe…the water of the Jordon flowed around us, and the wee little fish tickled our toes. But it was a powerful experience for all of us – though there were always a few who couldn’t quite get in the water. They at least witnessed it. Some took samples of the Jordan water home… *
417
Holy Serendipity
The ancient ruins of Qumran are on the edge of The Dead Sea, east of Jerusalem. The Dead Sea Scrolls were found there in 1947 by some shepherds. The site had been home to the Essenes, a religious group fanatically dedicated to the Law of God. For a while there was much speculation as to the possibility that Jesus might have had some connection to the Essenes…though not true. I visited Qumran several times with Course participants. The dry heat at the site was always oppressive. I saw the Scrolls in the Israel Museum. Fanatical dedication to a perceived “right way” of viewing life – in opposition to any other – has always repelled me. * A high natural rock, overlooking the Dead Sea, near the southern west shoreline, stands Masada. It was fortified in the first century BC, and was the focus of many battles in succeeding years. During our year at St. George’s College, I was up on that natural fortress several times. One of the many stories that survive about Masada is the one where a small band of Jewish settlers fought to the death – or took their own lives rather than give in to the attacking Roman military force. There are different readings of the “facts”. The first century historian, Josephus, is the primary source of the history of Masada. Strange and unreal as it seems, even some folks in the 21st century imagine that emergency refuge in the hills and mountains give total safety. For some time, at least, the Israeli military used Masada as a rallying cry that never again would the Jewish people be pushed from their “home land”. * To swim in the Dead Sea is a misnomer. It is so salty that it is impossible to sink into its water and drown – unless you swallow too much. I have floated on the surface of the Dead Sea. My most memorable recollection of that day was of an Israeli soldier in his swim trunks wading in the salty water. I knew he was from the IDF because belted around his shoulders was his service rifle… *
418
Holy Serendipity
I managed to run only 50 times during our year at St. George’s College in Jerusalem. Ruth ran with me sometimes. We jogged over to the YMCA track, just across the street from the King David hotel – part of which had been blown up way back in the years of the British Mandate over Palestine. The track ran around the soccer field where the Israeli soccer team practiced. The surface of the track was in complete disrepair. Once we were rerouted in our run because of a suspicious package thrown on the track… no bomb, but a momentary concern. Our year in Israel/Palestine was between Intifadas. But there were three suicide bombs during our year. The IDF harassed young Palestinian men on the streets all the time. And there were military check-points everywhere. Busses and bus depots were prime targets for bombs. We used public transit, nevertheless, from time to time, and did a lot of walking – including past bus stops. * Gaza Strip is a very dangerous and controversial piece of land right on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea. It is dangerous and controversial because it is part of the West Bank, almost constantly in open conflict with the Israeli Defense Force, and internally at odds among Palestinian political leaders. During the Anglican Primate’s meeting in St. George’s College, all the Primates, spouses – including Ruth and me – and Bob Jones, College Dean, together with various staff of the Primates, visited Gaza. First, we visited the Anglican Church. Yasser Arafat came into the church for the first part of the Service, and left midservice to attend Muslim prayers. After the Eucharist, the Primatial crowd had a short bus tour of the area, and then all convened for a sumptuous meal at Arafat’s palace. He presided. All was happily courteous, and things flowed with massive generosity and gracious words – but no wine, of course. Mrs. Arafat and baby were present during the meal. At our departure Yasser Arafat personally greeted everyone, including Ruth and me. Leaders come and go… But brutal conflict goes on… Hope is thin. *
419
Holy Serendipity
Lighting the New Fire at Easter is a universal Christian ritual. Because of some different calendars in the Christian world, the date of Easter varies – same celebration of the Resurrection, of course. We were in Jerusalem for both the Eastern Orthodox and Western dates. The Lighting of the New Fire takes place in the Church of The Holy Sepulcher/Church of The Resurrection on Holy Saturday. A few Prelates of the Eastern Rite went into the Edicule (Tomb of Christ) – the centre of Christian belief in the Resurrection of Jesus. Each had a lantern. After much prayer, the Spirit lights the lanterns, the Prelates emerge, the New Fire is passed through the church, candle to candle – to the extent that some faint from lack of oxygen…and couriers head for the airport and land transport to take the Easter Fire to the rest of the world. But before the lighted lanterns emerge from the Edicule, there is a great swirling mass of men competing for space around the Edicule. It is a sight to behold, especially for a western Christian… Fights do not often break out, but it seems they could…a kind of battle of spiritual testosterone. From a theological point of view, the rivalry has something to do with the nature of Jesus… When the New Fire emerges from the Edicule, the mass of participants and the huge numbers of faithful observers rush for the door. It is very easy to get trampled. Some do. But that day we all managed to exit into the Courtyard and up to street level. The whole event was amazing to witness at such close quarters. Not only was it dangerous in the exiting mob at the end, it was also physically difficult to get in. Only by the courtesy of one of the participating Armenian Prelates was St. George’s group able to get up close and personal with that intensely cultural holy event. * Throughout our year in that city of powerful religious and political conflict Ruth and I were conscious of the stability and wisdom of the College staff. Of course, all did not get along easily sometimes. As relatively short-term residents, Ruth and I viewed things differently than had we been permanent staff. I am going to name a few of the folks we worked with and/or encountered in our work.
