I thought if it was that easy to find four homeless veterans, there were probably others. I called some military friends and we patrolled downtown Halifax, checking shelters and talking to any homeless people we could find. Everyone seemed to be aware of veterans living on the streets.
We ended up at another church dinner, where we found seven homeless veterans. Actually, they found us, drawn to the particular mannerisms most military people have.
The media became aware of the situation and went public with the story. Through Facebook and other media, we began receiving calls from several other provinces to help homeless veterans. I found it hard to believe people were calling us in Nova Scotia to help a veteran in British Columbia. I put the word out to my military friends there that veterans needed help and, within three hours, we had volunteers at the door, and we were really under way.
We felt the best way going forward would be to work with a business plan to keep us on track, so Debbie and I decided to form Veterans Emergency Transition Services, or VETS Canada.
We contacted Veterans Affairs, the Canadian Legion and social services in an effort to find our homeless veterans some temporary assistance and to get them off the street. We found, however, the bureaucracy in government and large agencies slow to react and the paperwork seemed endless. We decided to do what we could with small donations and work to get the large agencies more involved at a later date.
It was a difficult beginning, but eventually we put together a strong team. In 2010, we applied to the federal government for charity status, which was granted, transforming us from a small, local grassroots group into a national veterans organization. We have since formed chapters in every province in Canada. Veterans Affairs Canada, the Canadian Legion, Wounded Warriors, the Military Family Resource Centres and the RCMP Command have now partnered with us. Our overriding goal is to take veterans off the streets and give them the chance to become productive and contributing members of our society once again.
—by Jim Lowther, Dartmouth, Nova Scotia
Memory-Go-Round
One teacher’s devotion continues to inspire her student almost 50 years later
Even as a 55-year-old man, one of my most poignant memories is that of being an eight-year-old boy in Grade 3 at St. Vincent School in Chatham, Ontario, taught by a wonderful teacher, Ms. Mary Wolanski. Somehow, she knew how to help me learn where other teachers could not. I didn’t know I had a learning disorder back in those days, but Ms. Wolanski managed to understand how I learned.
From whatever criteria an eight-year-old boy can draw as far as appreciating beauty, I admit that perhaps I also had a bit of a crush on her, and one day, I decided to act on that crush. I used to take a bus to school from a rural area in a collection of houses, barely a village, called Louisville, meeting a group of other rural students at an impromptu bus stop in front of our home. One morning, while waiting for the bus, I thought I’d pick some small wildflowers from the bank of a broad ditch by the road to give to Ms. Wolanski. I have no idea what kind of flowers they were, but it hardly mattered. All I could think of was that I was going to make her happy with a gift of flowers.
While holding them in my hand as I waited for the bus, a taller, older boy teased me incessantly about the flowers; when I spoke out in my defence, he grabbed me from behind, holding my arms, laughing at my inability to get away. As hard as I could, I kicked his right shin with the heel of my shoe and he tossed me into the gravel, shredding my flowers as he held his aching shin. The fight was over.
I saw the school bus approaching, so I dashed into the ditch again, undeterred, and picked a handful of flowers again and ran to board the bus. I carried those flowers in my left hand as proud as anyone would an earned trophy. I even remember how the flowers’ stems felt in my hand.
Once at school, my heart pounded in anticipation of what Ms. Wolanski would think of my gift. As I rounded the doorway of the classroom, I was stopped dead in my tracks at the sight of a female classmate giving Ms. Wolanski roses. She seemed so happy to receive them, and the girl was so happy with her reaction. I stood in disbelief and could feel my heart sink as I looked at the tiny flowers in my hand and thought she would never like my flowers after having received roses. I went out into the hallway and tossed the flowers into the trash can. For whatever reason, that memory, and the disappointment, has stuck with me for almost half a century and I can rewind and play it over as freshly as the day it happened.
Fast-forward nearly 50 years. I am living on Vancouver Island and I get an email from my sister in Chatham, where she is working as a personal trainer at a national-chain fitness centre. Apparently the gym had a member who inquired about her last name, to which the member remarked, “I taught a young boy in Grade 3 a long time ago with the same surname. Ugo was his first name.” My sister said, “That’s my brother.”
Yes, that gym member was Mary Wolanski, who told my sister that she remembered me and my name to that day! My sister emailed me Ms. Wolanski’s email address and I wrote her, recounting the story of my crush on her, the flowers…all of it. She had no idea that I had brought her hand-picked wildflowers, nor that I had thrown them out when I saw the girl give her roses. It was an emotional moment for both of us. She empathized, even after all this time, with that heartbroken little boy. She is such a wonderful human being.
She wrote me back and told me I should have given her the flowers on that day years ago, that she would have loved them as much as the roses, but what does an eight-year-old boy know of such things? That was her first year as a teacher; I was in her first class.
She also told me a personal story of her own, about her favourite flowers, violets. A little while later, I contacted my sister to call Ms. Wolanski to her gym for a parcel pickup. Curious, she arrived to find a floral arrangement of violets waiting for her. I had decided that it was time for this little boy to give her, a most wonderful teacher, the flowers she wanted and deserved.
