Over the course of a week, posts were set in concrete, and John precut and stained all the components, and then hauled them in his trailer to the construction site. There, he, George and a third neighbour, Paul Panchuk, assembled the structure.
What has the response been like? People love it! They can now open their mailboxes while protected from the persistent rain and their newspapers remain dry, even on the most blustery days. People using the boxes appreciate the shelter and the fact that it improves the look of the neighbourhood.
It’s fitting, then, that the first notices to be pinned to the bulletin board were cards of appreciation from pleased neighbours. Even the mailman likes it! Now, he can sort mail out of the way of the rain and snow—heck, he even kicked in the last $20 to help cover the material costs!
Creating the shelter was an easy and beneficial project that brought our neighbourhood together, and word of it seems to be getting around. Not long ago, several cars were seen pausing near the shelter, their occupants snapping photos. A couple of folks even brought measuring tapes and took measurements. We are situated in an out-of-the-way rural area, so I suspect they made a special effort to visit the shelter.
—by David Hill-Turner, Nanaimo, British Columbia
Moulding Young Minds
Fifteen years of working with teens keeps this volunteer young
My past few years of volunteering came about because I am a man who knows how to knit. It all began during World War II, when the frequent German air raid attacks over London, England, sent all us junior school children scurrying into “blast-proof” brick shelters around the edge of the school playground. There, in very dim light—one small light bulb about every 50 feet—we sat on benches, busy learning to knit small squares of all colours and types of yarn for some unfortunate grown-ups to sew into patchwork blankets. I never got to see a finished product, but I suspect it was full of holes long before the moths got at it.
Fast-forward to more recent times—the year 2000, shortly after I retired from civil engineering—and now the setting is a Toronto school, the York Mills Collegiate Institute. A family friend, Madge, was helping the home economics—a.k.a. family studies—teacher show teenagers how to knit. “No way,” said the few boys in the class, “boys don’t knit!” “That’s where you’re wrong,” replied Madge. Next day, I was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the class. It was the first time I’d been in a high school classroom in more than 40 years!
After a few hours explaining about needles and stitches, how to cast on, pick up dropped stitches and properly terminate the whole operation without simply pulling the needles out, the boy knitters were quite proud of their efforts, especially when they realized knit and purl were the only two basic stitches to remember. My teaching reputation climbed quite high as a result—so high that I was then asked if I could help the teacher in the tech shop on a trial basis.
Fifteen years later, I am still volunteering five half or full days each week. Fridays I sometimes stay home, explaining to the students that that’s my laundry day. My expertise is largely in woodworking, although I can teach the rudiments of metalwork as well. The workshop is quite large, and most of the classes are full, with 22 kids per class. We teach the course to Grades 10 through 12; it includes written studies, computer drafting, welding, and hands-on woodworking and lathe projects. Typical projects for the higher grades include Muskoka chairs (single and double, for adults or toddlers), bookshelves, tables of all sizes, desks, chests, lizard cages (two so far!), benches, baseball bats, inlay work, rocking horses and so forth. Junior grades might create bread or cheese boards, picture frames, jewelry boxes, model cars or trucks, bird feeders and such like.
The students can take home what they build; if they don’t want to keep their creations, staff members are always happy to be offered our surplus output. At the end of term, when Ma or Pa drive to the school to take home their child’s project, it’s gratifying to see big smiles, and hear comments like, “I can’t believe you made that—it’s great!”
Working every day in a noisy, dusty workshop full of 60-plus teenagers can become tiresome. Perhaps the hardest part is answering all the questions, ranging from “Where’s the sandpaper?” and “What’s the difference between a centimetre and an inch?” to “I’ve glued this in the wrong place; how do I get it apart?” Common complaints like “I don’t know what to build” and “I have to go to the washroom” aren’t much fun either. Nevertheless, I believe that working with young people and being part of their environment every day keeps me feeling young—although some mornings I wish I could just stay in bed.
