I could celebrate by posting a video of the landing,
or,
I could celebrate by posting a video of Buzz Aldrin punching some moonhoaxer in the chops!
Showing posts with label Anniversaries. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Anniversaries. Show all posts
20 July 2012
5 August 2010
Lessons of my father
Today is the fourteenth anniversary of my father's death.
My father. Born in Hamilton in 1922, died in Mississauga in 1996. In the almost three quarters of a century that he lived, he saw the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, the Second World War, the Post War Boom, the Cold War, the end of the Cold War. At the beginning of his life, cars were a luxury, and carts pulled by horses still rumbled regularly through the streets of Hamilton. The sound of an aeroplane flying overhead was enough to make people run out of their houses and look up. He went to movie palaces, listened to music and sat in rapt attention in front of a radio shaped like a cathedral, and saw the invasion of television into the average home. He learned to do math in his head, and expressed disgust at people who used a calculator. He’d heard about the internet, but had no idea what it was, beyond the fact that it involved computers, somehow.
In his time he owned at least five Chevy’s, one of which, his ‘57, later became a classic, although he had sold it by that time. He fathered four children, lived to see one grandchild celebrate her first birthday. He met and married a woman he loved and feared all of the thirty-seven years they were together.
As a child, I all but worshipped my father. No one could hit a golf ball as far, bowl as well, or caught bigger fish. His stories of work at the oil refinery seemed filled with wonder at the magic of making gasoline out of sludge. He could talk with authority on a wide range of topics, and he had an opinion on almost everything. As a teenager, I grew bigger and stronger than he. I could hit the ball farther, and bowl as well as he. I haven’t caught bigger fish than the ones he caught, but I have time to work on that. I began to differ in opinion from him, and suffered the disappointment of knowing he could be wrong. In my twenties, we both learned to accept our differences, and I began to understand a little. When I married and became a father myself, I sorely needed his advice, but he was gone before I could really ask.
Often he was quiet, just wanted to be left in peace for a while. He could be cantankerous, and sometimes had a hot temper. But sometimes, when the mood struck him, he would regale us with tales from his younger days, and tell us stories of a young, hard headed, hard drinking, hell bent for leather man, who could find trouble if there was any trouble to be found, and who was more than capable of making trouble of his own if there was none to be found. He told tales of a soldier, thief, wanderer, prankster whom I never met, except that he sat beside me at the dinner table. It was always hard, even now, to understand the difference between that young man and my father.
Understanding my father is not an easy task, or even a possible one. Not for myself, anyway. Between us there was a gulf, we grew up in times that the other found incomprehensible. He was a member of what some historians have referred to as the greatest generation that ever lived. I belong to generation X, the generation that was nothing special, had no definition, and was set to mind the store until the next big thing showed up. Our paths show this. When I was nineteen, I went to university, and picked up some pointless degrees. When he was nineteen, Dad went to war. He never had any doubts about going off to the war. To him it was the right, perhaps even the natural thing to do, go like his father before him.
From him I learned many things.
It’s all about the stories
Dad was a gifted, natural storyteller, who polished his gifts many a time over, perhaps stretching and embellishing the truth a little. There was no catastrophe in his life so bad that he could not make a good story out of it, and make people laugh later. It was a gift he shared with his four brothers, and at every family reunion people would gather round the table where the four of them sat to listen to them reminisce about growing up in the Depression, and going off to fight World War II- you know, the good old days- and we would laugh until our sides ached. Trouble, near misses, narrow escapes, his time at a fireworks facility, where their idea of job safety was to build fireworks in isolated shacks so only one man was blown up at a time, -it must have been lousy to live through, but he could make us laugh even as he told us how bad it was. In telling us his stories, he made us want to live in a way that would make us the heroes in our own stories.
Laugh, even at yourself.
Many of the disasters he recounted were his own fault and at his own expense, and he wasn’t always the undisputed champion in every story he told, yet he didn’t shy away from these tales, or downplay his fault. While he often portrayed himself as a hero, he also let us know he was a hero who sometimes made mistakes, and in so doing, he taught that mistakes were not the worst thing that could happen. One was wrong, dusted oneself off, and kept on going, and found a way to learn from mistakes, and, as a bonus, have a good story to tell at the end of the day.
Don’t just be a character, have character
Although Dad loved a good story, and could tell a stretcher, he hated lies and liars. His word was his bond, and he could never respect a man who failed to keep his word. He taught us to be truthful, and to keep our own words.
You are more than your job.
