remembering...

As always in the lead-up to Remembrance Day, I find myself thinking about my Dad, about the brave and honourable man he was, about the sacrifices he made for Canada, and about the wonderful, loving father he became. I think, too, about my Mom, the separation and uncertainty she endured during the six long years of World War II, and the overwhelming relief and joy she must have felt when her soldier, the love of her life, came marching home.

At the end of 1939, Dad enlisted in the Irish Regiment of Canada. He trained at Camp Borden, north of Toronto, and was based there until his deployment to Europe in 1941. Here's a photo of Mom and Dad, taken on his last leave. Mom found his midnight pass with its poignant and hopeful "keep this for me" note, tucked into her pocket after they'd kissed goodbye.

Dad and The Irish served briefly as the Queen's Guard at Sandringham. Here he is, standing proudly at attention with the Queen and Princesses Elizabeth and Anne. If you follow stillpoint, you'll have seen this image before. It's one of my favourites. This was a proud moment for Dad, a bright spot in the darkness of war.

Dad's platoon was shelled while on a midnight reconnaissance mission in Italy and he was wounded by shrapnel. As a teenager, twenty years later, I began having nightmares about darkness, explosions, and pain. Only then did Dad share the story of that terrifying night. I can't explain it but we both believed I was somehow reliving his experience in that field in Italy. I described things he'd never shared, not even with Mom. After we talked it out, my nightmares stopped. I'd like to believe Dad's did, too. We never spoke of it again.

After a short stay in a field hospital, Dad returned to active duty and served in Italy until the end of the war. It was a snowy, mid-winter day in Toronto when the Irish Regiment came home. This was my grandparents' house on Norway Avenue, all decked out with flags and bunting. (You can't see it in the picture – and no other photo exists – but Dad was sporting a carefully cultivated strawberry blond handlebar mustache. Mom told him it would have to go if he ever wanted another kiss. Dad claims he'd never shaved so fast in his life!) 

Thank you Dad, for all you did and for all you were. And thanks to all the brave men and women who have served and sacrificed for Canada and for peace. 

On November 11th, remember them.

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

sneaky peekers

Temptation. That's the trouble with this time of year. Too many temptations. And it's not just the chocolate and shortbread and all the other delectable holiday goodies on offer. No. I'm talking about surprises. All those hidden gifts, lurking in closets or squirrelled away in somebody's sock drawer. If you think about it, presents are not very good at keeping themselves secret. You can almost hear them whispering as they wait for the Big Day. "Look at me! Look at me!"

Of course, now that I'm a proper grown-up, I use my proper grown-up willpower to avoid closets, sock drawers, and other hidey-holes in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Even so, I'm always relieved when the last gift is bound up in shiny paper, tied with bright ribbon, and nestled safely under the tree. It's so much easier, then, to resist the temptation to peek. Okay, I might try to catch a glimpse of a hand-written tag, or maybe move a few packages around. You know, just to make room for more, not to shake or sniff or weigh a box with my name on it or anything. Ah-hem. Certainly not! It's all about the surprise, right? But…

Once upon a very long time ago, "willpower" was just a word grown-ups used when what they really meant was, "stop having all that fun!"

It was December, 1959, two weeks before Christmas. I was nine and a half years old. Mom was out for the afternoon, Dad was busy in his basement workshop, and I was hearing gift-whispers all over the house. With Cookie the dog as my trusty lookout, I tiptoed from room to room. Like a young Nancy Drew with her Togo, we were hot on the trail of a Christmas mystery. First, we checked the hall closet, rummaging through a box of scarves and mittens, behind the winter coats and under the boot rack – nothing. Upstairs, we rooted through the linen closet, opened Mom's lingerie drawer, and peered under beds – still nothing. My gift had to be somewhere in the house, I could definitely hear it whispering. In fact, by then, I was pretty sure I could hear it singing and giggling, too. "Tee-hee-hee and ho-ho-ho, you won't find me, no matter where you go." Cookie's tail seemed to keep time with a jolly thump-thump-thump on the floor. Whose side was she on, anyway?