Recently, I switched back to family studies, which is mainly about nutrition (dull stuff); parenting (how did Adam and Eve manage without this course!); and cooking (good fun). Alas, it seems that not many students are helping in the kitchen; some are at a loss to open a can.
I enjoy working with teenagers, but I feel sorry for them to some extent. The family is not the stable unit it once was. In this troubled world, who knows what future these kids will need to face? Many of them spend one week with their mother and the following week with their father. I hope we can encourage them to make this old world of ours a better place for us all—and, who knows, maybe I helped a little.
A final word about that knitting class: I did a little research and found out that knitting was once primarily a man’s task. I read that Arab nations were great knitters centuries ago: Men could be seen busily knitting while dashing across the desert on their camels!
—by John C. Hudspith, Toronto, Ontario
Battle of Vimy Ridge
Winston Pearson, a veteran of the Great War, recounted his ordeal during the Battle of Vimy Ridge to his son, Bob Pearson. This is Winston’s story
The Canadian infantry was reorganized during the harsh winter of 1916-1917. Each platoon was to consist of four sections: Lewis machine gun, bomber, rifle grenade and rifle. At almost seven kilometres in length, Vimy Ridge was the keystone in the German defence of much of the Western Front. At the southern end, it rose gradually to the crest, which the Germans occupied. At the northern end, the slope was much steeper and terminated in a hill with steep sides, known as the Pimple. Having the crest in their possession gave the Germans several advantages. They had good observation of our area and also all the water drained towards us, so that much of the time our trenches were almost impassable. The ground sloped down rapidly on the German side of the ridge and they could actually bring supplies almost to their front line by train.
The subsoil of Vimy Ridge was a soft limestone, known to us as chalk. This was ideal for tunnelling and excavating areas for housing troops and storing supplies. Both sides made good use of this feature. There were many coal mines operating just north of the ridge, in the Lens area, a very short distance from the front line. Both sides needed coal desperately and there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that coal mines were not to be shelled.
The Allies had been unsuccessful in previous attempts to take the ridge from the Germans. The French suffered 140,000 casualties in several attempts, and 46,000 Frenchman were buried in shallow graves where they fell on our side of the ridge. Some graves were so close together that you could jump from one to the other. A number of Imperial Scottish divisions also made a determined attack on the left of the ridge that resulted in 17,000 dead.
I enlisted in the army in 1915 at the age of 16 and was wounded in France at 17—although my official age was listed as 19. I spent the winter of 1916-17 in the Vimy Ridge sector and took part in the attack on April 9, in which we captured the ridge from the Germans.
We spent most of our spare time that winter putting the trenches in decent shape, building plank roads and narrow-gauge railroads that would be run by mule power, making and stocking well-concealed supply depots, and helping the engineers with tunnelling. Most important of all was the moving in of a tremendous amount of artillery: When lined up, there would be a gun in place every seven yards.
During the winter
, our observers made note of German artillery positions and other key points. Our guns were trained on them, but we left them unharmed. A few days prior to the main attack, our “heavies” went into action, estimating that they could put 70 percent of the German artillery out of commission and destroy much of their defences. If the enemy positions had been worked over during the winter, the German artillery would have been moved to new positions that we may not have spotted. I saw our heavies completely flatten a village in two hours.
We were taken off the line for two weeks and practiced in a specially prepared location, where tape was laid out on the ground to represent a life-size model of the area we were to attack.
Zero hour was set for 5:30 a.m. on the morning of Monday, April 9. We were sent up to the front line on Thursday night, for 24 hours. The trenches were in terrible condition; we were waist-deep in mud and water. Wanting us to be reasonably fit for the attack, we came out Friday night, arriving at some artillery dugouts on Saturday morning. We spent Saturday getting some rest and making sure our guns, rifles and ammunition were in first-class condition.