420
Holy Serendipity
Those who worked at St. George’s College were a varied collection of women and men of Canadian, American, British, and Palestinian origin. The first three were Anglican Christians. The Palestinian folks were a mix of Muslims and Christians. * Bob Jones, Dean of St. George’s College, was a retired American Episcopal Bishop. He is the one who “hired” me as Chaplain of the College for the year, and subsequently, Ruth as warden. Mary Page, Bob’s wife, was a volunteer also. Henry Carse was Director of Studies – a gifted person who spoke Hebrew and Arabic, and was an excellent teacher. He was an American from Vermont. Henry had lived in Israel/Palestine for many years and was experienced in the Jewish Kibbutz movement in his early time in the land. Stephen Need was a scholar from England who deeply loved the Holy Land. He, too, was very personable, and an excellent teacher. He and Henry worked well together, and Stephen became Director of Studies when Henry was away. Rana ran the front desk. She was a strong perceptive Palestinian Christian, and active member of the Cathedral Arabic Congregation. Her brother was a driver who often worked for the College. Adel was Librarian; Palestinian Roman Catholic, needed a pass to work at the College; married to Rula, who worked for the United Nations, and was a legal Jerusalem resident. Both were university graduates. Samer was Gardener for the College; Palestinian Muslim; very able young man. Ramzi was a member of the College security team; Palestinian Muslim; gave flowers to Ruth on Mother’s Day. Samir Kafity and his wife, Najet; Palestinian Christians; Samir was Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem – Israel/Palestine, Jordan, Lebanon and Egypt.
421
Holy Serendipity
Ala was Kitchen Assistant; Palestinian Muslim; very able and personable; we went to his house for tea once after seeking a Jerusalem Work Pass for him from the Israeli government. Azzam worked in House-keeping; Palestinian Muslim; faithful prayerful young man who was saving his money to build an annex on his family’s home to house him and his intended bride; was curious as to why all our family did not live in the same village. Daoud (David) worked in the grounds and garden; liked Yasser Arafat; Palestinian Muslim. Maher worked in the College garden; took a turn in Security; Palestinian Muslim. Khalil was Head of House-keeping; Palestinian Muslim; had worked in Saudi Arabia, and upon return been put in jail for a while. Very much a family man. He was an important part of the team in Ruth’s work as Warden. Omar was College Chef; a kind and gentle man – and excellent cook; an important part of the team in Ruth’s work as Warden. Albert worked as bursar for the College; Palestinian Christian; active in the Middle East Council of Churches; issued Ruth and me our allowance for meals we prepared for ourselves when the refectory was closed. Nimer was son of the Principal of the huge boy’s school, St. George’s, just across the street from the Cathedral Close; worked on College Security Team. Ibrahim owned a small shop near St. George’s Cathedral Close; Palestinian Greek Orthodox; gave Ruth and me crosses; very kind and generous. Yehezkel Landau lectured at the College; American Jew, married to Dahlia (author and resident in a former Palestinian house after 1948 when thousands of Palestinians were driven from their villages); Zionist but strongly supportive of Palestinians and Jews living together in a mutual homeland. Paul: Palestinian Christian, owned a small store. He sold everything – including a 3shekel bottle of wine, aptly named “Excellent Wine”. We shopped there often.
422
Holy Serendipity
Naim and Maha Ateek: he was priest for the Cathedral Arabic congregation; Director and Founder of Sabeel (Dedicated to peaceful, strong and persistent, seeking of justice for the Palestinian population in their relationship with the Jewish population); Maha played the Cathedral organ on occasion; she and Naim were friendly and supportive of Ruth and me…and we of them in an internal struggle within the Cathedral and Diocese. Samir Khayo was Head of Maintenance for St. George’s College; Palestinian Christian; life-long resident of Israel/Palestine, with many pieces of property expropriated after 1948; Ruth and I were invited for a meal to his house on the road to Ramalla; he usually drove Ruth to pick up College mail at the Jerusalem Post Office; he knew the intimate details of the College fabric, and tended the place with loving care. Ginny Ross: American Christian; Registrar of the College. Shared office with Ruth. Each of the above were special in our year in the College. I am thankful. * Almost all the Palestinians named above had to have Israeli/IDF Passes to come to work in Jerusalem. Normally, those passes had a three-month duration, and then had to be renewed. That process was one of the most frustrating and humiliating exercises for them – because we, non-Palestinians, had to front for them in the tedious business of gaining permission to work in their own country. And every time there was any disturbance – from the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) point of view – all passes were cancelled…and the application process had to start all over again. If any requiring passes were caught in Jerusalem without a valid pass, they were jailed, and the College had to bail them out with cash. Quite a number of times staff without passes who had got to work by sneaking around Check Points had to stay overnight in the College. They did not bring lunches to work with them because the parcel would make trouble at the Check Points…or on the street. *
423
Holy Serendipity
Relations between Palestinians and Jews did not change much during our year in St. George’s College. The State of Israel continued to build “settlements” wherever they wished in the West Bank. It did not matter that official world public opinion expressed alarm, while at the same time seemed unable to stop that illegal confiscation of Palestinian land. The UN appeared helpless in spite of pronouncements demanding justice for the Palestinians. And, of course, since we left all that time ago, many kilometres of high wall has been constructed by Israel in the name of national security to block free movement of Palestinians – and in many cases confiscating Palestinian land, as well as dividing families. Peace in that region will come only if carried in the arms of justice. Pray not for Arab or Jew or Palestinian or Israeli But pray rather for ourselves that we might not divide them in our prayers But keep them both together in our hearts * I conclude my story of living in Jerusalem through that year with mixed feelings; worries about that land that is Holy for Jew, Christian, and Muslim; a profound thanksgiving for having that opportunity; deeply felt loving memories of those with whom we lived and worked; and a recollection of the excitement Ruth and I felt as we made final preparations to go home to Canada and our family. The College put on a magnificent send-off dinner and celebration! Omar cooked a massive turkey, with all the Palestinian trimmings. The whole College was there! We handed out Canadian flags to everyone. I remember that crowded refectory with…joy…sadness…thanksgiving…We were leaving friends… * And as we left the College grounds on route to the Tel Aviv airport, another Course group were arriving…Exactly as it should be!