Our identity is often very much tied to our occupations. People often identify themselves as their jobs in the way they speak: “I am a lawyer,” “I am a garbage man,” “I am a plumber” and so on. Dad taught us all to look beyond that and live for the times outside of work. He was process supervisor at an oil refinery, but he was also an avid golfer, fisherman, bowler, skater, hockey coach, and more.
Respect is earned.
When I was going through university, Dad got me a job at his old refinery so I could pay my way through school. There I met his old co-workers, and I discovered something amazing: Dad was highly respected by his peers. In particular, the members of racial minorities liked and respected my father. This wasn’t bestowed upon him, it was something he had earned. He treated everyone the same, (that is, like crap) and his only concern at work was whether or not the men could do their jobs. The men appreciated that, and respected him for his abilities in turn.
He also would never allow anyone to berate any of the men under him. Any time any of dad’s bosses had a problem with one of the men under him, Dad would take the heat from the Boss, and then personally chew out the man below. The men knew Dad would take a stand for them, and they appreciated that deeply.
If you have no other choice, stand and fight, and teach others to do the same.
One day and young cousin who lived nearby came to our house crying. He was being tormented by a bully, and didn’t know what to do. His own parents gave him little advice, beyond “ignore him and he’ll go away,” but that advice was not working. He told my parents over and over that he tried to ignore the bully, but all it ever got him was another beating.
“To hell with that noise,” my father told him, “noise” being Dad’s word for that particularly useless advice. “Next time he bugs you, you make a fist as hard as you can, and punch that bully right in the nose, with all your might. He may beat you up for it, but I guarantee you he’ll never bother you again.” Dad then spent part of the afternoon teaching the cousin the proper way of making a fist.
A week later the cousin was back, all smiles. “I did it, Uncle! I did it!” Dad’s rather brutal advice, though not acceptable to many in today’s time, did the trick: The bully never bothered my cousin again. The cousin went on to study the martial arts and teach others how to defend themselves, and for as long as my father lived, he was that cousin’s favourite of all his many uncles.
Learn what’s important, or, fear no man and only one woman.
When he was finally ready to marry my mother, he was pretty much at the height of his wild days. She told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would not marry him unless he cut back on his drinking. One of her sisters had married a drunk, and mother was not about to fall into that fate. Dad told her: “I don’t know if I can,” but he promised to try and do his best. He moved into her parents house, where she, her father, her brother and sister who still lived there, and a few other sisters who lived nearby with their families, could keep an eye on him and make sure he kept his promise. Dad was stuck sleeping in her brother’s room, and both of them were epic snorers. It was hard at first, but one morning Mom came down and saw Dad cooking in the kitchen, and he was singing as he did so. He turned to Mom, offered her a cheery good morning, and told her: “I forgot how good it felt to wake up without a hangover.”
He became a light social drinker after that. Thanks to this, I had good father who was sober, coherent, and most importantly, there for me as I grew up.
Seize the day.
Unfortunately, this was as much a negative lesson from Dad as a positive one. He was often saying things like: “We ought to do this, one day,” or “We ought to go there, one day.” Sometimes one day came. Often it didn’t. When he died, he left a lot of things undone, left for some distant, unnamed someday.
Leave only good memories.
His final sickness revealed his last true measure. Though in great pain from his cancer, he never tried to bring anyone down, never complained. He tried to make us laugh until the pain took away his voice and his stories were silenced, but by then he had said enough.
My mother will forever treasure one of the last things he had said to her. She was worried that she had made a wrong decision when he had retired years earlier. He had wanted to sell the house and buy a house or cottage up north, where he could fish and golf his way through the twilight years. But she wanted to stay put. This was where her friends were, where her family was, where her doctors were, where her church was, everything. Dad reluctantly agreed and found other golf courses, other things to do, and other ways to pass his time. As he lay dying, mother was worried that perhaps she should have sold the house so he could have had his retirement the way he wanted, but out of the blue, as though he could read her thoughts, Dad took her hand and told her: “I just want you to know, I had a wonderful retirement.” Though suffering and in pain, he eased her mind and kept her from wasting herself in regret.
Be yourself to the end.
Dad did his best to not bring people down in his final illness, but the old cantankerous man still lay beneath, and showed itself one last time in his final words.