Easter Sunday was a beautiful day and we made good use of it. We sat around soaking up the sun, allowing it to dry our clothes and warm our bones. At dusk on Sunday evening, we began to move up to our jump-off position. Arriving at about 2 a.m., I was in the first wave of the attack into “no man’s land”—the area between enemy lines—and another in our front-line trenches.
Shortly before zero hour, our sergeant came around with a very welcome shot of rum. He offered me a second, as I was on the end of the line, but I refused, as I wanted to keep a clear head. Little did we know that a mere two hours later, we’d both be badly wounded by machine-gun fire and trying to make our way to the rear in search of a first-aid post.
When zero hour struck, every piece of artillery seemed to go off at once. No one single explosion could be heard—it was just one continuous roar. The enemy resistance was not too serious, except for their machine guns, which caused many casualties, especially in the early part of the attack. The surprise and speed of our attack threw the enemy off balance and many were captured before they could even get out of their shelters. The number of German prisoners captured equalled our casualties. Our 1st Division, on the right of the corps, captured all objectives on schedule. The 4th Division, on the left, had some trouble but eventually got their attack going again and captured all their objectives as well. The weather had changed and a cold wind was blowing snow and fog around, making visibility poor.
About half an hour after the attack began, I was hit by a machine-gun bullet. At first, it felt as though a mule had kicked me; it almost knocked me off my feet. A few seconds later, the pain set in. It was as if I were being repeatedly jabbed with a red-hot poker. I was loaded down with my regular equipment as well as extra ammunition, emergency rations and Mills bombs (hand grenades). All this weight on my shoulder became almost unbearable. I was fortunate to get help loosening and removing all of my gear. With my right arm supporting my left, the pain subsided somewhat.
The bullet had entered my left arm just below the shoulder joint. It made a very small hole where it entered but then hit a bone, breaking it into many pieces. The bullet also shattered, tearing a great hole in the back of my shoulder. It must have bled plenty, but of course I couldn’t see it—I later discovered my clothes were stuck to me from shoulder to foot.
I dropped into a shell hole to get my bearings. A soldier who’d had his leg blown off occupied it. He was hollering for the stretcher-bearers, but had little chance of them appearing. The machine guns had taken a heavy toll in this vicinity and the first-aid men had more wounded than they could possibly handle.
Shortly after, my sergeant, Spike Kemp, dropped in beside me. He had a bullet through his side and was having difficulty using his left leg. We decided to try and reach a first-aid post on our own. We tried following a trench, but the mud was too deep for him to navigate. By standing on one leg, supporting my arm on my other leg, I was able to give him some help, but this was too slow going. We followed signs to a first-aid post, only to discover it had been moved. We tried to use a tunnel, but signallers were busy stringing wires and wouldn’t let us in.
The snow squalls had stopped and we were able to see the ruined towers of Mont-Saint Éloi, a familiar landmark. We went overland, and about two hours after I’d been hit, we finally found a first-aid station, where I received medical attention. I was amazed that I hadn’t bled to death, but have since discovered that unless a major artery has been hit, even the most severe bleeding will eventually stop. I was deemed to be a “stretcher case,” while Spike was a “walking case.” That was the last I saw of him, although I learned that he reported back to the unit in France some months later.
We were four stretchers loaded onto a special car to be shoved along a light railroad by German prisoners. At first, I was a little afraid of them, but they seemed to have had all the fight knocked out of them. In some places, there were as many as 100 prisoners escorted by only two of our men with no trouble. The rest of the day was spent making our way to the casualty clearing station—the nearest advanced hospital to the action. At times I travelled as a stretcher case, but when that seemed too slow, I joined the walking wounded (more than 10,000 Canadians were killed or wounded at the Battle of Vimy Ridge).
The hospital was made up of two tents. One was for triage, while the other was an operating room. It looked like a slaughterhouse, as there was no time to clean up between surgeries. I lay down on a stretcher and the next thing I knew I’d been operated on and was on a hospital train headed for the base. After a couple of days there, where I almost lost my arm due to infection, I was rushed across the Channel and was lucky enough to be treated at an English civilian hospital, where, thanks to expert and dedicated care, the infection cleared up and today I have reasonably good use of my arm.
