(1) Where are you, Gracie Purvis?

Introduction

My dad joined the Royal Canadian Navy Volunteer Reserve (RCNVR) in 1941 and put his shoulder to the wheel of World War II. 

In his Naval memoirs he writes the following:

March the first, 1941, I left my employment at the Norwich Co-op and joined the Navy as a probationary rating, at Hamilton, taking instructions each evening. I stayed at the home of my sister Gertie... (“DAD, WELL DONE”: The Naval Memoirs of Leading Seaman Coxswain Gordon Douglas Harrison)

He said good-bye to his job at the Co-op in the west end of the village of Norwich as well as to his mother (his father died when he was 10), brothers and sisters and a girlfriend, a young girl who lived in a small house under the village water tower, one block from the post office in downtown Norwich.

 [“Edith Catton (later, my mother)

outside her small house, Norwich”]

I’m sure it wasn’t long before letters between Dad, his mother and his girl friend flew back and forth, all expressing feelings about new experiences, strong affections and their separation from one another. 

[“Doug Harrison (later, my father)

at barracks, Halifax, 1941”]

I’m also sure it’s true that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ In the recent past, as I compiled my dad’s naval memoirs into book form, I learned he and many other young men missed their mothers and girlfriends greatly and couldn’t sing certain songs without tears forming in their eyes. 

As well, I learned that affectionate alliances were formed between many young Canadian sailors and women in Great Britain during the harsh war years, and that the attractions and affections - even after the men and women returned to their own homes, friends and families - lasted long after the second world war ended.

A short story follows about an alliance my dad made when in England in 1942, the effects of which can be felt to this day.

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More to follow.

Please click here for more about Dad’s Navy days

[Photo of old photos by G.Harrison]

  

(13) Discovering the World in One Pair of Pants

Gord’s bicycle trip to Port Bruce (PB), Aug. 24 - 27, 2012

“Quiet, uneventful trip home in light, cooling drizzle w good speed” 

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CHAPTER SEVEN   -   Good memories, great trip PT 2

When travelling I often follow my nose. So I go down many a crooked lane.

Over the years, especially when motorcycling, I’ve ended up at Port Bruce, bought a coffee and walked out to the end of the pier. While walking from the Beach Hut (now the Corner View Cafe) to the ‘light house’ I’d recall my first car ride around the area.

It occurred during the summer of 1965 or ’66, during a weekend when I’d been invited there by an expert butcher, Ken Faulds, to meet his family. His older son, Peter, had a friend with one of the smallest cars I’d ever seen (maybe a 1950s Austin Mini), and together they took me for a ride - around and around some local highlights - one I’ll never forget.

[“We sped past the Rocabore Inn”]

Late in the evening, well after the supper hour (because we stopped for burgers at The King’s Cupboard at some point; also, the diner is now a lovely yellow-sided cottage), Peter and his pal loaded me into the back seat of the small car and decided to test my nerve. We sped past the Rocabore Inn, past the King’s Cupboard and headed straight toward Lake Erie, about as fast as the wee car could go. I gripped the front seat behind Peter’s head and hoped there was a turn ahead, a nice gradual turn.

[“We sped past the King’s Cupboard”]

No such luck. There was a turn, but it was sudden.

“Let’s see if we can roll it tonight!” said the driver and he turned sharply left, tires skidding and gravel flying. By the momentum I was shoved against the side of the car and a fat, onion-laden cheeseburger was shoved against the side of my right kidney. Shite, I thought, or something to that affect.

Wee headlights momentarily revealed the lake through the windshield, then Port Bruce channel, then a narrow road back to the Rocabore Inn.

“We’ll have to go faster this time!” said the driver and away we went for another attempt at rolling the car.

Past the Inn, the Cupboard, the first corner, and the rapidly disappearing views of the lake and channel amid laughs and cheers and somebody’s nervous prattling from the back seat. But on the third time ‘round I caught on. It was Saturday night and Peter and his friend had done this before to scare the wits out of some unsuspecting rube. My laughter soon joined theirs and away we went for a few more rounds.

Can you blame me for making Port Bruce a frequent destination whether by car, motorcycle or bicycle? I’ll likely be drinking coffee on the pier when I’m eighty-five, still chuckling about the trips around the traffic circle opposite the Corner View Cafe.