The family gathered by his hospital bed, waiting for the end. He wasn’t moving, and his breathing was shallow and ragged. To manage the pain the hospital had put him on a morphine drip. His tongue had been silenced, it seemed, his stories living only in our memories now. I went around to my brother and sisters and mother, and tried to remind them of good times, sometimes even causing a laugh or two, and I hoped he could hear that. But my eldest sister, who was trying to do her best, and who had also gone New Age on us. had bent over Dad and kept repeating over and over and over: “It’s Okay, Dad. We’re all here and we love you. You can go now. It’s okay. You can go now.” Endlessly she repeated it, for hours. It seemed wrong to hear that. It wasn’t his nature to let anyone else tell him where or when to go, or how. Being touchy feely was never his way, either. It was getting on everyone’s nerves, including his.
He roused himself one last time and strove to speak: “Sh… Sh…” he began.
Someone said: “Quiet! He wants to speak.”
“Sh… Sh…”
“We’re here. We’re listening,” my sister said.
“Shu… Shu… Shut up!” he said at last.
Though it wasn’t until several hours later that the end came, and he still reacted to us, showing us he was aware of our presence, those were his final words, and though I feel sorry for my sister, I could only think: How appropriate. He was true to himself to the very end.
Faith
Dad raised us all in the faith. He had known it well as a child, and had even been one of the first altar boys at Hamilton's new Cathedral, Christ the King. But over the years he had lapsed in the faith somewhat, and it was mother who brought him back.
Dad's path back to the faith took a rather unusual route, at least by today's standards. Back during their very long courtship- it lasted about ten years, more or less the fifties- Dad used to take one weekend off a month to come and visit Mom. They would go out on Saturday night, but before they went out for a date, Mom would insist on Dad taking her to church so she could go to confession. Dad would wait outside while she went in to confess.
What Dad did not seem to know at the time was that the priest was a very close friend of Mom's family, practically a second father, and mother, who was the youngest in a family of seven children, was his favourite. Mom would confess, and then she would stay in the confessional and chat with father for a little while. Dad, not knowing how fond the two were of each other, only saw the woman he was dating go into the confessional for twenty minutes to half an hour.
"Holy cow," he thought. "What kind of woman am I dating?"
However, the frequent trips to church for confession eventually stirred some latent Catholic guilt within father, and he eventually resolved to go into confession himself. He went in, knelt down, waited for the grill to open, and began the rite.
"Bless me father..." he began.
"None of that," the priest interrupted. "Are you the young man dating M.?"
"I...What?" Dad stammered.
"Are you the young man who is dating M.?" the priest repeated.
"I...uh.., yes, I am." Dad said,
"What are your intentions towards her?" the priest demanded.
"Huh?" Dad said, or words to that effect.
"What are your intentions towards her?" the priest repeated.
"What do you mean?" Dad asked.
"Are you planning on marrying her?" the priest said.
"I... uh.... I don't know," Dad said. "I haven't thought about it."
"Well you kneel there and think about it," the priest said.
Dad thought about it. "Yes," he said at last. "I guess I am."
The priest waved a bony finger at him from behind the grill. "You be good to her, understand?" he said threateningly. Dad nodded. "Good," said the priest, satisfied. "Your sins are forgiven." And with that, the priest slid the grill closed.
Dad eventually became a regular attendent of Mass after that, and he was good to his wife all their days together. That doesn't mean there weren't days when she could have strangled him, but he did his best. Of course, if I understand the way the confession went, being good to her for the rest of his life was his penance.
For me, when I was young, I wanted to be like my father, and because of this rather interesting turn of events, on top of Sportsman, fisherman, worker, storyteller, coach and more, Dad was a regular churchgoer.
Not a day goes by when I don't think about him, but I have good memories of the man, and it is good to think of him. I shall think of him often for years to come, and continue telling his stories to my children.
My father. Born in Hamilton in 1922, died in Mississauga in 1996. In the almost three quarters of a century that he lived, he saw the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression, the Second World War, the Post War Boom, the Cold War, the end of the Cold War. At the beginning of his life, cars were a luxury, and carts pulled by horses still rumbled regularly through the streets of Hamilton. The sound of an aeroplane flying overhead was enough to make people run out of their houses and look up. He went to movie palaces, listened to music and sat in rapt attention in front of a radio shaped like a cathedral, and saw the invasion of television into the average home. He learned to do math in his head, and expressed disgust at people who used a calculator. He’d heard about the internet, but had no idea what it was, beyond the fact that it involved computers, somehow.
In his time he owned at least five Chevy’s, one of which, his ‘57, later became a classic, although he had sold it by that time. He fathered four children, lived to see one grandchild celebrate her first birthday. He met and married a woman he loved and feared all of the thirty-seven years they were together.