Just last week, I moved my mother to Ontario to live beside my sister, but I could only stay a handful of days before having to come back to the island to work. After a small farewell gathering of family at my sister’s place, who should come to my sister’s door but Ms. Wolanski! I was stunned speechless, and although decades had passed, I knew her eyes—they were as familiar as if I’d seen them yesterday.
What a wonderful reunion of student and teacher, now as adults with a common, powerful memory. I gave her the hug that waited 50 years to happen.
It became clear to me that achieving success in my career as an instructor was all because Ms. Wolanski had taught me that in order to be a good teacher, one has to first learn how each student learns, adapt a teaching method to suit each student’s needs and care for the student’s success. I wholeheartedly agree and have seen the successes of my own students because of it.
Lives are inextricably and inexplicably linked, and memories are tied to commonalities that we must be willing to seek out, because they are there and they have meaning and purpose. We are all connected. I could not imagine a more profound experience than that one poignant day in my life as a young boy coming home to roost, by sharing that memorable day again, in person, with Ms. Wolanski. Her influence on me survived in me for decades and surfaced just when I needed it. For me, it has been a true memory-go-round, one for which I remain truly grateful.
—by Ugo DeBiasi, Nanaimo, British Columbia
Facing Off Against a Blizzard
A hockey team saves its best moves for the postgame by guiding cars to safety through a blinding storm
It was a typical winter day in 1947 in south Saskatchewan—and I mean south Saskatchewan—only 60 miles or so from the American border. It was cold, with lots of snow already on the ground. Weather forecasts being what they were in those days, we didn’t let them dictate our activities. We just carried on with whatever we had planned.
Several nearby towns had a hockey team, and my hometown of Gravelbourg had two—a community team and a college team. On this
particular night, the college team was playing. My dad was a hockey fan in his own right, and he knew that my kid brother was wild about the sport. He also knew that I, the eldest teenage daughter, was a hockey fan—but really more a fan of my boyfriend, who played on the college team. So my father piled us into the car—me, my friend, my kid brother and a pal of his—and off we went on the 30-mile trip to watch the game.
The match was exciting, with the usual boisterous hockey fans, and my boyfriend played beautifully. Soon, though, it was time to pile back into the car and head home. Unfortunately, we walked out of the arena straight into a blizzard.
My dad gathered the two priests who helped run the college team and were providing lifts for players and fans and, if I recall correctly, one other man who had also volunteered to drive people. My dad suggested that we all follow one another very closely to avoid getting lost in the whiteout. Within a few miles of starting out, it became obvious that we were in for a pretty rough night, for the road was all but invisible. It was then decided that the bigger, older and stronger hockey players would get out and guide the little convoy of cars. So the boys bundled up and worked in teams of three. One boy stood in the centre of the road with one boy on each side, relaying one another and guiding the cars. The vehicles moved at a snail’s pace, but at least we all stayed on the road.
After about 12 miles of this, we arrived at a small town, which, happily, had a hotel…although I use the term loosely. At the very least, it was shelter from the storm, for which we were thankful. Dad and the two priests went to seek out the local parish priest in the middle of the night, asking for a bit of Mass wine to be heated and given to the boys to ward off colds or flu. Needless to say, none of us got much sleep: We were having too much fun! We had managed to dig up some music, and we started dancing. I can’t quite remember how the hotel owner reacted to all this, but knowing my dad, I’m sure the owner was generously compensated for his hospitality.
The next morning, after little or no sleep but having had an experience that in those days was pretty special, we set off for home. The snow had stopped; the Saskatchewan skies were clear and blue, and the sunshine glorious, so the remaining 18 miles home were easier to navigate, despite a bit of shovelling along the way to clear particularly high snowdrifts.
We wandered into class that day after the lunch break a bit sheepishly, facing stern looks from the nuns, our teachers. Under the circumstances, though, there were no scoldings or punishment, for it really was beyond our control, and I’m sure Dad had a little talk with the nuns to explain and placate them.
The memory of those events popped into my mind suddenly one fall day, even though they took place almost 70 years ago. Things were different back then; we took the weather in our stride and just went on with our lives. Nowadays, in the cities and surely in the country, a snowstorm closes schools and offices, the weather dominates headlines and life is disrupted until the snowplows have cleared the way. It’s a shame that today’s teenagers are unlikely to experience something so unique as being guided home through a snowstorm by hockey players. Those were simpler times, and this is a memory that I will always treasure.
—by Jeanne Emelyanov, Ottawa, Ontario
The Coldest Day in Canadian History
In February 1947, the temperature in the Yukon plunged to a bone-chilling and record-breaking –81.4°F
My father, Wilfred Blezard, joined Transport Canada in 1946, a year after he arrived home from Europe after serving six years in the Canadian Army. He willingly accepted postings as a weather technician to various northern stations in the Yukon and Northwest Territories, very grateful for the solitude and quietness of these lonely outposts, in sharp contrast to his devastating experiences overseas.