Vivid memories are good reasons to return to a spot time and again, and my bicycle trip to Port Bruce gets a big thumbs up from me. I’ll do it again next year unless the cherry blossoms in Paris or a bean fest in Zurich turn my nose in a different direction.

Trust me. Anything could happen as I continue to discover the world in one pair of pants.

More PHOTOS FROM ALONG THE WAY are coming soon.

[Photos by G.Harrison]

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Please click here to read CHAPTER SEVEN - Good memories, great trip PT 1 

Prose: good defensive hockey

[The following was inspired by the excellent display of defensive hockey by Tyler Ferry of the London Knights (OHL) when he shadowed Nail Yakupov of Sarnia Sting on Oct. 30, 2011. A fellow I regularly play hockey against said the game was less enjoyable to watch. I heartily disagreed. gah]

good defensive hockey

stay on him
like dirt on an old dog
like the sticky on warm tape
stay on him

coach repeated his plan to me
stick to him, that number 10
like spit on the sidewalk
like smell on your old man’s shirt
and I stuck to 10 that night

near the end of the first
he hacked my ankle and was sent
to the penalty box - I guess so!
but my team failed to capitalize
and my ankle tightened up
while I shook my head

period one ended, score one each


back on the bench coach leaned in
you keep on him
like burrs on a wool sock
like gum under a kitchen table
and I did, sore ankle and all

I stayed on 10
like grease on a bike chain
like sweat under a leather helmet
and though he managed
two weak shots on net
I got a good one off myself
and I looked dangerous
like I was the one to watch

period two ended, score two each


in the dressing room coach said
stick on 10 some more
you’re doing good out there

but out there, on the ice
I wanted more
I wanted 10 to pay for my ankle
to stick to me for a change
I got my one chance
a minute remaining in the game

as 10 raced down the ice
I leaned into him low
and he lost his quick stride
near the empty penalty box
and though I wanted to
dump him right in it
I stabbed at the puck - got it!
I sent it across ice to my winger
already heading the other way
go! I hollered, go!
and then turned and chased the play
with 10 hot on my tail
I felt rather than heard the words
catch me if you can

after a good deke or two
my winger shot high on net
the puck caromed off the glass
and bounced toward my stick
I felt a sharp tug at my waist
but it didn’t stop me
from slapping at the puck
or following it into the net


I heard the final buzzer
I heard the hoots and hollers
and I screamed too
a throaty yell of youthful
jubilation and relief
and I saw, framed by
goal posts slammed off their moorings
number 10’s back as he stepped
through the gate to his bench

I was glad to see the back of him
but happier still to be gripping
a puck under a leather glove

gah

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Please click here to read prose entitled ‘she and me’ by G. Harrison.

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The Bucksnort Café

Backgrounder: “While driving to a fire fighter college in Texas a number of years ago, in order to visit my oldest son, I spotted a road sign in Kentucky directing traffic to the town of Bucksnort. Shortly after telling my wife we should retire to Bucksnort and open a coffee shop, this song followed.” gaharrison

The Bucksnort Café

Chorus:

I’m going to the Bucksnort Café,
I’ll have my first cup of the day,
I’ll talk to my pals, joke with the gals,
Life is good at the Bucksnort Café.


["Yup, I could drinka cuppa coffee 'bout now"]

Verse 1. I’ll get toast and thick marmalade,
The cranberry scones are homemade.
Two packets of sugar, some cream, and a stir,
Life is sweet at the Bucksnort Café.
I’ll pull out my Free Coffee card,
To get eight holes punched ain’t too hard.
First eight there’s a fee, the ninth cup is free,
Get a deal at the Bucksnort Café.

I’m going to the Bucksnort Café,
Their coffee gets me going each day,
I’ll talk to my pals, joke with the gals,
Life is good at the Bucksnort Café.

2. We’ll talk ‘bout the issues at hand,
Solve problems afflicting the land.
If politicians were smart, they’d take us to heart,
And drop in at the Bucksnort Café.
The price of eggs is too high,
But my wife will be rich when I die.
We talk ‘bout this stuff though life ain’t too rough,
Life goes on at the Bucksnort Café.

I’m going to the Bucksnort Café,
Buy me a refill – I’ll stay,
I’ll talk to my pals, joke with the gals,
Life is good at the Bucksnort Café.

gah

Please click here to read my most recent newspaper column.

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