As a child, I all but worshipped my father. No one could hit a golf ball as far, bowl as well, or caught bigger fish. His stories of work at the oil refinery seemed filled with wonder at the magic of making gasoline out of sludge. He could talk with authority on a wide range of topics, and he had an opinion on almost everything. As a teenager, I grew bigger and stronger than he. I could hit the ball farther, and bowl as well as he. I haven’t caught bigger fish than the ones he caught, but I have time to work on that. I began to differ in opinion from him, and suffered the disappointment of knowing he could be wrong. In my twenties, we both learned to accept our differences, and I began to understand a little. When I married and became a father myself, I sorely needed his advice, but he was gone before I could really ask.
Often he was quiet, just wanted to be left in peace for a while. He could be cantankerous, and sometimes had a hot temper. But sometimes, when the mood struck him, he would regale us with tales from his younger days, and tell us stories of a young, hard headed, hard drinking, hell bent for leather man, who could find trouble if there was any trouble to be found, and who was more than capable of making trouble of his own if there was none to be found. He told tales of a soldier, thief, wanderer, prankster whom I never met, except that he sat beside me at the dinner table. It was always hard, even now, to understand the difference between that young man and my father.
Understanding my father is not an easy task, or even a possible one. Not for myself, anyway. Between us there was a gulf, we grew up in times that the other found incomprehensible. He was a member of what some historians have referred to as the greatest generation that ever lived. I belong to generation X, the generation that was nothing special, had no definition, and was set to mind the store until the next big thing showed up. Our paths show this. When I was nineteen, I went to university, and picked up some pointless degrees. When he was nineteen, Dad went to war. He never had any doubts about going off to the war. To him it was the right, perhaps even the natural thing to do, go like his father before him.
From him I learned many things.
It’s all about the stories
Dad was a gifted, natural storyteller, who polished his gifts many a time over, perhaps stretching and embellishing the truth a little. There was no catastrophe in his life so bad that he could not make a good story out of it, and make people laugh later. It was a gift he shared with his four brothers, and at every family reunion people would gather round the table where the four of them sat to listen to them reminisce about growing up in the Depression, and going off to fight World War II- you know, the good old days- and we would laugh until our sides ached. Trouble, near misses, narrow escapes, his time at a fireworks facility, where their idea of job safety was to build fireworks in isolated shacks so only one man was blown up at a time, -it must have been lousy to live through, but he could make us laugh even as he told us how bad it was. In telling us his stories, he made us want to live in a way that would make us the heroes in our own stories.
Laugh, even at yourself.
Many of the disasters he recounted were his own fault and at his own expense, and he wasn’t always the undisputed champion in every story he told, yet he didn’t shy away from these tales, or downplay his fault. While he often portrayed himself as a hero, he also let us know he was a hero who sometimes made mistakes, and in so doing, he taught that mistakes were not the worst thing that could happen. One was wrong, dusted oneself off, and kept on going, and found a way to learn from mistakes, and, as a bonus, have a good story to tell at the end of the day.
Don’t just be a character, have character
Although Dad loved a good story, and could tell a stretcher, he hated lies and liars. His word was his bond, and he could never respect a man who failed to keep his word. He taught us to be truthful, and to keep our own words.
You are more than your job.
Our identity is often very much tied to our occupations. People often identify themselves as their jobs in the way they speak: “I am a lawyer,” “I am a garbage man,” “I am a plumber” and so on. Dad taught us all to look beyond that and live for the times outside of work. He was process supervisor at an oil refinery, but he was also an avid golfer, fisherman, bowler, skater, hockey coach, and more.
Respect is earned.
When I was going through university, Dad got me a job at his old refinery so I could pay my way through school. There I met his old co-workers, and I discovered something amazing: Dad was highly respected by his peers. In particular, the members of racial minorities liked and respected my father. This wasn’t bestowed upon him, it was something he had earned. He treated everyone the same, (that is, like crap) and his only concern at work was whether or not the men could do their jobs. The men appreciated that, and respected him for his abilities in turn.
He also would never allow anyone to berate any of the men under him. Any time any of dad’s bosses had a problem with one of the men under him, Dad would take the heat from the Boss, and then personally chew out the man below. The men knew Dad would take a stand for them, and they appreciated that deeply.
If you have no other choice, stand and fight, and teach others to do the same.
One day and young cousin who lived nearby came to our house crying. He was being tormented by a bully, and didn’t know what to do. His own parents gave him little advice, beyond “ignore him and he’ll go away,” but that advice was not working. He told my parents over and over that he tried to ignore the bully, but all it ever got him was another beating.