424
Holy Serendipity
425
Holy Serendipity
426
Holy Serendipity
427
Holy Serendipity
428
Coming Home
CHAPTER 21 Coming Home We were away from home for a year. Not long, in the larger scheme of things. But we discovered that we had changed…in ways we became aware of only gradually. And home and family had changed, too. 1998 was a new year. * One thing we did know in advance, because of Mark’s phone call to us in Jerusalem, was that he and Andrea had split. They, with their two, Emily and Katherine, were beginning to discover what that meant. The many parents who have been through the trauma of one of their children’s marriage breaking up will empathize with Ruth’s and my feelings. We loved Andrea. We did not know the reasons for their divorce. One of our return missions was to be as supportive to Mark, Andrea, Emily and Katherine as we could be. * We landed in Toronto, then flew to Montreal to visit Paul and Lisa and our grandson, Cameron (born in ’95). A happy reunion with our youngest son, our daughter-in-law, and their first child. On to Calgary to Mark. It was wonderful to see him. But there was a sadness for him and for Ruth and me. We stayed with Mark, and began reconnecting with Emily (born in ’92) and Katherine (born in ’94). They were just little kids…hardly comprehending what was happening. It was difficult for us and for Andrea as we greeted and hugged her, too. We went on to Vancouver, to Walnut Grove, to see Margaret and Dave and our grandchildren, Anna (born in ’91 – in Montreal), Graham (born in ’95). It was great to be with them, too. * Change continues. Kids are born; they grow up; and everybody – including Grandma and Grandpa – continue growing up along with them. Grand adventure! *
429
Coming Home
Back in Edmonton we settled into our house. Bill Hladky, our old friend and manager of our place while we were away, handed over everything in good order. We began to discover what we had brought back with us from Jerusalem – not the souvenir things, but rather the more profound interior “souvenirs” … * The Walk to Emmaus is one of my favourite stories (Luke 24:13-35). Where Emmaus is actually located is uncertain, and for me, not important. I celebrated the Eucharist at Abu Gosh, one of the possible sites, in a beautiful Crusader church, right next to a mosque. In Luke’s story “God” is discerned in the breaking of bread – having a meal together. The major religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, each emphasize sharing food as the central symbol of connection with each other and “God”, whatever name is used for God. Cleopas and his partner were walking home to Emmaus after their hero, Jesus, had been killed. They were aware of the empty tomb and that there was no body found. They were sad and depressed… and yet they invited the stranger, who had joined them on the walk, to have supper with them. At the breaking of bread together, they suddenly realized that the stranger was Jesus!... That there was hope! There is always hope when we eat together. Doctrines and Creeds put up walls of separation rather than bringing us together. * Another thing we discovered was that we had great difficulty in Sunday worship. The Psalms, for example, seemed to ignore the fact that Palestinians were legitimate dwellers in Israel/Palestine. Also, the triumphalism expressed in many hymns prevented me from singing them. The liturgies were in need of continuous major revision. *
430
Coming Home
These “difficulties” in re-entering our church life in Edmonton were probably not much to do with the details, but rather more likely an unidentified restlessness of my faith, and how to express it. Ruth might describe her re-entry differently. However, we did become supportive and active parishioners at All Saints Cathedral. Several parish clergy kindly invited me to become an honorary member of their clergy team. I declined on the basis that I had been talking for over 40 years, and needed to listen now…and sit with Ruth in the congregation for a change. * When I was working, and because of the nature of the work, I did not have time to ponder my inherent “heretical thoughts” about the way we (including me) lived with the frequent anomalies that liturgies and traditional teaching (and singing) continued to act out… Now in total retirement, I am thankful to say that in the parish where Ruth and I pray, sing, think, and support, I have enough liturgical variety to help me in my heretical spiritual needs…most of the time. * We were happy to be home. Old friends. Familiar haunts. And airports that were not dominated by guns and massive