I marched onto the hospital grounds in my stiff new uniform and my squeaky new boots, my medical file under my arm. I was headed for X-rays.
I saw the wheelchair first. It was parked on a gravel path beside a beautiful flowerbed.
As I got closer, I saw a blue plaid blanket draped across the man’s lap. There were no feet visible, only the outline of two stumps. As I kept walking I saw that the man’s right arm was amputated.
When I got close enough to make eye contact, I was shaken by what my youthful eyes saw. This man’s face was greatly disfigured. It was red. It looked burned. His left eye was almost totally shut. A lit cigarette dangled awkwardly from the three fingers that remained of his left hand. It was hard for me to look at him. But I knew I’d have to greet him in passing.
When I mumbled “Good morning,” the man contorted his pained face into a smile.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
The man must have noticed my single-rank pip with the strip of white cloth, indicating my lowly Officer Cadet status. What right did I have to be called “sir” by this veteran soldier, who was probably older than my grandfather?
As the man continued to speak, I found it increasingly difficult to listen to him.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” he said, “just look at how wonderful a spring day we’re blessed with today! Does it not make you feel wonderful just to be alive?”
A lump formed in my throat. I felt embarrassed by the tears that were creeping into my eyes. How could this man find anything to be joyful or glad about?
My military pride would not allow me to linger any longer.
“It is a beautiful day,” I uttered, affecting a husky, masculine tone. “But you’ll have to excuse me, I’m almost late for my next appointment.”
“Oh, of course, sir,” he replied. “I’m sorry for delaying you.”
Then he raised his three-fingered hand in a respectful salute.
“Not at all,” I replied flatly. I returned his salute and marched off as the first tear escaped the corner of my eye.
The nurse inside told me that the man’s name was Charlie. She told me he’d been injured in a gas and artillery attack in France. He’d been confined to the wheelchair and hospital for close to fifty years.
It has been more than four decades since my one brief encounter with Charlie, and I think of him often. When I do, I’m filled with a sense of awe and respect for the indomitable quality of the human spirit.
Kitchener, Ontario
CHRISTMAS EVE
It was Christmas Eve on the Children’s Ward. The few lights on the small tree in the centre of the room reflected softly on the rows of white metal cribs and tiny white beds that lined both sides of the ward.
Although it was only seven-thirty in the evening, all the parents had left and the children had been settled for the night. Each had received the necessary bedtime treatments and medications. It was time to sleep. But only the very young and the very ill had done so. All the other children sat quietly and despondently in their beds, their eyes wide open.
Everyone—staff as well as children—longed to be home with families and friends on this special night. Each child’s face showed the same sombre anxiety: Would Santa know they weren’t at home in their own beds and, if he did, would he be able to find them in the frightening maze of corridors and connecting doors of the hospital?
There had been a Santa in visiting the ward that afternoon. He wore a red suit and had a long white beard. He jingled his bells constantly and called out frequently in a loud voice, “Ho, ho, ho!” He left each of them a small gift. But he had left no joy.
As the lights in the big ward were dimmed, we became aware of a figure standing in the doorway—a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police decked out in full dress uniform.
A chorus of small gasps filled the room. To the staff, our visitor represented the law, but to the children, he was a symbol of mystery and adventure.
He stood there for several minutes in his Stetson hat, scarlet tunic, breeches, and shining brown leather boots. He didn’t say a word.
Then he walked quickly to the first small bed, pulled up the nearest chair, and began an earnest and private conversation with its young occupant. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, and he obviously didn’t intend us to hear. His words were only for the child. He stayed for a few minutes and then moved quietly to the next bed.
He stood silently by the crib of a very ill baby, holding the small hand in his for several minutes and then leaning over to place a gentle kiss on the forehead of the sleeping child. His conversations varied with each little person. Some were sombre and soft, some were private whispers, others became animated and jolly. He stayed the same length of time with each, not missing a bed.
Our visitor left as silently as he’d come. There were no “Ho, ho, hos,” no calls of “Merry Christmas,” and no parcels, but each child had received a priceless gift—a few minutes of his undivided attention, a few minutes of being special.
Two hours later, when the evening supervisor made her routine rounds, I mentioned the visitor and she said, “Oh, I’m sorry, I should have told you. He comes every Christmas to visit the children. He lost his own son on this ward several years ago. It was at this time of year. Every year since, he’s made a visit in his memory.”
(submitted by her daughter Karen Careless of Gibsons, British Columbia)
RIDING THE RUNNERS
I met a man on a bus one snowy day. He told me a wonderful story. As we sat looking out the window, he told me how glittery snow always took him back to the Christmas he turned nine.
His name was André. He was born in 1946, the tenth of fourteen children on a Quebec farm. He was less than a year younger than his brother and best friend, Guy. He and Guy did everything together. They shared chores, clothes, and a bed.
They also shared a dream.
The family lived on a farm at the end of a country road that was never plowed. When the snow came each winter, the only mode of transportation, other than walking, was by horse and sleigh. Every Christmas there was a candlelight service at the local church. So if the family was going, they could only go by sleigh.