“To hell with that noise,” my father told him, “noise” being Dad’s word for that particularly useless advice. “Next time he bugs you, you make a fist as hard as you can, and punch that bully right in the nose, with all your might. He may beat you up for it, but I guarantee you he’ll never bother you again.” Dad then spent part of the afternoon teaching the cousin the proper way of making a fist.
A week later the cousin was back, all smiles. “I did it, Uncle! I did it!” Dad’s rather brutal advice, though not acceptable to many in today’s time, did the trick: The bully never bothered my cousin again. The cousin went on to study the martial arts and teach others how to defend themselves, and for as long as my father lived, he was that cousin’s favourite of all his many uncles.
Learn what’s important, or, fear no man and only one woman.
When he was finally ready to marry my mother, he was pretty much at the height of his wild days. She told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would not marry him unless he cut back on his drinking. One of her sisters had married a drunk, and mother was not about to fall into that fate. Dad told her: “I don’t know if I can,” but he promised to try and do his best. He moved into her parents house, where she, her father, her brother and sister who still lived there, and a few other sisters who lived nearby with their families, could keep an eye on him and make sure he kept his promise. Dad was stuck sleeping in her brother’s room, and both of them were epic snorers. It was hard at first, but one morning Mom came down and saw Dad cooking in the kitchen, and he was singing as he did so. He turned to Mom, offered her a cheery good morning, and told her: “I forgot how good it felt to wake up without a hangover.”
He became a light social drinker after that. Thanks to this, I had good father who was sober, coherent, and most importantly, there for me as I grew up.
Seize the day.
Unfortunately, this was as much a negative lesson from Dad as a positive one. He was often saying things like: “We ought to do this, one day,” or “We ought to go there, one day.” Sometimes one day came. Often it didn’t. When he died, he left a lot of things undone, left for some distant, unnamed someday.
Leave only good memories.
His final sickness revealed his last true measure. Though in great pain from his cancer, he never tried to bring anyone down, never complained. He tried to make us laugh until the pain took away his voice and his stories were silenced, but by then he had said enough.
My mother will forever treasure one of the last things he had said to her. She was worried that she had made a wrong decision when he had retired years earlier. He had wanted to sell the house and buy a house or cottage up north, where he could fish and golf his way through the twilight years. But she wanted to stay put. This was where her friends were, where her family was, where her doctors were, where her church was, everything. Dad reluctantly agreed and found other golf courses, other things to do, and other ways to pass his time. As he lay dying, mother was worried that perhaps she should have sold the house so he could have had his retirement the way he wanted, but out of the blue, as though he could read her thoughts, Dad took her hand and told her: “I just want you to know, I had a wonderful retirement.” Though suffering and in pain, he eased her mind and kept her from wasting herself in regret.
Be yourself to the end.
Dad did his best to not bring people down in his final illness, but the old cantankerous man still lay beneath, and showed itself one last time in his final words.
The family gathered by his hospital bed, waiting for the end. He wasn’t moving, and his breathing was shallow and ragged. To manage the pain the hospital had put him on a morphine drip. His tongue had been silenced, it seemed, his stories living only in our memories now. I went around to my brother and sisters and mother, and tried to remind them of good times, sometimes even causing a laugh or two, and I hoped he could hear that. But my eldest sister, who was trying to do her best, and who had also gone New Age on us. had bent over Dad and kept repeating over and over and over: “It’s Okay, Dad. We’re all here and we love you. You can go now. It’s okay. You can go now.” Endlessly she repeated it, for hours. It seemed wrong to hear that. It wasn’t his nature to let anyone else tell him where or when to go, or how. Being touchy feely was never his way, either. It was getting on everyone’s nerves, including his.
He roused himself one last time and strove to speak: “Sh… Sh…” he began.
Someone said: “Quiet! He wants to speak.”
“Sh… Sh…”
“We’re here. We’re listening,” my sister said.
“Shu… Shu… Shut up!” he said at last.
Though it wasn’t until several hours later that the end came, and he still reacted to us, showing us he was aware of our presence, those were his final words, and though I feel sorry for my sister, I could only think: How appropriate. He was true to himself to the very end.
Faith
Dad raised us all in the faith. He had known it well as a child, and had even been one of the first altar boys at Hamilton's new Cathedral, Christ the King. But over the years he had lapsed in the faith somewhat, and it was mother who brought him back.
Dad's path back to the faith took a rather unusual route, at least by today's standards. Back during their very long courtship- it lasted about ten years, more or less the fifties- Dad used to take one weekend off a month to come and visit Mom. They would go out on Saturday night, but before they went out for a date, Mom would insist on Dad taking her to church so she could go to confession. Dad would wait outside while she went in to confess.
