It appeared to be a small animal struggling in the water. We were still at least half a mile from shore, so how it had come to be in that situation was certainly puzzling.
One more stroke and Ron shipped his paddle and waited, hand ready, as we approached the struggling creature.
“Steady the canoe,” he called. Unlike Ron, I was not a seasoned paddler, but I feathered my paddle as best I could to keep us balanced while he reached into the water. It was a chipmunk! How did it get there? Then, just as Ron reached forward to grasp it, the little creature began to sink, small silvery bubbles escaping from its open mouth.
“Oh no!” I cried, as I held my breath and said a prayer.
In desperation Ron leaned forward and plunged his hand and arm into the nippy water, almost upsetting us in the process. But he managed to grab the descending little body and bring it to the surface. It was quickly apparent that the chipmunk was hypothermic, and had stopped breathing.
Without hesitation, my hero husband began to gently massage the chippie’s swollen belly until she disgorged about a tablespoon of water. He patted her back softly, but still she lay belly down on his hand without movement. So he opened the small mouth, fastened his lips to it and, breathing gently, began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Six tries failed to revive the little fur ball.
“Try again,” I pleaded. This time the chipmunk uttered a little gasp, moved her legs and turned on her side, vomiting up more water. Then, she sat up in his hand. We both breathed a sigh of happy relief.
Shipwreck, as we christened her, was cold and shivering. Ron unbuttoned his shirt and popped the half drowned furry bundle inside, next to his left side so she could feel the warmth of his body and hear his heartbeat. Then we paddled vigorously toward home.
“I’ll beach the canoe, and you pull it up as far as you can,” he instructed. So while I dragged the canoe up onto the beach, he dashed up the steep embankment toward the house. Before going in I headed to the shed and grabbed the old birdcage and some wool rags to make a cozy nest.
When I entered the living room Ron was stoking the coals in the fireplace and adding kindling. I removed Shipwreck gently from inside his shirt, wrapped her in the wool rags, and placed her carefully in the birdcage.
Once the fire was crackling and warming up the room we set the cage on the hearth, and waited for her to revive. I made coffee while Ron exchanged his wet shirt for a dry one. Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen. We sipped the hot brew in silence, waiting anxiously for movement in the birdcage. Finally, twenty minutes later, the little chipmunk began to move. When Ron took her out of the cage, she sat placidly on his open hand while he carefully examined her.
“Look at this, Sharon,” he said. “She has fresh talon marks on her right hip.” Thankfully, these were the only injuries on her body. The mystery was solved. Shipwreck had been caught by a hawk. After grabbing her, the bird must have lifted her high in the air and headed across the lake with his squirming prize. Somehow the chipmunk had managed to wriggle free, and had fallen, likely from quite a height, into the water. We had no idea how long she’d been swimming, but it was clear she would have drowned if we’d not rescued her from the cold water of Gibson Lake.
By supper time that day Shipwreck appeared fully recovered. We had several feeding stations around our home, and there were plenty of places where a chipmunk could shelter. After leaving an extra stash of sunflower seeds and peanuts on the back step, we released Shipwreck outside the back door.
Early the next morning I noticed, through the window, that Shipwreck was staying close to the house. She must have spent the night in the rock and earthen wall at the back of our home, for there she sat staring at the window.
“Ron, come quick,” I called. “Shipwreck is waiting outside the door for handouts.” My husband always carried a pocket full of peanuts and sunflower seeds in his work pants. He stepped outside, preparing to throw some food to the chippie, but she leaped off the wall and scurried toward him. As soon as she reached his boots she scooted up his pant leg, selected the biggest peanut in his open hand, raced back to the row of pink granite, and disappeared between two boulders. From that day on Shipwreck lived in the rock wall, imposing a peanut toll every time anyone stepped out the back door.
She was a young chipmunk, but old enough to present us with a litter of two fluffy babies the following spring. Like their mother, her impish offspring soon learned how to demand a peanut and manipulate the humans that doted on them.
Although they healed, the talon scars on her side were always visible.
I’ll never forget Shipwreck, nor her incredible story and how she touched my life.
~Sharon Lawrence
Minden, Ontario
The Red Phone
Caring is a reflex. Someone slips, your arm goes out. A car is in the ditch, you join the others and push… You live, you help.
~Ram Dass
Back in the 1980s I was a telephone repairman in Burnaby, British Columbia. I mostly did install and telephone repair work, and over the thirty-four years of my service with the telephone company I dealt with thousands of customers. One story stands out for me, however, and still makes me smile.
It was early September, shortly after Labour Day, when one afternoon I drove up to a small 1950s style rancher on the east side of Burnaby. The homeowner, a little old lady, answered the doorbell and let me in. The problem with the telephone, she explained, was that it was very noisy, for both incoming and outgoing calls. The telephone set was red, a deep dark red like you used to see in old spy movies — you know — for the “hot line” between the White House and the Kremlin. It was in beautiful condition for an old rotary phone — indeed it looked like new.