The sleigh didn’t have enough seats for all the family. For the candlelight service, the youngest children would ride on the floor of the sleigh, snuggled close to the warm bricks that were placed under everyone’s feet and covered with bearskin rugs. The oldest two boys took turns riding up front with their dad, helping with the team. Everyone else crowded onto the seats with their mother. Everyone except two boys. Every Christmas two boys were chosen to ride on the runners of the sleigh, holding on to the rope their father had tied back there.
Being chosen to ride on the runners was a rite of passage. There were rules. You had to be eight or older, and you had to be able to reach the rope comfortably.
André was a small child. So he continued to ride in the sleigh for two Christmases while Guy rode the runners. As the Christmas after his ninth birthday approached, he and Guy had anxious conversations about whether this would be the year they’d get to ride the runners together.
Christmas Eve dinner dragged that year as they awaited their father’s customary post-dinner seating plan announcement. When he finally made the announcement, they couldn’t believe it: their wish had come true. They would be riding the runners together!
It seemed to take forever for their father and brothers to get the team ready and even longer for the bricks and bearskin rugs to warm by the wood stove. Finally the grand moment arrived.
André told me the memory of that night still brings him joy. There was a full moon, he said, and the new snow on the trees and fields glistened like diamonds. The bells on the horses’ harnesses jingled with every step. Sitting beside me on that bus, André chuckled at the memory of his mother’s silhouette appearing over the back of the sleigh. “Ça va bien?” she asked them again and again.
Guy and André rode the runners for the next two C
hristmases, until Guy was promoted to the driver’s seat and André became big brother to the next boy in line.
Every year at this time, I think of my bus ride with André, and of the sleigh ride he took so many years ago: those two little boys, their eyes twinkling like diamonds under the full moon. Their giggles echoing in my heart all these years later.
It’s his story, but as the years pass, his memory of that sleigh ride has slowly become one of my favourite Christmas memories, although it doesn’t belong to me at all.
Bedford, Nova Scotia
LOVE STORY
This story needs a better ending—a Valentine’s Day ending.
It starts at one of the handful of repertory movie houses that survive in Toronto. I could go on about how much I love rep theatres—the just-right scale of them, neither “colossus” nor “overgrown living room”; the lack of video-arcade hype and outlandish pricing—but that’s not why I’m writing.
It was my birthday. I’d gone to see a movie with a girlfriend.
I’m single, widowed far too young and for far too long. At first I tried to change that story. I dated men a computer found for me—good matches on paper, but no soul fit. I believe in soul fit. I believe love finds you. Maybe that’s why I was at this particular movie on my birthday. It was a love story. I wanted to keep believing .
A man sat across the aisle from me. He was pleasant looking; he had a newspaper folded thin under one arm. He ate his big bag of popcorn with ungainly enthusiasm. He smiled easily.
The theatre grew dark and I was engrossed. I won’t describe how susceptible I am to movies. It’s embarrassing.
But as the closing titles rolled, I thought again of the man across the aisle. Why couldn’t I meet someone like him?
Suddenly I remembered the old story about the man at sea. Nearly drowning, he refuses three offers of help, saying that God will save him—that he’s waiting for God—and then … he drowns. When he gets to heaven, he asks St. Peter why God didn’t save him and St. Peter says, “We sent you a rowboat, a life raft, and a submarine. What more did you expect?”
What more did I expect? He was sitting a few feet away. It was my birthday. You’re supposed to take chances on your birthday.
So, for the first time in four decades, I decided to take a chance. I stood in the aisle behind him and tried to speak. This is where my near decade of singleness collided with a case of indescribable nerves. He looked up and smiled in such a way as to freeze me into immobility. Then he stood and left the theatre. I compelled my limbs to move.
A crowded movie lobby doesn’t do anything to ease the nerves. He was through the door. He stood outside in the pool of light spilling out onto the sidewalk, putting on his coat. “Excuse me,” I blurted.
Somehow, I explained. “I don’t usually do this. It’s my birthday. So I’m just going to ask you if, um, by any chance you’re single?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He said it sheepishly, looking down and then up with a smile, and I was … well, I was thrilled. We chatted, he wished me a happy birthday, and then he offered to take me for a drink.
In a fit of misguided loyalty I told him I couldn’t. I’d come with a friend.
“I can’t ditch her—it wouldn’t be right—but I’d really like to do that sometime. Can I give you my number?” I scrawled my number on his newspaper. He walked with me to the corner where I saw my friend. I floated across the street to meet her.
I beamed a look at her that said, “I did it!”
As I explained what happened, I could see it vividly—the number I wrote on that paper. It was my number all right— when I was twelve.
My old brain had lurched into action and I’d written my childhood telephone number on that paper.
I ran—no, I pelted—back to find him.
He was gone.
The worst part isn’t losing track of that man—the worst part is the thought that he might be as good a guy as he seemed. He might pick up the phone and get the operator’s voice that’s now at the end of that number, and he might think it was a cruel trick. But it was just the opposite. It was a leap of faith.