—As told to Bob Pearson, Strathroy, Ontario
Lessons My Father Taught Me
For this devoted daughter, writing about her dad’s life is a labour of love
Dad had three brothers serving overseas in World War I. Two had already been injured and his cousin, Blair Fraser, was killed after less than a week at the front. Dad was determined not to be cannon fodder, but he felt duty bound to serve. He used his smarts and enrolled in radio college to study to become a telegraph operator. He learned signalling such as Morse code and semaphore. As a child, I can remember him tapping out Morse code, and when my brother, David, was learning signalling in the Scouts, Dad demonstrated his expertise at semaphore with tea towels serving as flags.
Dad never talked about war—although he served in two of them—except to say, “It was a waste.” He finished his fourth form in Gore Bay, Ontario, but he waited until the summer crops of 1917 were harvested before activating his plan. He moved from Manitoulin to Toronto and enrolled in college but needed to earn his way financially. I do not know all the jobs he did, but he worked as a waiter at Bowles Lunch restaurant on King Street East; the building is still there.
His address on his enlistment papers was a boarding house. He often joked about his adept boarding-house reach. His enlistment papers also showed that he weighed 122 pounds and stood five feet six inches tall. An illness six years earlier—a ruptured appendix—had stunted his growth. He often remarked on his short legs: A mere 29 inches. He used to say that if his legs were in proportion to his trunk, he’d be a tall man.
By October 22, 1917, he was assigned to the Toronto Signal Training Depot. From there, he went to Ottawa. More than once, I remember him remarking that Ottawa was the coldest place he had ever been. He was billeted at Lansdowne Park and slept in the open-air stadium in December. They were given one wool blanket as cover and three eight-inch boards on which to sleep. It was cold—very cold. It was no wonder, then, that later in life he hated to be cold. At least he only had to stay in Ottawa for a week.
From Ottawa, his corps went by train to Saint John, New Brunswick. They bo
arded their ship, the SS Grampian, and sailed to Halifax to join a convoy to cross the Atlantic. The Grampian arrived in Halifax three days after the Halifax explosion. After revisiting Halifax in 1980, Dad shared with us the devastation that he saw the first time he arrived.
The SS Grampian set sail for England on December 21, 1917. Dad told us about crossing the Atlantic in rough seas; he claimed he did not get seasick, but most did. He recalled spending Christmas at sea; Christmas dinner was a rotten egg and a bit of fish. A vivid memory, to be sure, but a related story puts the trip and him into perspective. The boys at his table had collected a Christmas tip for the busboy, who was a young civilian from the Caribbean. Later they found out that the ship’s chief steward had taken the tip for his own. According to Dad, “We boys fixed him!” He never did say what that entailed, but I remember the sense of justice in his voice when he recounted that tale.
Dad arrived in England on New Year’s Eve 1917. Later he learned that until that convoy arrived laden with foodstuffs and new recruits, only a five-day food supply remained for all of England. I could only imagine that he wished to be back in Gore Bay, warm and well fed.
Dad did not talk much about what he did in the war. He did tell me about learning to ride horses and admitted he was thrown from a horse; whether that caused the facial swelling or the sprained ankle in his army medical record, I don’t know. Dad was assigned to the Canadian Engineers Training Depot 14th R.D. in Seaford, East Sussex, on January 1, 1918, the day after he arrived in England.
The good news was that the war ended before Dad had to go to the front. The radio college had been a good plan. Dad’s medical examination prior to leaving Great Britain at Kinmel Park camp in Wales showed him in good health: He had grown to five foot seven and now weighed 150 pounds. His return ship was not named in his military records. But he always noted that his return just after Christmas in 1918 was on a better ship with better food. He also recalled that the camaraderie aboard the ship was not the same. The boys who had sailed with him from Halifax were gone. The men who sailed home in 1919 had changed in many different ways.
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