What Dad did not seem to know at the time was that the priest was a very close friend of Mom's family, practically a second father, and mother, who was the youngest in a family of seven children, was his favourite. Mom would confess, and then she would stay in the confessional and chat with father for a little while. Dad, not knowing how fond the two were of each other, only saw the woman he was dating go into the confessional for twenty minutes to half an hour.
"Holy cow," he thought. "What kind of woman am I dating?"
However, the frequent trips to church for confession eventually stirred some latent Catholic guilt within father, and he eventually resolved to go into confession himself. He went in, knelt down, waited for the grill to open, and began the rite.
"Bless me father..." he began.
"None of that," the priest interrupted. "Are you the young man dating M.?"
"I...What?" Dad stammered.
"Are you the young man who is dating M.?" the priest repeated.
"I...uh.., yes, I am." Dad said,
"What are your intentions towards her?" the priest demanded.
"Huh?" Dad said, or words to that effect.
"What are your intentions towards her?" the priest repeated.
"What do you mean?" Dad asked.
"Are you planning on marrying her?" the priest said.
"I... uh.... I don't know," Dad said. "I haven't thought about it."
"Well you kneel there and think about it," the priest said.
Dad thought about it. "Yes," he said at last. "I guess I am."
The priest waved a bony finger at him from behind the grill. "You be good to her, understand?" he said threateningly. Dad nodded. "Good," said the priest, satisfied. "Your sins are forgiven." And with that, the priest slid the grill closed.
Dad eventually became a regular attendent of Mass after that, and he was good to his wife all their days together. That doesn't mean there weren't days when she could have strangled him, but he did his best. Of course, if I understand the way the confession went, being good to her for the rest of his life was his penance.
For me, when I was young, I wanted to be like my father, and because of this rather interesting turn of events, on top of Sportsman, fisherman, worker, storyteller, coach and more, Dad was a regular churchgoer.
Not a day goes by when I don't think about him, but I have good memories of the man, and it is good to think of him. I shall think of him often for years to come, and continue telling his stories to my children.
24 July 2009
Lundy's Lane
About a mile due north of the mighty cataracts of Niagara Falls is a cemetery. Among the stones stands an unusually large monument, raised in honour of the many who died close to that spot 195 years ago tonight. It was raised in memory of the Battle of Lundy's Lane, one of the final battles of the War of 1812, and one of the bloodiest battles ever fought on Canadian soil.
After their defeat at the Battle of Chippawa on July 5th, the British retreated to their forts along the Niagara, and attempted to contain the new American invasion. The Americans lacked the guns and naval support to attack British entrenched positions. After a few weeks of unsuccessful skirmishing, the American commander, Major General Jacob Brown, fell back to Chippawa to gather and secure the supplies necessary to launch an attack on Burlington. As Brown retired back to Chippawa, the British general Phineas Riall moved to Lundy's lane, about 4 miles from Chippawa, which allowed his light infantry to harass Brown. When Riall heard Brown was marching in force on Lundy's Lane, Riall prepared to return to Fort George. His order was countermanded by the new Governor General of Upper Canada, Gordon Drummond. Lundy's Lane was to be held against the Americans. The Battle was on.
The British position was on a long slow ridge which gave a good view of the field below. Their artillery was positioned inside the cemetery at the highest point on the ridge. The first American attack on the ridge was carried out around six o'clock in the evening by Winfield Scott, who was the victor at Chippawa a few weeks earlier. On this day, however, his brigade was badly mauled by British artillery. The brigade made some gains, but the British still held. More Americans advanced on the British. The armies came to within twenty yards of each other before firing. Bayonets were fixed and charges were sounded in the gathering dusk. The Americans pushed the British off the ridge, and the British pushed back. Men fired their guns muzzle to muzzle.
As night fell chaos reigned supreme. In the confusion of the night each side repeatedly shot at its own men. So complete was the chaos that, when Riall fell wounded, his stretcher bearers carried him to the American surgical area, where he was taken prisoner. Drummond ordered attack after attack to re-take the guns captured by the Americans. By the end he was gathering what men he could find, no longer organised into units, and ordering them to attack.
With the dawn Drummond, wounded in the neck, stood at the heights of the cemetery, once more in command of the field, awaiting another attack. It never came. The Americans had suffered heavy casualties that night, including two generals wounded. They had about 700 men still capable of fighting out of 2500, and those men were spent from the battle. Their supplies low, they began a withdrawal back to Fort Erie, and from thence back across the Niagara River and America. Drummond, his own forces badly depleted that night, was content to let them go. He withdrew his own forces back the British forts to await reinforcements.