security! Although, we were quite in support of the security aspect of Middle East terminals. * Over the years since our return, we have rejoiced in the steady increase in the number of our grandchildren: to Margaret and Dave – John (’98), brother for Anna and Graham; to Paul and Lisa – Kate (’99), Eryn (2002), sisters for Cameron; to Mark and Kyla – Damen (2004), Dawson (2007), Maya (2010), two brothers and a sister for Emily and Katherine. Mark and Kyla were married in 2000, and we gained a marvelous daughter-in-law! She became a wonderful loving “step-mom” for Emily and Katherine. Now Emily and Katherine visit with Mark and Kyla and their younger brothers and sister as often as work will allow. 11 grandchildren at this count! *
431
Coming Home
Every change, whether easy or difficult, makes more of a difference in one’s life than can be realized at the time. In early Fall of 2010, a very difficult and painful change occurred. Paul phoned from Pointe-Claire to tell us that he and Lisa were parting. We were very sad… Both Paul and Lisa expressed their desire to make the breakup of their marriage as easy on Cameron, Kate, and Eryn, as possible. The adjustments to the trauma of marriage breakdown are very difficult, and not always perfect. We are thankful, now, that Paul has married a loving partner, Nance. She brought with her two young adult children, Emma and Ryan. We call them our ‘dopted’ grandchildren – and so, our number of grandchildren increased to 13! But wait a minute… Katie Oli, our second ‘dopted’ daughter, had a baby in 2009, Naomi. So, add another grandchild. Now we are up to 14 grandchildren! (I’m pretty sure the number of grandchildren will not go higher…) * 1998 to 2010 gave us plenty of time to figure out where we wanted to live. We owned our own house, so there was no pressure to change locations. We gradually began to weigh the pros and cons of staying in Edmonton. And if so, where? If not, then move where? In the meantime, we were never bored by having nothing to keep us interested in life. During those years, I led a number of weekend retreats, spoke about our Jerusalem experiences, and did a 6-month half-time interim for the Diocese of Saskatoon in Lloydminster. I enjoyed that interim. It was the first time in many years that I could be a parish priest with the same congregation Sunday after Sunday. Ruth and I drove to Lloydminster Thursday afternoons. My contract was from Thursday evenings to Sunday after the final liturgy. I visited homes, hospitals, prepared a confirmation class, recruited a small band of Servers, and attended the odd hockey game. Ruth joined the choir! *
432
Coming Home
During the summer of 2008, I did a part-time interim at All Saints Cathedral in Edmonton. Jane Alexander, Dean of the Cathedral, had been elected Bishop of Edmonton. During the search for a new dean, she wanted an experienced priest to be “in charge” of All Saints. The interim was fun. I hung around the Dean’s office parts of the weekdays, preached and presided, etc. on Sundays, attended the odd meeting, and did a bit of home and hospital visiting. * The Cathedral started an every-Friday morning breakfast for any who needed a free meal. Ruth talked me into volunteering… So, Friday after Friday I flipped and served pancakes and chatted with our interesting guests through the Edmonton winter months. The choice of Fridays was coordinated with other places and institutions that provided meals on other days in the city. I looked on those Cathedral breakfasts as Eucharists – altogether at the table, regardless of status, faith, colour or creed. No hoops to jump through before being welcomed. So, I had my breakfast there, too. * As Carol Burnett used to sing at the end of her program, “..I’m so glad we’ve had this time together..”, or words to that effect, so Ruth and I were thankful for our hectic working life. But 1998 began for us a new “time together”… We began our rhythm of reading aloud with tea and talk and discussion. We hiked and explored the river valley trails. We both began painting. We volunteered with Big Brothers and Big Sisters. Ruth took up her hospital visiting and pastoral care at Grandview, and I celebrated the Eucharist at Grandview. We became bonifide participants with RAPS (Retired Anglican Priests and Spouses) group. We visited our families in Quebec, Alberta, and BC, and travelled abroad a bit. I shoveled snow off our roof, “somewhat” heeding Ruth’s cautionary advice. (I even dreamed of composing a musical…perhaps “Shoveller on the Roof”.) We had dinner with friends. I read much theological and scientific literature.
