Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul
Two months before my twelfth birthday, Granny shattered her hip in a nasty fall and became bedridden, never to sit in her rocking chair again. She passed away ten months later.
The afternoon before her departure, when I returned from school, she called me to her bedside. The long months in bed had not been kind to her. In the dimness of the room, she looked so incredibly small in that big bed, her face drawn, her long white hair wispy and dull.
Extending one of her long, bony hands she beckoned me to her side. “Come,” she said in a voice that seemed to travel miles before reaching me. And when her hand closed around mine, I noticed that it was cold and waxy— almost lifeless. “Oh, you’re such a wonderful boy,” she whispered as she stroked my face. “And you’re going to be a handsome . . . handsome man one day soon!”
When I knelt down to hear her better, I noticed her eyes were swimming in tears, her thin bloodless lips quivering. She sniffled, drew a laboured sigh and then continued, “The time has come for Granny to move on.” Understanding well what she meant, I immediately protested.
Putting a finger to my lips she hushed me. “Nothing to be afraid of, my child, it’s just part of life,” she explained, “merely the completion of a wonderful cycle. When the angels come for me, miss me not, because I will always be here by your side.” She then reached under her pillow and brought out the rosary. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “I want you to have this. Keep it close to your heart and remember me by it.” Oh, how she loved me.
Again, when I tried to interject she sealed my lips with her cold fingers.
“Go and play with your friends now,” she said. “Granny is tired and would really like to get some sleep.” Then she turned over as much as her broken hip would allow. I kissed the back of her head and left the room clutching her rosary. That was the last time I saw her alive.
After Granny died, my mother and I made the trip to Canada and joined my father, brother and sister in Toronto. It was 1969, and I was fifteen years old.
I never did use the rosary the way Granny had perhaps intended me to, as I wasn’t totally sure how the whole thing worked. Instead, I strung it between two nails on the wall behind my headboard. It hung for many years where I could look at it every day. In times of turmoil, I even took it down and held it in my hands for comfort.
At the end of my senior high school year, my class organized a trip to Heart Lake in Brampton, just outside Toronto. Here we felt five years of camaraderie could be brought to adequate closure; in other words . . . party time!
It was an overcast cool June morning and the beach area was mostly deserted. One of the girls hop-skipped up to the water and gingerly dipped one foot in. “It’s freezing!” she announced, running back.
The biggest and baddest dude of the class, known simply as Ox, shook his head. “Women, ha!” he said, looking at me. “What say we show these skirtsies and the rest of these pansies what real men are made of! Race you to the raft . . . loser moons the principal!”
“You’re on.” I replied, stripping down to my swimming trunks and racing for the water. I plunged in just before Ox. The water wasn’t merely freezing, it was downright galvanizing! As I came up gasping and began stroking, I heard whooping and cheers from our classmates and Ox blowing air like a whale beside me. Ahead, fifty yards or so, the raft awaited the victor. As I halved the distance, a whole body length ahead of my bovine friend, a sudden cramp seized my abdomen, and a moment later both my legs went numb . . . dragging behind me, weighing me down. Ox passed me; someone on shore yahooed . . . I went momentarily under. Using only my arms, fighting cramps that were quickly spreading to every muscle in my body, I managed to regain the surface. The raft now seemed at least fifty miles away. Ox was almost there. I was too proud to scream for help.
As I went under again, it suddenly became clear that I was going to drown, right here, in front of all my friends. When I finally decided to forgo my pride and yell for help, I no longer had breath to do it with. As I slipped under, it was not my life that I saw flashing before my eyes, but my granny’s rosary. If only I could touch it just one last time, I thought as I watched it dangling in the shimmering light just below the surface of the water. I reached for it. I touched it. It broke; beads slipped through my numb fingers and went floating down past me. As my lungs compressed, begging for oxygen, rising from the depth of the lake I thought I heard those foreign whispers from my childhood. With one last desperate lunge, fighting a spreading torpor, I reached for the rosary again, and managed to get a grip of its tiny silver crucifix. This time it was as strong as a rope, and I felt it pulling me up.
I don’t know how, but moments later I was hoisting myself up onto the raft to join my already gloating friend. After a brief rest, without saying a word of what had happened, we swam back to shore without further incident.
When I got home later that day, the first thing I did was run up to my room to check on the rosary. As I threw the door open, I noticed it was gone; one of the nails had fallen out and the other hung askew downwards, as if someone had pulled it down in haste. Then, I stepped on what felt like a couple of tiny pebbles. With my heart knocking in my chest, I knelt down for a closer look and saw in amazement a scattering of loose beads . . . my granny’s rosary.
Vince Fantauzzi
Brampton, Ontario
When I Met My Hero!
When I was a child, I loved the work of Charles Schulz, creator of the famous Peanuts comic strip. I read it because it spoke to us as children. It attributed to us common sense and personalities, and the ability to think cerebral thoughts. To me it spoke to real kids, it wasn’t “just a comic strip.” I collected his books, and when I was in my twenties, I had illustrations of his characters all over my bedroom wall. He really was one of my heroes!