As is typical of the war of 1812 as a whole, it is not clear what effect this battle had. Both sides claimed victory, though it was a Phyrric one for both. In the aftermath, Drummond awaited for his reinforcements, and proceeded so slowly that the Americans had time to prepare for the defence of Fort Erie, and this is partly the reason why the Battle of Lundy's Lane is really only the second bloodiest battle on Canadian soil. The Siege of Fort Erie, soon to come, was bloodier.
After their defeat at the Battle of Chippawa on July 5th, the British retreated to their forts along the Niagara, and attempted to contain the new American invasion. The Americans lacked the guns and naval support to attack British entrenched positions. After a few weeks of unsuccessful skirmishing, the American commander, Major General Jacob Brown, fell back to Chippawa to gather and secure the supplies necessary to launch an attack on Burlington. As Brown retired back to Chippawa, the British general Phineas Riall moved to Lundy's lane, about 4 miles from Chippawa, which allowed his light infantry to harass Brown. When Riall heard Brown was marching in force on Lundy's Lane, Riall prepared to return to Fort George. His order was countermanded by the new Governor General of Upper Canada, Gordon Drummond. Lundy's Lane was to be held against the Americans. The Battle was on.
The British position was on a long slow ridge which gave a good view of the field below. Their artillery was positioned inside the cemetery at the highest point on the ridge. The first American attack on the ridge was carried out around six o'clock in the evening by Winfield Scott, who was the victor at Chippawa a few weeks earlier. On this day, however, his brigade was badly mauled by British artillery. The brigade made some gains, but the British still held. More Americans advanced on the British. The armies came to within twenty yards of each other before firing. Bayonets were fixed and charges were sounded in the gathering dusk. The Americans pushed the British off the ridge, and the British pushed back. Men fired their guns muzzle to muzzle.
As night fell chaos reigned supreme. In the confusion of the night each side repeatedly shot at its own men. So complete was the chaos that, when Riall fell wounded, his stretcher bearers carried him to the American surgical area, where he was taken prisoner. Drummond ordered attack after attack to re-take the guns captured by the Americans. By the end he was gathering what men he could find, no longer organised into units, and ordering them to attack.
With the dawn Drummond, wounded in the neck, stood at the heights of the cemetery, once more in command of the field, awaiting another attack. It never came. The Americans had suffered heavy casualties that night, including two generals wounded. They had about 700 men still capable of fighting out of 2500, and those men were spent from the battle. Their supplies low, they began a withdrawal back to Fort Erie, and from thence back across the Niagara River and America. Drummond, his own forces badly depleted that night, was content to let them go. He withdrew his own forces back the British forts to await reinforcements.
As is typical of the war of 1812 as a whole, it is not clear what effect this battle had. Both sides claimed victory, though it was a Phyrric one for both. In the aftermath, Drummond awaited for his reinforcements, and proceeded so slowly that the Americans had time to prepare for the defence of Fort Erie, and this is partly the reason why the Battle of Lundy's Lane is really only the second bloodiest battle on Canadian soil. The Siege of Fort Erie, soon to come, was bloodier.
11 November 2008
At the 11th Hour on the 11th Day of the 11th Month
IN FLANDER'S FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
-John McCrae
HIGH FLIGHT
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Officer John G. Magee, Jr. - November, 1941
THE ACT OF REMEMBRANCE
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn [sic].
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
RESPONSE: We will remember them
TOMB OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER, OTTAWA, ON CANADA
KNOWN ONLY UNTO GOD
25 July 2008
Anniversary
Today was the fortieth anniversary of Humanae Vitae. As Curt Jester says in his analysis, Paul VI was truly prophetic in this work. Mary Eberstadt writes of the vindication this much reviled document.
I have often been disturbed by the level of contempt heaped upon Paul VI by many traditionalists. This document shows his clarity of thought and his singular courage. He published this document in the face of opposition of all the bishops. This document has gone on to become a key element of the true Catholic identity, and you know that because it is one that all the dissidents universally attack. For this document alone we owe Paul VI a tremendous debt of gratitude.
I have often been disturbed by the level of contempt heaped upon Paul VI by many traditionalists. This document shows his clarity of thought and his singular courage. He published this document in the face of opposition of all the bishops. This document has gone on to become a key element of the true Catholic identity, and you know that because it is one that all the dissidents universally attack. For this document alone we owe Paul VI a tremendous debt of gratitude.