433
Coming Home
I served for a time on the Sorrento Centre Board. I was a regular at the Cathedral Men’s Club breakfasts. And I joined the Probus club. And I cannot ignore the times together Ruth and I enjoyed sitting in our back yard watching the birds, squirrels, and mice communities interact out in our hedge. * After our return, Ruth and I resumed our regular running routine. In 1998 I ran my first full marathon – all 42 kilometres! That was the first of 8 marathons – one a year in 8 different cities: Edmonton, Kelowna, Ottawa, Calgary, Red Deer, Vancouver, Saskatoon, with the last in 2004 in Victoria. After that, I ran a number of half-marathons. Ruth ran several half-marathons also. We did some of our runs to raise money for a Dinka Sudanese Anglican studying for ordination. There were a few 10 km runs as well. I must admit that after running full marathons, the 10 kms and 21kms were much more comfortable… Shortly after our return in ’98, our kids teamed up and gave us a year’s membership at the Edmonton Kinsmen Centre. That place became the focal point in our running and training. Great fun! * Winter in Edmonton has some drawbacks… We decided to move. In May 2010 we moved to Walnut Grove, Langley Township, B.C. Our kids and their families were very supportive. It was not practical to consider Quebec and to Paul – too far – nor to Mark – RCMP was too mobile a profession. Margaret and her family lived in Walnut Grove and not likely to move in the foreseeable future. Our move to Walnut Grove was almost seamless. Eight years later we are thankful that our decision was right. Margaret and Dave’s home is just an 8-minute stroll across creek and ravine. *
434
Far Away Places
CHAPTER 22 Far Away Places If you have read this far, you know that my parents bought a piano, when I was an early teenager, for me and my younger siblings, Wendy and Gary. Sheet music was all the thing in those days. I bought the music for Far Away Places, by Joan Whitney and Alex Kramer and sung by Gisele. It cost 50 cents. I played and sang, “Far Away Places with strange sound-in names… Far away over the sea… I wanna see for myself…Those far-away places I’ve been read-in about in a book that I took from a shelf… I start get-in restless whenever I hear the whistle of a train… They all me a dreamer… but those faraway places with strange sound-in names… Call-in, Call-in me…”
The “book” on the shelf, for me, was a Christmas gift in 1945. It was a first edition of Bright Paths to Adventure, by Gordon Sinclair. I still have the book – and the sheet music. What follows is a re-cap of the places I’ve been, both near and far… as close as a walk down the street, to from sea to sea to sea in Canada, to Central America, to cities and states in the U.S., to the Middle East, Turkey, Greece, Austria, Italy, France, England… It’s not “around the world”; many of you have travelled more than I, but the people I have met in my journeys enlarged and enriched my life. And so, have contributed to my (continuing) “growing up”. I am thankful. * That after-grade 9 holiday to B.C. with my friend, Orville, and his family, was the kick-start for me. Going to Saskatoon, University of Saskatchewan, and seminary, Emmanuel College, was an adventure! I hardly knew the difference between a bible and a prayer book… and academics was not my forte. Somehow, it all worked. I believe in miracles… And the value of sports. * I’ve mentioned Ruth’s and my Honey Moon trip in 1959 in our VW Bug. A long way to go for a couple of prairie kids – at least for us. But talk about “change” … Wow! *
435
Far Away Places
The 1973 Diocese of Calgary Mini-Sabbatical introduced me to England. And, in 1975, Ruth and I took our family to England – on a wing and a prayer financially! But great fun! * Once you get started on this sort of thing, there’s no turning back. In 1983 Ruth and I took a course on Celtic Spirituality in Durham, England. That brought David and Lucy Reid-Howells to our parish in the Diocese of Montreal. And we visited Edinburgh, Whitby, Cambridge, Oxford, Strafford-upon-Avon, Worcester, and London. All topped off in London with Fiddler On The Roof, staring Topel! We flew home with Wardair. In Yellowknife I had flown many times in Wardair floatplanes – considerable difference in size between the two. * In 1991 Ruth and I drove to Twin Shores Campground, PEI, our favourite vacation place when we lived in St. Lambert, Quebec. We visited family and friends on the way. That same year we attended a conference in San Francisco at the Episcopal Cathedral. We learned, among other things, about “fractals” from an English Anglican priest who was also a scientist. * 1995: Mini-Sabbatical to Brittany, France; 3-week Course at Canterbury; hiking Devon Coastal Path; St. Ives HF hiking week; Portscatho hiking Coastal Path; London. We had a marvelous time! * Our 40th Wedding Anniversary, 1999, a vintage year! We spent time in London; a week with HF hiking in West Sussex; visited friends in Dorset, Devon, and family near Birmingham; Vouvray on the Loire with friends; Strasbourg, Salzburg, Vienna, and a final week in Paris. What a way to celebrate! *
436
Far Away Places
2000 was a very special year for at least two reasons. The first was an invitation for me to lead a parish in North Carolina through Holy Week and Easter. That was a great experience. The parish priest had led a group to St. George’s College, Jerusalem when Ruth and I lived and worked there. But the most wonderful thing about 2000 was that Mark and Kyla were married at her parents’ home in Nova Scotia. We drove over from our Twin Shores Campground. Paul was Mark’s Best Man, and Ruth and I played the wedding music on our recorders. Keith and Carol, Kyla’s parents, organized a marvelous reception on their property – with neighbors and friends all invited. I repeat: Kyla, a marvelous wife for Mark, and a wonderful loving mother for their children to come, and for Emily and Katherine. * Direct to Paris in 2006 for an HF hike from Tours, and then a selectwinejourneys.com with Dave, our son-in-law, as leader. He and Margaret own the company. Delicious – and worth googling. * And we just kept on going! 2008: London, Isle of Wight HF hiking; Hambridge, Somerset, birthplace of my Mom, and parish church were her Dad (my Grandfather, John England) tended garden and grounds for the Vicar of the parish; to the Loire and another selectwinejourneys.com week; back to Paris. * A couple should never miss celebrating their 50th Wedding Anniversary. So, in 2009: an HF week hiking in Selworthy, Exmore, and a second HF week at Bourton-on-theWater, Cotswolds; Loire Valley, another selectwinejourneys.com with 3 other couples – long-time friends – joining us to celebrate our 50th. Very special. I am going to take the time and space to tell the story of a day Dave drove us all to visit Juno Beach, and the museum there owned and run by Canada.