I had always known that comics were more than just drawings. They’re a wonderful way of communicating and of telling the truth. Charles Schulz kept me aware of that. Somehow, he accompanied me through my life. Wherever I went, he was there, because no matter where I was, I could open a newspaper and find his work.
I certainly never expected to meet him. So, when the phone rang one day, and I heard the words, “Hi, this is Charles Schulz,” I was so stunned I said, “Who?” And he said, very apologetically, “I do Peanuts.”
He called me simply to say, “I like your work.” I was so blown away, I had to sit down. He called me several times after that and we talked about our work. I just couldn’t wait to meet him!
About a year after that first phone call, we finally met in Washington at the Reuben Awards, which is sort of the Oscars of the comics’ industry. I was nominated that year for my own comic strip, For Better or For Worse. In fact, I actually won! Charles Schulz came up to me at the meeting and whispered in my ear, “I voted for you!”
We got along so well that he and his wife said, “If you’re ever in California, please drop by and visit.” How often do you get an invitation like that from one of your heroes? When my husband and I did go out to California, we called, and to my total amazement, they invited us to stay at their home.
It was a lovely, quiet place on a hillside, with a beautiful view of meadows and rolling hills. Charles Schulz wanted to take us for a walk around his property, but I had arrived with only good clothes, and didn’t have any shoes suitable for hiking around the woods and trails.
He said, “Your feet aren’t very big, let me give you a pair of my shoes.” He looked through his closet, pulled out a pair of his own running shoes and stuffed some tissue in the toes. When I put them on, they fit just fine! We then went for a walk around his property, and had a great visit. Later it occurred to me that something truly amazing had happened. “Good grief,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve just walked a mile in your shoes!” From then on, we had a “running gag” between us. He’s someone I’ll never, ever forget.
Lynn Johnston, creator of For Better or For Worse
North Bay, Ontario
A Street Kid Named Mike
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The greatest good we can do for others is not to share our riches, but to assist in revealing their own.
Benjamin Disraeli
Mike was a street kid. He never knew his father, his mother was a “lady of the night” and he lived with a feeble and indifferent grandmother. His clothing was in constant need of repair, as ripped pants were not yet the thing. He was ten years old, undernourished and unkempt. Compared to the other kids around him, he was at a distinct disadvantage.
It was September 1966, and I was twenty years old, facing my first class of kids as a new teacher. Like most new, young teachers, I was full of enthusiasm and determined to make a difference. My grade 4/5 class in an elementary school in downtown Toronto was made up of thirty-eight angels, and one street kid named Mike. Being so young, I knew very little about parenting. I did however recognize a child in need, and decided that this was as good a place as any to reach out and see if I could make a difference. And so it was that early in September, my special “foster father” relationship with Mike began. Astonishing as it may seem, I became the only parent figure he ever had.
Each day as I arrived at school around 7:30 A.M., Mike would already be in the parking lot waiting for me. Because he was usually hungry, I’d take him out for breakfast. I showed him how to sew, and together we began mending his ripped and torn clothes.
Each noon hour as I shared my lunch with him, I taught him a host of new skills—for a while we worked on the proper method of using a microscope. On another day we constructed a pinhole camera, then we classified rocks and minerals. Still later, we did some archaeology. Mike would then “help” me teach these skills to the rest of the class. We all had a lot of fun, and a kind of unspoken trust began to build up between us. Surprisingly, he appeared eager, perhaps even hungry, to participate in this new father-son relationship.
One day near the end of September, on a Monday, I taught Mike to play chess. By Friday of that same week, he was giving me a really good game. That year, and for several years thereafter, Mike was the chess champion of the Toronto Board of Education.
Early in our special relationship, Mike told me of his dream. Most of the kids in the class wanted to be doctors, musicians, teachers or some such thing, but not Mike! His ultimate desire in life was to be a gangster! This was no joke—this was his wish, and he was most serious about it.
I believed then, and after thirty-four years of teaching I still believe, that all children have a gift. Everyone has the same opportunity to be the best person they can be. I realized this boy was brilliant, and that with a little love, attention, understanding, guidance and encouragement, he could probably accomplish whatever he put his mind to. I figured if he wanted to be a gangster, I would do all I could to help him become the very best gangster he could be.
I got permission from his grandmother to call on him every Saturday morning. You see, I had a plan. First, I took him for breakfast. Afterwards (after making special arrangements through a friend), I took him to the Osgoode Law Library, attached to the University of Toronto.
He was awed by its impressiveness. I explained to him that a good gangster had to know something about criminal law, and reading up on law was the only way to learn. His young mind was eager and interested, and he dove right in.
That was how we spent each Saturday morning that year. I’d drop him off at the law library, and three hours later, I would return and pick him up and we’d go get a burger at Harvey’s. After lunch together, and a recap of his morning’s work, I’d take him home. He wasn’t my son, but I sure felt like a father. There were numerous Saturdays I felt like sleeping in, but a commitment had been forged between us, and I was not going to let him, or myself, down.