Back in the kitchen, I pondered the situation while staring out the window at our snow-covered backyard. Birds fluttered and squabbled at the feeder. A cold wind rattled bare branches against the frosted windowpane. Downstairs, Dad whistled as he swept his workshop floor. Beside me, Cookie yawned and huffed, turning lazy circles before settling onto her mat for a nap. And the whispering gift had grown so quiet I could barely hear it any more. Ah-ha! What do you do when you're hiding and the seeker comes close? Hold your breath. Stay quiet. Don't whisper. I turned to study the kitchen. Where would I hide? Not in the cupboards or cutlery drawers – too much traffic – but what about the junk drawer?

Dry wood squealed a warning as I pulled it open. I froze. Cookie snored. Dad whistled. I held my breath and eased the drawer wide. There, tucked into a corner and poorly camouflaged by a jumble of elastic bands, playing cards, envelopes and postage stamps, was a neatly folded piece of crisp, white paper. The whispering stopped. I reached for the paper, carefully unfolded it, and read. This was it! Not the gift itself, but a receipt dated three days before, for "one transistor radio, pink."

Dad's footsteps sounded on the basement stairs. Cookie scrambled to her feet and ran to meet him at the kitchen door. I must have re-folded the paper and closed the drawer but I don't remember doing so. I managed to forget about the whispers and my afternoon of sleuthing, too. Until, gathered around our tree on Christmas morning, my parents put that perfect little gift in my hands. I looked up at their happy faces, so eager to see my surprise and delight, and all I could think of was "one transistor radio, pink."

Smile, I told myself. Act surprised. Don't let them know. I pulled on the ribbon, peeled back the paper, opened the box… and burst into tears.

I'd like to think that Mom and Dad never suspected I'd peeked, that they believed my tears were tears of happiness, that I hadn't disappointed them. But I have a feeling they both knew exactly why I was crying. I loved that pink transistor radio and made sure they knew it. But my sneaky peeking had, in some small way, spoiled the celebration – not only for me, but for the people who loved me best.

So, take it from me. No matter how many gift whispers you might think you hear this holiday season, don't become a sneaky peeker. Get yourself some proper grown-up willpower and savour the surprise.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

  

a lot to remember...

Every year when November rolls around, I pin a poppy to my jacket and think about my Dad. His stories of service with the Irish Regiment of Canada in World War II were often full of laughter – like the time he volunteered to teach cross-country skiing to fellow recruits at Camp Borden, north of Toronto. 

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," I remember him saying, "a bit of easy duty." Not so easy, as it turned out. Dad had never worn a pair of skis in his life and had to bluff his way through the lessons. Fortunately for him, and for the men of B Company, they never had to ski into battle.

Sometimes, while Dad reminisced, Mom would slip quietly out of the room. She understood that his laughter couldn't last. Some remembered escapade would bring to mind a good friend, a young man he'd trained and travelled and fought beside, a young man who hadn't returned from battle. And Dad would fall silent. That was Mom's cue to offer hot mugs of tea, a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits, and a gentle hug.

Those stories must have held painful memories for Mom, too. It's not only soldiers who sacrifice for our peace and freedom. The ones they leave behind sacrifice, too. How desperately, impossibly hard it must be to stay brave and strong when the one you love more than life itself goes marching off to war. Back in the early 1940s, Mom and her friends coped by working hard, playing hard, and sending a constant stream of letters to their absent lovers; letters full of home and hope and happier times, with photos like these tucked inside.

In her quieter moments, I can imagine Mom pouring over the evening newspaper for any mention of The Irish, carefully clipping and saving each story as she followed the regiment's progress from Toronto to Nova Scotia, then overseas to England and, finally, to Italy. 

Among the patriotic stories of long marches, flag-waving, and royal inspections, one little poem stands out: To Whom It May Concern - I like mink and crepes suzettes, and big fat dewy violets, I like hats at a pretty penny, Dresses fabulous and many, Long sleek cars and silver foxes, Perfumes in exciting boxes; In January, I adore Strawberries, but I'll settle for A First Class Private, blithe and bold, and a wedding ring, 10k gold!