437
Far Away Places
Dave arranged for us to stop on the way at a little village, Larre. The Mayor, Alain Berthelot and his family had by chance met Dave and Margaret and their family as they were both vacationing in Saskatchewan a few years before. The common language, French, had been the connection. The mayor and his village had constructed a simple memorial on a field near the village to honour the crew of an Allied bomber that had been shot down by the Germans as it was bringing in supplies to the French Resistance during WW 2. Alain, like many French citizens, had a great love for Canada. Alain had arranged for flag bearers from the surrounding villages to come for a Ceremony of Remembrance. We sang the National Anthems, made speeches, planted little flags at the Memorial, and spoke to each other with thanksgiving. Back at the village town-hall, Alain and his team served drinks, showed us pieces of the wreckage of the plane, and invited us to sign the guest book. Ruth and I rode with Alain from Larre to Juno Beach. On the way back, we stopped at a Canadian Military Cemetery. To stand on Juno Beach, to take part in the Larre village ceremony, to see the grave stones in the Cemetery… invoked feelings difficult to describe. The whole day was imprinted on our hearts and minds forever. I am thankful. * In 2015, long-time friends in England invited us to come for their 60th Wedding Anniversary celebration. We declined because we could not afford it. But we suddenly changed our mind when we were given a gift. It was a great party! And, because we had a lot of experience spending beyond sensible means, we included two 4-day HFs – Penrith of the Peaks, in Derbyshire, and Church Stretton, Long Mynd, in Shropshire. We enjoyed a day in Christ Church, Oxford, before going home. * I’m returning, now, to my story-telling in the present tense (2018) for the moment.
438
Far Away Places
Earlier this year, Ruth and I were pondering how we would celebrate our 60th Wedding Anniversary – the actual date is 11 July, 2019. To have been living together for this long…and still happily enjoying each other’s company, is very worth celebrating. We came to the conclusion that while it is good to plan ahead, at our ages, “now” probably makes more sense than “next year” … So, once again, we “Visa-financed”. Off to London, visited friends in Dorset; then on to Lulworth Cove on the Jurassic Coast of Dorset for an HF week of hiking; and concluded our “early 60th” with a week in London, staying again at St. Matthew’s House, Westminster. If we make it to 2019, who knows what we will do… * I have been to many places outside Canada: Jerusalem, the Sinai Desert, Jordan, Istanbul, Athens, Rome, Austria, Cyprus, Belize, Guatemala, Miami, New York, Baltimore, Chicago, and other cities in the US. Neither this chapter nor any of the others, is intended as a travelogue. Though it may be boring, I have a need to acknowledge to myself that the people met in these diverse places are more important than photos or memorabilia. And naming the locations brings back the unnumbered individuals that made a difference in my life-journey. I am thankful. * We continue to visit our families as frequently as possible, and go to Sorrento Centre as long as we can drive. And now, back to the past tense in my story, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. *
439
Far Away Places
440
And Here We Are
CHAPTER 23 And Here We Are Team sports have always attracted me more than individual sports. That’s partly due to where I was raised. I enjoy competition in a team atmosphere. In 2010, once we got our bearings in our new place, I joined a seniors’ curling league. In 2012 I became a member of a slow-pitch softball team. That meant that I belonged to several very different “communities” – St. George’s Anglican parish; our Coventry Woods strata; the curling league; the slow-pitch team; and our daughter and son-in-law and their family. That variety of people and circumstance was very good for me. And I continued non-competitive running and gym workouts. Ruth ran, too, and did aquafit. We walked a lot. Everything was flowing along beautifully. * Early in 2011 we had, once again, set up another expedition to England and France for that September. All was in place. Ruth had had a bout of pneumonia in September 2010, and recovered without difficulty. But in the process of recuperating, Ruth’s doctor discovered a mysterious mass near the thymus. Early on in the search for diagnosis, there was some uncertainty whether or not this mass was cancer. It was even suggested by the surgeon that we could probably go on our vacation before any surgery to remove the mysterious mass. In the various appointments with oncologists, these doctors affirmed that it was cancerous, needed radiation and chemotherapy, and surgery to remove it. That moved the surgery to “as soon as possible” after recovery from radiation and chemo. Dr. James Bond was the surgeon. Ruth and I jokingly checked out that this James Bond did not have 007 on his license… He was actually among the best thoracic surgeons in Canada. Dr. Bond successfully removed the cancer 23 September 2011 in the Surrey Memorial Hospital.
441
And Here We Are
Ruth tells me that I was more on edge, nervous, worried, frightened, by all this than she was… I don’t know about comparisons, but her reading of me was accurate. And I know that I shared those feelings and concerns with all the rest of our family. I was in almost constant contact with them. It is like yesterday in my memory the moments on the 23rd of September, 2011, when Margaret and I learned that all had gone well. As we left the hospital that day, we both shared an emotional thanksgiving. The thanksgiving was spread rapidly through family and friends. Ruth was in the Surrey Memorial Hospital for 13 days recuperating. As I visited every day, the car came to know the way on 96th Avenue so well, it was almost like the driverless car era had arrived. To have her finally home and recuperating was like a recuperating time for me, too. Ruth recovered strongly and right on schedule. The post-op check-ups gradually diminished in frequency until, in 2017, Dr. James Bond told Ruth he no longer needed to see her again. With her positive attitude and experienced and skillful expertise, Ruth was back on track. I am so very thankful. And our cancelled vacation plans were such a minor concern. * For several years after I stopped running marathons and half-marathons, and continued running non-competively, sometimes I would feel like fainting when I took the odd minute of walking, or completed my run. My doctor gradually adjusted my betablocker pill, and that problem stopped…but my doctor also kept suggesting I get a pacemaker to keep my heart from slowing too quickly after physical exertion. I resisted for a while, but finally yielded to logic and had the pacemaker installed in 2012. I guess it has helped… It is an easy procedure to install, and I get the battery checked by my cardiologist regularly. It is nice to keep the old heart beating – even if with the irregular rhythm! * Aging is a sneaky process if one is reasonably healthy and in decent shape physically. Especially if one is not paying much attention…and I’m easily distracted.