14 May 2008
A Terrible Anniversary
I found out a little while ago that on this day in 1969 Abortion was legalised in Canada. At the time it had many restrictions on it- serious reasons, doctor's approval, etc- and the total derestriction was years into the future. Even so, on this day we took a definitive step in the wrong direction, and down a very slippery slope.
26 September 2007
Today is the feast of....
These guys!
Their courage inspired and continues to inspire those who came after. Their deaths bore true witness to Faith. They are a glory to those who came after, and a beacon to those who live in the land where they first sowed the seeds of faith.
A little confusion seems to linger, though, over what to call them. In Canada we generally speak of 'the Canadian Martyrs.' I find the American blogs, however, refer to them as 'the North American Martyrs.' The name does not change their nature, their history, or the truths to which they bore witness. Having said that, it is possible, even probably, that both names are an imposition, and it is unlikely these men would have recognized either title. If they thought of themselves as anything other than Catholic, it was French. I must admit, though, I have never heard them called 'the French Martyrs', no one would know what I was speaking of were I to refer to them as such. All things being equal, the 'Canadian' or 'North American' Martyrs are the two best titles.
I just happen to think "Canadian Martyrs" is more equal than the other.
4 August 2007
Prayer requests and other matters
A cousin of mine, Paul by name, died last night. He leaves behind a wife and four late teen early twenties children. He was a good man. Please remember him and his family in your prayers.
This Sunday is also the twelfth anniversary of my father's death. He has never been far from my thoughts. I have told recorded a few of his stories here and here and here .
When I was a child he was my hero. He taught me how to fish, how to bowl, play golf, how to laugh, how to tell a good story, how to enjoy life. I never really rebelled against him as a teenager, but there were times I didn't think he knew what was "going on" so to speak. I mean, the man had only grown up during the Depression and came of age serving in the Second World War, and had supported a family- what could he possibly know about life? Fortunately I outgrew that stupidity quite quickly.
He lived long enough to see his fist grandchild, our Elder. I didn't have time to get much advice from him, but he did fire off a few pithy remarks. I once asked him: "Dad, when do kids start making sense?"
He looked at me a moment before he drawled: "I'm still waiting."
Now that I am myself a father I understand him better. Because of him and my mother I know that there is only one thing a parent can give a child that matters, and that is a good example. It is among the blessings of my life that I had a good one.
I will always miss him, for I am one of those who can honestly say that the best man I ever met, or will ever meet, was the first. But I think of the words of Seneca, who said, in effect, that everyone dies, but not everyone lives. My dad lived, and as we are Christians, he lives still.
This Sunday is also the twelfth anniversary of my father's death. He has never been far from my thoughts. I have told recorded a few of his stories here and here and here .
When I was a child he was my hero. He taught me how to fish, how to bowl, play golf, how to laugh, how to tell a good story, how to enjoy life. I never really rebelled against him as a teenager, but there were times I didn't think he knew what was "going on" so to speak. I mean, the man had only grown up during the Depression and came of age serving in the Second World War, and had supported a family- what could he possibly know about life? Fortunately I outgrew that stupidity quite quickly.
He lived long enough to see his fist grandchild, our Elder. I didn't have time to get much advice from him, but he did fire off a few pithy remarks. I once asked him: "Dad, when do kids start making sense?"
He looked at me a moment before he drawled: "I'm still waiting."
Now that I am myself a father I understand him better. Because of him and my mother I know that there is only one thing a parent can give a child that matters, and that is a good example. It is among the blessings of my life that I had a good one.
I will always miss him, for I am one of those who can honestly say that the best man I ever met, or will ever meet, was the first. But I think of the words of Seneca, who said, in effect, that everyone dies, but not everyone lives. My dad lived, and as we are Christians, he lives still.
9 April 2007
On this Day.......
90 years ago today, on another Easter Monday, Canadian troops climbed from their trenches and began an assault on a ridge both the British and French had failed to take and hold previously. Their capture Vimy ridge has become part of our national mythology, a story of how 4 divisions of Canadians, fighting together for the first time, took what our founding nations could not. Though our men fought bloodier battles, and more significant battles (Vimy was part of a grand plan of attack, and it was the plan's sole success (it was also only considered a diversion- no-one thought they could do it.)) it was Vimy that became the battle that captured the imagination and patriotism of Canada.
My grandfather was among them. As far as I can tell, it was his first time going over the top. He never spoke of the war after, not even of how he earned his decorations. I never met the man, but I am proud to call such a man my grandfather.
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