Mom didn't just clip and save that one. She slipped it into a letter and mailed it away to her own PFC Philip Cooke. That's her hand-written "Phil" in the corner. 

Tucked into a pocket-sized folder beside Mom's photo, that little poem was with my Dad at Sandringham when he met the Queen Mum and Princess Elizabeth. He carried it into battle in Italy and eventually, thankfully, brought it home to Toronto and a happy-ever-after where Mom finally got that wedding ring.

Every year when November rolled around, my Dad would pin a poppy to his jacket. He had a lot to remember.

So to you, Dad, and to all the men and women who've sacrificed to keep Canada strong and free – the peacekeepers, those who fought, and those who stayed behind – thank you. We will never forget.


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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

man vs squirrel, a true story...

October is Squirrel Awareness Month. Who knew? I'm not sure who founded this month-long squirrelly love-fest. Even the great Google doesn't provide a definitive source, although there are plenty of squirrel appreciation links and enough cutesy photos to make even the most jaded among us crack a smile. So, are we expected to place tribute offerings of nuts and gourds at the base of the nearest oak? Fly fake squirrel tails from car antennae and flag poles? Post "up with squirrels" avatars on our social media profiles? I'm game, being quite fond of the wee beasties myself. But, I confess, my first thought when the news popped up in my Twitter feed was, "thank goodness my Dad's not around to see this."

Dad, you see, had a great big chip on his shoulder when it came to squirrels. It wasn't always the case. In fact, I vividly remember him laughing along with my toddler self at the twitchy-tailed antics of the troop in our neighbourhood park, even taking along some peanuts to feed the little guys. But that was before The Awful Awning Incident.

This is the awning in question. It graced the front of my childhood home on Haslett Avenue in Toronto, and it was Dad's pride and joy. In fact, everything about that house was Dad's pride and joy. He'd spend hours pruning and mowing, painting and polishing. No weeds need apply to Dad's gardens. Fallen leaves dare not linger on the sidewalk. Windows sparkled, paint gleamed, and the green and white stripes on that lovely canvas awning shone bright in the summer sunshine.

Our neighbours in the other half of the brick semi had no need for awnings, shaded as they were by the towering Norway maple that stood, majestic, in the middle of their tiny lawn. A few overhanging branches are visible in the photo but, for the most part, the tree kept to its side of the shared front walk, thus avoiding arboreal confrontations between Phyllis and Phil, my adorably named parents, and our equally adorably named neighbours Millie and Mel. (It's true. You can't make this stuff up.)

I loved that big tree with its spreading branches and mossy trunk. In spring, I'd spend hours sprawled on the cool grass watching maple seeds helicopter their way to earth. In autumn, the world became a bright kaleidoscope of falling leaves. Best of all, the tree was home to a happy tribe of squirrels who spent their days playing tag and scolding the neighbourhood dogs.

I was eight the year of The Awful Awning Incident. We'd returned late the previous night from our annual family vacation in cottage country. The last few weeks had been rainy and cool but this first morning home dawned sunny, hot, and humid. Mom was sorting laundry in the kitchen. I was at the table, listening to the snap-crackle-pop of my breakfast cereal and looking forward to taking my library book to the verandah and settling in for a morning with Swallows and Amazons. Dad was already out there, sweeping the floor and setting up the folding chairs. I heard the familiar squeak-squeak-squeak of the pulley as he lowered the awning. And then…

A wild, unearthly bellow echoed down the hall, followed by a series of chatters and thumps, and a string of turn-the-air-blue words I can't bring myself to repeat.

After a moment of stunned silence, Mom dropped her laundry basket and ran for the front of the house with me close on her heels. We burst through the screen door and stopped short at the sight of Dad, who was waving his arms and sputtering. "Look!" He pointed a shaking finger at the awning. "Just-just… look at what those bloody squirrels have done!"