442
And Here We Are
Cardiologists are not so easily distracted… At her persistent recommendation, I finally had an appointment to see if I had sleep-apnea. I did. Rats! So, I now sleep with what I call my “snorkel” – which is attached to a C-pap machine – which gently blows moist air into my nostrils – which action keeps my throat flaps (or whatever they are called) from closing while I sleep – and thereby wakes me up because I need air to breath. And because I wake up, I automatically think I need to pee, and then get up and go to the bathroom – many times during the night. So, I don’t get enough deep sleep. As one grows older, generally one does have to get up occasionally, but not as often if one uses a sleep-apnea machine. I have gotten used to it – the flexible hose connecting the head-nose apparatus to the machine, etc. It does get me a better and deeper sleep most nights. But it’s a damn nuisance to travel with. I take it whenever I go away from home. I’ve had the machine for well over a year. Probably a good idea in the long run. The whole apparatus is quite compact. Because we pack very lightly, the only challenge is to ensure the C-pap machine will not be damaged in transport. * We have solved the C-pap travel problem by carrying it in our carry-on day-packs. You perhaps noticed that I said “we” have solved the problem… Ruth found out she had sleep-apnea, too. That is carrying our “togetherness” to extreme, don’t you think? Oh well… When our daughter-in-law, Nance, wondered how Ruth and I could kiss goodnight with our head-nose pieces on, I explained that “we cuddle before we snorkel”. * To really have fun with our “togetherness”, I have to tell you that Ruth was fitted with a pace-maker in 2018. One thing about that, our pacemakers do not get in the road when we kiss. *
443
And Here We Are
Our St. George’s parish community continues to be important to me. Apart from our tithing oriented financial support, I am on the list of lection readers for the Sunday liturgies, have done some individual parish visiting occasionally, Ruth and I are on the 08:30 Service coffee-hour duty roster, and I offer support and encouragement to individuals as I am able. I attend (with Ruth) the 08:30 Sunday services rather than the 10:30 because the early time leaves the day open… When we do attend the later service from time to time, we enjoy the kids; and the several joint services we have during the year are fun, too. * I retired from curling 2016-17 because the early-morning drive, leaving about 08:15 for the 09:00 draw, was not good. The fellowship of the curling rink was enjoyable, but the team I was curling 2nd for was unable to win a single game. That decreased the joy considerably. And my left knee, which I had injured playing baseball in my high-school years, was increasingly bothering me. But I miss the curling. * At the end of the 2017 slo-pitch softball season, I retired from ball. The left knee was really acting up. I made the decision because I wanted to make sure that I could still do all the hiking I wanted. I miss playing ball, though. * When we arrived in Coventry Woods, Walnut Grove, in 2010, I told the strata chair of volunteers that I would not take any strata leadership role. I would be happy to supply whatever energy I could to lifting, digging, raking, or whatever, but would not be in charge of anything. I volunteered for the Adopt-a-Street team. I am, with Ruth and Liz, responsible for 216 Street, 88 Ave to 96 Ave. We bag a remarkable number of cups, bottles, paper and other trash, then adjourn for a visit over tea and goodies. *
444
And Here We Are
Early this year (2018), I had cataracts removed from both eyes. Now I have more or less 20/20 vision up to within a half-metre from me. That means I do not need glasses except when reading small font printing in less than bright light. So, I have several pairs of cheap glasses here and there around the house. When necessary, they perch on the end of my nose… This change of vision has meant that I can now drive the car with no need of glasses. (Yes, I know… Should I be driving a car at all at my age? I’m not wedded to the car by any means. We take public transit with increasing frequency.) But this change of vision would have improved my batting average immensely, and my confidence in pulling down a fly-ball in my last years playing slo-pitch softball. * My story, HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE, is moving further away from the beginning, through the recent past, has edged into the present, and is dangerously close to speculation about the future… I overheard a conversation recently between Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin. They were trying to figure out what day it was. I think Pooh said, “Yesterday today was tomorrow… It’s very complicated.” They settled on “Today”. To which Pooh replied, “Today is my favourite day.” That’s a good idea. I’ve thought a lot about yesterday. I don’t know what will happen when tomorrow turns into today… So, I think I will stop and enjoy today. THE END (For the time-being, that is)
445
P.S.