I put a note on the theatre’s website and left a card at the ticket booth addressed to Nick. Nick, that’s all I know, no number, no address, just a face, a name, and faith.
Toronto, Ontario
A REUNION
My sister and I were born in Somerset, England, and we enjoyed a carefree childhood until the Second World War broke out. That was when our mother decided we’d be better off living in America—families in the United States were offering safe haven for English children for the duration of the war. She figured we’d be gone a year at the most. I was seven years old. My sister was a few years older.
A couple of months later we boarded an ocean liner, along with maybe three hundred other evacuated children. We were leaving all we knew and loved behind, and looking ahead to a strange new world. My sister and I were sent to live with a family in Newton, Massachusetts. They cared for and looked after us for the next six years. We became part of their family. As time went on it became hard for me to believe that one day I would return to a country I couldn’t remember, and to a mother who would be a stranger to me.
I was thirteen when the war came to an end. Suddenly it was time for me to go back to England. This time I’d be travelling alone, as my sister was in college and wouldn’t be returning for a few more months. Shortly before I left, my mother sent me a small parcel. I opened it and found a triangular piece of material; it was navy blue and had a pattern of small white polka dots. I had no idea why she’d sent it until I read the note. The note said that the piece of material had originally been a square, and that my mother had cut the square into two triangles. When she met the boat at Southampton, she wrote, she’d be wearing her half of the square as a headscarf. She’d like me to wear the other half. That way we would recognize each other when the boat docked.
My mother was obviously as nervous about our meeting as I was. She’d realized that I was no longer the blond seven-year-old she had said goodbye to. There was no email or Skype or any of the other technologies we can use today when people are apart.
I sailed home on the Queen Mary. It had been used as a troop ship during the war, and this was its first voyage home as a passenger liner. I was put in the care of a young couple who’d just been married. As luck would have it, they were more interested in each other than in me—which meant that for the five-day crossing I had the freedom to wander wherever I wanted.
The days passed happily enough. There was wonderful food and lots of decks to explore. In the evenings I’d go to the ship’s lounge and watch movies. I stayed up way past my official bedtime. Finally, however, the boat docked in Southampton. Finally the moment of truth.
I decided I wouldn’t wear the headscarf. I wanted to see my mother before she saw me.
So, bareheaded, I went on deck and looked over the railing. I searched for her among the throng of excited parents on the dock. It took only a couple of minutes for me to spot her in the crowd. She was wearing the scarf. I started waving and calling to her, forgetting I had no scarf on my head. She was waving to someone farther down the deck. It didn’t matter. She was my mother and all the love and longing I had suppressed for six years came flooding to the surface. I couldn’t wait to disem-bark and run to her.
I watched her realize her mistake, and then I watched her searching through the throng of young children. She finally saw me for who I was—a teenager with a big wide grin, slightly darker hair, and a wave that could only be meant for her.
A few weeks later, after I was safely settled at home, she told me what it was like for her when the Queen Mary docked and she saw all the children waving and calling out. She told me she’d completely forgotten she was looking for a teenage girl wearing a navy blue headscarf. She told me that, in her joy and relief, she’d been waving to a little bareheaded blond girl who must have been about seven or eight years old. In that moment the six long
years of waiting had melted away; her little one had been safely and miraculously returned to her.
We put the scarves away after that. They hadn’t been needed then, nor were they ever needed again.
Fredericton, New Brunswick
ADRIFT IN PEACE RIVER
About five or six years ago, I moved from Yellowknife to Fort Smith, Northwest Territories. Once I’d settled in my new home, I decided it was time for a road trip to visit friends in Calgary.
I left Fort Smith on a Monday morning. After six hours on the road I decided to make a stop to wash the car and get gas in High Level, Alberta. Leaving the car wash, I pulled back onto the highway and soon went into the kind of trance that I fall into on these northern roads. The landscape in this part of the world is hard to describe. While hardly stunning or full of landmarks, it’s still pretty and varied. But at the same time, every kilometre looks the same as the one before.
So deep into my trance was I that I didn’t see the sign for the OSB plant, which for some reason has always been an important landmark for me. I also missed the sign telling me how far Peace River was. Not long after I’d noticed my fogginess, I crossed a bridge that I didn’t recognize. It had been a couple of years since I’d been out that way, and I thought, How quickly we forget these things. Anyway, there sure were a whole lot more oil and gas developments than there’d been the last time I drove the route. I was starting to get drowsy, so about a hundred kilometres out of High Level I pulled over for a ten-minute nap. I couldn’t get far off the side of the road and began to worry that traffic—trucks in particular—might wake me when they passed. To my surprise I slept soundly for those few minutes—the traffic, I thought to myself, was unusually light.
It wasn’t until I was another forty kilometres down the road when it hit me like a logging truck on a blind curve. I managed to put all the pieces together—something you probably did quite some time ago. I was closing in on Rainbow Lake, which was the end of a different road from the one I should have been on. A quick check of the map showed me that I’d driven 140 kilometres west when I should have been heading south.
Time Now for the Vinyl Cafe Story Exchange Page 16