We looked. A band of ragged, gaping holes marred the entire width of our beautiful awning. Balls of fluff, leaves, twigs, and fur littered the steps and flower bed. On the lawn, one very large and very angry daddy squirrel chattered insults at my increasingly red-faced father. Mrs. Squirrel and the kits had scrambled to safety in the maple tree but her mister was hopping mad about the abrupt eviction from their squirrelly B&B.

Photo by Doug88888 via Flickr | CC-BY-NC-SA-2.0

Dad never forgave those squirrels. He certainly never carried peanuts to the park again. His rage became the stuff of Haslett Avenue legends. No pesky varmints were going to outwit Phil Cooke.

"Leave your awning down all the time," suggested one neighbour.

"Roll it up with mothballs inside," offered another.

"Well, you could always just plant a nice, big tree," said Millie and Mel. (I'm pretty sure their hobby was bear-poking.)

Life quickly returned to normal for the squirrels, high in their treetop den, but the Cooke family went without shade for the rest of that long, hot summer. The following spring, workers arrived to install a shiny new green and white striped awning. Aluminium this time. I can still see my Dad standing on the front steps, one hand on his full metal awning, as he glared a challenge into the top branches of the big maple tree. "Let's see you blighters chew on that," he said.

Happy Squirrel Awareness Month, everyone!

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

wishes and horses...

Meet Oliver, the tall, dark, and duskily handsome horse of my three-year-old dreams. For me, it was love at first ride. Don't let my grumpy expression fool you. That frown was all about Dad's refusal to hand over the reins and let me gallop. Even worse, after our plod around the farmer's meadow was over, I was expected to give Oliver back! Copious tears were shed. As my parents always told it, I spent the rest of our brief vacation begging for another ride, and the next eighteen years begging for a horse of my own. Dad's reply was always the same: "When we live on a farm, you can have a horse." (Years later, after I'd married and actually did live on a farm, I reminded Dad of his promise. "We still don't live on a farm," he said. "Guess the horse is up to you." Well played, Dad. Well played.)

Fast forward a few years from Oliver's sunny meadow in cottage country to Williamson Road School in Toronto. It was there I met Kate, a girl who shared my passion for horses. For a time, Kate lived across the street from the old Woodbine\Greenwood Race Track. 

Old Woodbine/Greenwood Racetrack, Toronto (Public Domain image)*

We could see the home stretch from her second floor sunroom window and spent many happy hours squinting through binoculars, imagining ourselves in silks, winning races on the backs of sleek thoroughbreds with names like Victoria Park and Blue Light. In the real world, we delighted in occasional trail rides on a sedate pair of bays named Smokey and Chip. Life was good… until a severe allergic reaction barred me from saddle and stable forever. [Insert teen angst here.] Oh, the cruel injustice of it all!

Kate and I amassed impressive china horse collections, naming and creating a colourful back story for each one. Mine were displayed on the mantel above the fireplace in our living room – a generous concession on my mother's part (although, at the time, I couldn't imagine a more perfect accent for her tasteful decor). Mom packed up the horses for me when I married but I didn't take them – no room for a childhood collection in my new, grownup life, I guess. Eventually, she donated the herd to a church rummage sale. I like to imagine they found a home with another young girl who loved them.

Kate wasn't so willing to give up her treasures. When I phoned a few weeks ago to ask if she still had any of her horses, she knew exactly where to find them: in a box, under the bed. Now, why didn't I think of that? We pulled them all out to take these pictures and play with them one more time. Proving what I should have known all those years ago – there's no such thing as too old!

I'm a grandmother now and it seems my beautiful granddaughter has inherited my love for horses. (Happily, she didn't inherit my allergies!)  She loved every minute of riding camp this summer and is now taking weekly lessons at a local stable. What a joy it is to see her bond with the horses and watch her confidence grow. For me, it's a dream come true in the best possible way.

My grandaughter walking with Jenna

 Afterword: Retirement has inspired me to start a new collection of horses. This time, thanks to Pinterest, no shelf space required! Yes, I'm still Horse Crazy after all these years.   

* Racetrack Image Credit: by James Victor Salmon 1911-1958 - Toronto Public Library. Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons
  

remember...

Thanks, Dad.