In addition to the red phone, just about everything else in the living room was red, black or white. It looked like it had been decorated in the 1950s or 1960s and nothing had been changed in all those years. The phone fit right in with the décor and had likely been chosen for its very redness!
“Hmm, I haven’t seen one of these in years,” I told the lady. “They are very hard to get parts for…” I opened up the old phone, hoping for a quick fix, but it was not to be. The handset cord had an intermittent open and that was causing the crackle on the line. Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “I’ll see what I have in the back of the truck.” On the way out to the truck I mentally ran through my stock. I didn’t think I even had a rotary phone, let alone a red handset cord. Sure enough all I had was a sad-looking beige rotary. I brought it in to show her and said, “I could pull the cord off of this set and install it on yours, but that would look really dumb.” And she agreed. But then she said, “The beige phone is okay.”
I could see she was really sad to see her old red phone go. So I went ahead and installed the beige phone for her, and it looked totally out of place. I handed the old phone to her and said, “You keep this old set in a safe place, and if I can find the parts to fix it I will return — but no promises.” She understood, and thanked me.
Returning to the office that night I asked around if anyone had an old red rotary wall phone that was any good for parts, but no one had. Then I put a notice up on the office board and at the Phonemart Store looking for parts.
Weeks went by with no luck. But then in late October I got a call from one of the guys. He had just recovered a red rotary with a good handset cord. Fortunately I had kept the woman’s address clipped to my sun visor.
Off I went the next day, and then a few days later, and then a couple of weeks after that, but she was never home. I was starting to think that something had happened to her, or maybe she had moved, so I pretty much forgot about the whole thing.
As it would happen, that year it was my turn to work Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Christmas Eve found me working in her neighbourhood, and when I passed her house I saw the lights on. I could see friends and family gathered in her front room around a gaily-lit Christmas tree. I parked the truck and hurried up the front steps with the red phone held be
hind my back. When the little old lady answered the door, she didn’t recognize me. So I pulled the red telephone set out to show her, and said “Merry Christmas!”
Well, she started to cry. One of her son’s quickly came to her side asking, “What’s wrong, Mum?” “Nothing” she said. “This wonderful young man has come to fix my red phone.”
So with her friends and family looking on, I tore both sets apart on the coffee table and built one good phone out of two old ones. After more cookies, coffee and cake than I could possibly handle, I made my way back out to the company truck with her family cheering and wishing me a “Very Merry Christmas.” And you know what? Even though I had to work, it was!
~N. Newell
Duncan, British Columbia
An Inukshuk to Guide Me Home
No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.
~Aesop
Kurt walked into my office. “We’ll be meeting in the boardroom at eleven o’clock.”
“Why the boardroom?” I asked nervously.
“It will be fine,” he replied, as he smiled and left.
Oh no, I thought, what’s going on? It was my last week of work at the school division, as I was returning home to the United States. I was a union member, and usually the group just bought a cake and said their goodbyes in the break room. I figured today there would be an American flag cake, and a casual send-off back to my home country. But Kurt wasn’t a union member, he was a director. Oh geez, not the boardroom. My mind began racing. What on earth was going on?
Being a timid person, I was shaking at the thought of what was coming. It had been a rocky road coming to Canada. Just one sentence out of my mouth and heads would turn. People would ask “What part of the south are you from?” or “Where is Indiana anyway?”
I tried very hard to fit into my new life in Canada. As the years passed it became clear that in Canada I had found some of the kindest, friendliest and most generous people I had ever met. In the end, they came to realize that all Americans were not as they had imagined. I was truly blessed.
Now the time had come to say goodbye to my Canadian job. Still anxious, I gathered up my courage and walked into the boardroom of the school division. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The room was filled with union members and administration and board members, and the screen was set up for a presentation. I was escorted to a table that was covered with gifts and cards. There was a Canadian flag cake.
I couldn’t even speak. They began the presentation with a warm Canadian send-off to this American girl. It was clearly not what I was expecting. As I read the cards, tears filled my eyes. I realized I had been accepted. I was loved by these wonderful people, and it was overwhelming.
I thanked everyone and told them I would love to give a speech but I was afraid I would cry — just as the tears began to roll down my cheeks. Everyone laughed and clapped. I laughed at myself. Then, just when I thought it was over and I could walk out before breaking down completely, the hostess said, “And now we have a special guest to present you with a gift.” There’s more? I thought to myself.
The doors to the boardroom had been closed during this time and, as she sat me in a chair, the doors slowly opened. Through the boardroom doors walked a fully dressed and decorated Canadian Mountie carrying a large present. I became totally choked up and was simply in awe. Then my friend gave a beautiful speech about me and how much I was loved. The Mountie handed me the gift and that’s when I broke down, overcome with emotion. I opened the package and inside was an Inukshuk. My friend then told the story of the Inukshuk, and what it represented: “The Inukshuk will always guide you home,” she said.
I could not have been more honoured or felt more valued than I did by these wonderful Canadian people. Years have passed, and I have long since returned to the United States. Though by birth I am an American, I will always have a little Canadian in my heart. And in my yard, pointing north, is my Inukshuk, telling me I have another home outside the boundaries of my land.