The first weather station my father was posted to was called Snag Airport, located approximately 30 kilometres east of the Alaska-Yukon border, near Beaver Creek, Yukon. He was one of four young weathermen stationed there during 1946-47. Snag Airport was part of the Northwest Staging Route of emergency landing strips and observation stations established during World War II to facilitate travel from Alaska and the Yukon to Central Canada and the United States.
The weather station operated from 1943 to 1966. It was while my father was there that the temperature plummeted to –81.4°F on February 3, 1947, a record-breaking low for all of North America. He, along with the officer in charge, Gord Toole, had the dubious honour of recording this unbelievable temperature. According to astronomy experts, on that day, Snag was colder than the average surface temperature of Mars. Telegrams of congratulations were received from many countries around the world, with several messages referring to Snag as North America’s new “cold pole.”
Mark Twain once remarked, “Cold! If the thermometer had been an inch longer, we’d all have frozen to death.” My father and Gord Toole immediately noticed that the tiny sliding scale inside the glass thermometer column had fallen into the bulb at the end, well below the lowest reading on the thermometer (–80°F). After marking the thermometer sheath using a fine, sharp file (ink does not flow at that temperature), it was sent to a Toronto laboratory, where it was recalibrated at –81.4°F.
Three months later, the weather service accepted this as the correct temperature, the lowest official temperature ever recorded in North America. According to my father, the men were excited by the news, saying, “We had to put a little lock on the door to the instrument screen because everyone was rushing out and looking at the thermometers. Even the slightest bit of body heat would cause the alcohol to jump.” Now, all official alcohol thermometers in Canada have markings to –94°F, a thermometer redesign due to the coldest day in Canadian history.
Just how cold is –81.4°F? In order to give you a clear idea of the answer to this question, I am including several anecdotal, once-in-a-lifetime observations, as recorded by my father and Gord Toole in several interviews given over the years since this historic event. Will Snag remain North America’s “cold pole”? Only time will tell.
At –80°F, the people’s voices and barking dogs in the village of Snag could be plainly heard at the airport four miles away.
An aircraft that flew over Snag that day at 10,000 feet was first heard when still more than 20 miles away, and later, when overhead, still at 10,000 feet, the engine roar was deafening. It woke everyone who was sleeping at the time because they thought the airplane was landing at the airport.
A piece of ice, when broken, sounded exactly like breaking glass.
Ice on the White River, about a mile east of the airport, cracked and boomed loudly, like gunfire, amplified by a cap of warmer air lying over intensely cold air on the ground, bouncing sound waves across great distances.
The extreme cold air generated intense radio static, much like the crackling sounds heard during a thunderstorm.
Exhaled breath instantly froze with a hissing noise, and stayed suspended in the air at head level in long vapour streaks several hundred metres long, like miniature condensation trails from a jet aircraft. These patches of human “fog” remained in the still air for three to four minutes before falling to the ground as powdery ice crystals. One observer found such a trail still marking his path when he returned along the same route 15 minutes later. Becoming lost was of no concern!
For days, a small fog or steam patch would appear over the sled dogs, at a height of 15 to 20 feet. It would disappear only in the warm part of the day when the temperature warmed up to –60°F.
A chunk of ice was so cold that, when brought into a warm room, it took five full minutes before there was any trace of moisture.
A cupful of cold water was thrown high into the air, just to see what would happen. Before it hit the ground, it made a hissing noise, froze and fell as tiny round pellets of ice the size of wheat kernels. Spit also froze before hitting the ground.
At such temperatures, metal snapped like ice and wood became petrified, even paper became brittle and rubber was just like cement. The sled dogs’ leather harnesses w
ould break if bent.
After seconds outdoors, nose hairs froze rigidly and eyes would tear. Facial hair and glasses become thickly crusted with frozen breath. You had to be careful not to inhale too deeply for fear of freezing or scalding your lungs from the frigid air. Another discomfort were numerous cases of beginning frostbite, particularly the familiar “ping” as the tip of one’s nose froze. “It was easy to freeze your nose at –70°F without even knowing it was cold.”
The animals didn’t appear to suffer too much during this two-week spell when the temperatures never climbed above –64°F. Two horses, owned by a local trapper, used to visit the cookhouse every morning. It was amazing the things they would eat: apple pie, wieners, buns and cakes, and as an extra treat the cook even fed them ice cream one morning at –76°F. During their wandering around outside, almost eight inches of ice would build up on their hooves, making it look like they were up on stilts.
The stamina of the sled dogs was remarkable. They never went into their kennels, preferring to lay on top of their kennels, curled up with their heads tucked in towards their bellies. A band of frost fog formed over their heads, keeping them reasonably warm.
Starting machinery was a chore. Getting an engine started was no guarantee it would continue to run. At that temperature, the oil and transmission fluid would coagulate.
And finally, truck tires could splay open when they hit ruts in the road.
—by Carman Scherlie, Wembley, Alberta
Our Canada Our Country Our Stories Page 15