P.S. I remember reading somewhere that if stories and not told, they die. And when that happens, we can’t remember who we are, or why we are here. My book is my story. And maybe, just maybe, it will help others tell their story – perhaps you? There is nothing neat and tidy, brilliantly written, finely presented, or particularly gripping about my book. I don’t really mind…It’s my story and that’s OK. * Even at my venerable age (86 in 2019), all the people whose names I have mentioned in my book – plus the multitudes not named – have contributed so much to my “growing up” and discovering who I am becoming. I thankfully admit that even now I don’t know what I will be shown when I finally do grow up. Perhaps the process never stops. Remember the story from my school house on the corner days when my friend, Orville, said, “Ken, you can run fast – very fast!” I really did learn something about myself that day when I became the fast runner I already was… * Ruth and I have always talked to and listened to each other right from our first date, now so long ago. After I retired from the diocesan job, and we had returned from Israel/Palestine, we began the tea-time habit of reading aloud to each other from a wide variety of books, articles, and the bible. We reflect, discuss, share our thoughts with each other. Of course, we do not always totally agree, but it’s fun, and we each grow a little. Sometimes there are days when we miss those because we are off doing something else – or occasionally need a snooze. * Ruth and I are pretty much “cradle Anglicans”. Both of us have common roots in the Old and New Testaments, and the Anglican liturgical ways of expressing the Christian faith in parish gatherings. She would express her individual faith journey her way, and that is her story.
446
P.S.
I have a strong sense of spiritual evolution in my life. That’s easier to identify looking back over my years…However, I am strongly aware that I am still evolving. The future may be prefigured to some extent in the past and present, but it cannot be imprisoned in either. The “language” of the past that was once useful to express my faith is no longer useful to me. The “language” of the present must, for me, take the place of the old vocabulary of my Christian faith. I eagerly listen for the new “tongue” that will “translate” for my travelling spiritual journey. (Acts, chapter 2, in the New Testament) And I am aware that I do not travel alone. I am thankful. * Ruth and I have discovered that important decisions – and minor ones, too – are reached as we talk and listen to each other. (Listening is a rare form of prayer. If you are one who does not like or use that word “prayer”, then just listen, without naming what you are doing…or use some other designation. It’s all good, as people say.) In one of those “listening” times, I told Ruth something I had never told anyone before. In my early teens I had suffered sexual abuse. It was only masturbation. For that I am thankful. I am thankful, also, that I was never overcome by shame, then or since. The perpetrator was not a family member, and is long-since dead. * Over the decades I have learned a lot about the importance of human sexuality. And with the sexual revolution of the ‘60s and the pill, my attitudes regarding heterosexuality and homosexuality – including all LGBTQ+ communities – have totally changed. My opinions have been revised, reversed, and turned upsidedown. I’m still learning. (As I write this part of my “P.S”, (July 2019) the Anglican Church of Canada meets in Vancouver. One of the resolutions on the agenda is to change the Marriage Canon to allow same-sex marriage. My hope is that the General Synod will adopt this change.) *
447
P.S.
Jesus issued his “Follow me” invitation several times in the New Testament story. Sometimes directly, sometimes less obviously. My experience in trying to follow the Way is that it is not an easily discerned route. That’s because it is not a journey to a destination, such as heaven or paradise, or any other particularly safe or final place…or to the right answer. The “journey” is the “place”. I am convinced that Jesus often says, “How about you going on a bit on your own…?” I have a strong hunch that is the moment “incarnation” takes place. Incarnation is very hard work, and quite dangerous intellectually, spiritually, and physically. * The Gospel Easter stories tell us that the crucified body of Jesus had gone missing. The Walk to Emmaus (New Testament, Gospel according to St. Luke, chapter 24:1335) tells a story of walking, talking, eating together, and Jesus disappearing. And the story-teller in the New Testament Acts of the Apostles, chapter 1:6-11, describes what seems to be the final departure of a physical body of Jesus. The message seems to be: Now get on with the work you were called to when his physical body was with you. There are other “post-resurrection” appearances the New Testament story-tellers mention…all, I believe, similar signs of the “incarnation” Jesus had in mind from the very beginning. I continue to need lots of help on this journey. * Several years ago, I was grappling with some faith and church questions. I emailed three friends, Gerry, Eric, and Tom, for opinion and insight. They responded. Gerry Janzen, Eric Bays, Tom Morgan and I are all western Canadian: Gerry, Tom, and I, are from Saskatchewan, Eric from Manitoba. We each now live in quite different locations, but our journeys have been on the Anglican way all the way. These cyber meetings are generated when one of us shares something to talk about. Each of us responds in our own way and time. I am thankful.
448
P.S.
“You are a romantic!”, she said. “Uh…is that good?”, I asked. “Yes. It’s very good.”, Ruth replied with a loving smile, “Very good.” So, I’m a romantic…I can happily live with that. And I wanted you to know that, because since you got this far in my book, you have probably figured out by now the meaning of the sub-title of HOW WE GOT HERE FROM THERE. * “I believe that all creation evolves in ever changing patterns of reality. That is what I understand as ‘Father’ in the Christian trinitarian description of ‘God’. I believe that Jesus – ‘son’ in the traditional trinity – emerges in creation-reality as invitation into incarnation, into humanness. I believe the third ‘person’ in the Christian trinity, ‘Spirit’, lives in our human intuition, and functions as risk in our life journey.” * That little “creed” expresses my current experience of “faith”. Perhaps the words will change…tomorrow…sometime in the future, I don’t really know. I would enjoy hearing what you “believe” or “don’t believe”. * This has been a rather long P.S. But I really am stopping now. Love and blessings Ken
449