~Lacy Gray
Clarksville, Indiana, USA
Honouring Those Who Served
We honour those who have given their lives serving Canadians and helping people of other nations.
~Author Unknown
On the Highway of Heroes
We are planting 117,000 trees along this 170 km stretch of highway — one tree to honour each of Canada’s war dead since Confederation.
A living, breathing memorial.
~A Tree for Every Hero — Highway of Heroes Tribute
I went and stood on a bridge one night. I was part of a crowd, yet I was alone, listening. All of us were watching the ebb and flow of traffic from a Highway 401 overpass, facing east toward Kingston. The sky was beautiful, the blue turning to pink and gold as day faded to evening, but no one was interested in the sunset. We were there for a reason, to recognize our fallen soldiers.
The 172-kilometre stretch of the 401 Highway in Ontario, from Canadian Forces Base Trenton to Toronto, has officially been renamed the Highway of Heroes in remembrance of the heroes who served our country. In their long and final journey home, the bodies of soldiers killed in the line of duty are brought to CFB Trenton and then transferred to the coroner’s office in Toronto. Each and every one of these soldiers, killed in Afghanistan since Canada’s mission began there in 2002, has travelled along that same route, along that same highway.
For those of us who live along that route, along that highway, this has created a unique opportunity. It’s an opportunity to show our support for the troops, and to pay our respects to the soldiers who have lost their lives in service to their country. It is an opportunity but also a responsibility; it feels like those of us who live in this small portion of Ontario are standing for all Canadians, from all corners of the country.
Residents, police officials and firefighters gather on 401 overpasses along the route, as the motorcades carrying the bodies of the soldiers killed in Afghanistan pass by.
I don’t know how long we stood waiting that day but suddenly I could sense a change in the mood of the crowd. Conversation faded to silence as the highway seemed somehow to empty. All I could see was a long line of headlights led by Ontario Provincial Police vehicles, their lights flashing but their sirens silent as they approached the overpass. As the motorcade passed beneath us in eerie silence, we all turned to watch it continue on its way west until it disappeared into the setting sun.
The crowd silently dispersed, heading north and south off the bridge to cars parked along the road. As I walked to my car I noticed the number of license plates with the red poppy veterans insignia. Soldiers from a different time, survivors from a different war, come to pay their respects to young fallen soldiers from this time, and this war.
I fight back tears, as do many, in the walk from the bridge, thinking of the families of these brave soldiers. I wonder if they feel the outpouring of respect and support from all the people lined up, bridge after bridge along the highway. I hope they draw some sense of comfort from these strangers, and hope they feel a little less alone along their journey.
Since that day I have stood on that bridge in a winter storm when the air was so cold and the wind so harsh I could no longer feel my hands or feet. The repatriation ceremony was delayed, and our wait became painfully long, but no one left the bridge, no one gave up to seek shelter and warmth, because we had not yet done what we came there to do.
I have stood on that bridge and cried; the procession passing beneath us as a piper played “Amazing Grace.”
I have stood on that bridge and watched as a military vehicle, travelling east to CFB Trenton, pulled off the highway and three soldiers made their way up to the bridge. They then shook hands with every person there, thanking us on behalf of all military personnel.
I have stood on that bridge with the mother, sister and friends of soldiers stationed overseas, all of them there to pay their respects, and hoping never to see the view of this bridge from a military motorcade.
And on one cold winter day I stood and watched the procession approach, and saw a child’s hand, covered in a red mitten, extend out the window of the limousine to wave in acknowledgement to those of us on the bridge.
There is always some small occurrence to make each time on the bridge unique, and yet the feelings of sadness, of respect and of pride are always the same.
~Deborah Lean
Coburg, Ontario
Pilgrimage to Holland
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old; age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.
~Laurence Binyon, “Ode of Remembrance”
I never met my Uncle Craig, my mom’s only brother, but I felt I knew him because she, Nan, and Gramps talked of him so many times. A picture of him sat in a prime spot in our living room. Athletic and handsome, with blond wavy hair, Craig was a beloved son, brother and friend. Like me, Uncle Craig had loved to draw. Up in Nan’s attic there was a trunk full of his old books and sketches from his childhood of deer, raccoons and rabbits. As he got older the sketches were of flags, guns, and soldiers in battle. But that wasn’t surprising; it was 1939 and Canada was at war. Many of Craig’s friends and neighbours were enlisting and going overseas. In July 1942, just shy of his twentieth birthday, Uncle Craig enlisted. After training he became a proud member of the Essex Scottish Regiment. He was a dispatcher and drove a motorcycle over the fields of the Netherlands and Germany.
Uncle Craig wrote home often. He loved the regular care packages Nan and Gramps and relatives sent — especially Nan’s homemade white Christmas cake. Sadly, after serving three years overseas, and only weeks before the war ended — he was hit by mortar fire. He died on April 12th, 1945, and was buried overseas.