The following year I was transferred to another school some distance away. Sadly, this prevented me from continuing to participate physically with him on those Saturday mornings. But I was determined to follow through with what I had begun, so I continued to provide him with public transportation tickets so he could keep up his regular study at the law library. Every so often I’d get together with him and take him out for lunch, so I was able to keep up with his life.
Some time after that, I met a wonderful young woman named Carol. Soon afterwards we were married, and we started a new life together in London—about two hours west of Toronto. The unfortunate part of this love story is that somehow, sadly and to my great regret, I lost contact with Mike.
The years passed, and I often thought of him, wondering how his life turned out and what had become of him. Then, one day in 1995, I was in Toronto on business and decided to look up the number of a former colleague. I flipped open the telephone directory, and there on the page, as if it were in twinkling neon lights and lit up just for me, I saw Mike’s surname as part of a title of “Barristers and Solicitors!”
I wondered, Could it be? Naw!—What are the odds?
On a whim, I dialed the number, gave my name to a secretary and was put on hold. A very long fifteen seconds later, I was talking with a husky voiced gentleman. His opening statement was, “Mr. Kowalchuk, I’ve really . . . missed you.” Then there was silence.
Somehow I managed to answer. “Mike, I’m really proud of you. I only wish that I had managed to keep in touch with you all these years.” My eyes welled up with tears, and I blurted out again (between sobs), “Mike, I’m really proud of you.”
In a quivering voice on the other side, Mike answered, “I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for you.”
I was so very proud of him! If he had been my own son, I couldn’t have been more proud of him.
When we were able to get together, I learned that Mike had risen to be one of the most successful criminal lawyers in Canada! A far cry from the street kid I once knew, who dreamed of becoming a gangster. He repeated that I was the only parent figure he had ever had, and that he owed it all to me. Had it not been for me, he said, he wouldn’t be where he was today.
Ernest Kowalchuk
Ailsa Craig, Ontario
War, in Peace
One of the most valuable things we can do to heal another is to listen to other’s stories.
Rebecca Falls
I first met Percy Hopkins of Calgary in April 1977, as he was getting off an Air Canada jet in Paris’s Orly Airport. He was tired, as were the other twenty-four Canadian veterans of the Battle of Vimy Ridge who were setting foot, once more, on French soil. This return visit to France was a federal government–sponsored pilgrimage to commemorate the sixtieth anniversary of that famous World War I engagement.
I felt lucky to be chosen by the Department of Veterans Affairs to accompany this group of “reluctant heroes,” since they did indeed require assistance throughout this visit. Their average age was eighty-two.
Once safely aboard a hired tour bus, Percy Hopkins and I shared the front seat. Our group of bemedaled Canadians was transported north from Paris to our hotel in the town of Arras, some ten to twelve kilometres from the site of the famous Canadian battle at Vimy Ridge.
Percy Hopkins was using crutches. He had only one leg.
It didn’t take too long before curiosity got the best of me and I asked him if this was the result of “his” war. It was.
Percy insisted I call him Hoppy, the nickname all his friends used; the name he had worn ever since his wartime service.
It wasn’t long before Hoppy told me the whole story about the day in which he gave so much and lost so much. He vividly described how the infantry tactic employed by the British Army using three waves of attack was taught to the Canadians. This included his unit—the Tenth Battalion of the Second Canadian Infantry Brigade.
“Which wave were you assigned to Hoppy?” I asked.
“The first,” he replied.
As he continued his recollections, I felt I was becoming privy to a part of his life that even his own family was not aware of.
“One of the nurses in the field hospital where I was treated,” he said, “told me I lost my leg in a battle that took p
lace in a valley outside a village which she called, of all things, ‘Peace.’”
Hoppy asked me if I knew where this village was, but I didn’t. He really wanted to go back there. He thought his final pilgrimage to France would be complete if, one more time, he could see the spot where he had lost his leg and his war had ended.
As he talked, Hoppy recalled the sleepless night before the engagement, the early issue of the rum tot and the last-minute instructions from platoon corporals and company sergeants.
He recalled how when the whistles blew at 5:05 A.M., he went “over the top” with his Lee Enfield rifle, firing in the general direction of the enemy. He told me he was crying, laughing, praying and firing his gun all at the same time. The world was exploding around him, and heavy artillery barrages took out many of his friends. Machine gun bullets whistled past close to his ears. Hoppy continued running forward, closer and closer to the centre of a narrow valley where there was no cover and in which he and his comrades were exposed to a horrendous bombardment from an unseen enemy. This was the first wave.
Then it happened. He was hit.
Momentum caused him to fall forward, face down in the weeds and mud. He tried to get up and continue. But he couldn’t.
He soon realized his leg had been blown off between the knee and the hip. As he slowly drifted into merciful unconsciousness, Hoppy Hopkins’s last vision was that of an odd-shaped steeple of a village church just over the top of the sloping hill in front of him.
The sounds of war, the flashes of artillery fire and the pungent smell of cordite all disappeared from the senses of young Hoppy Hopkins.