(PG. 4) WHERE ARE YOU, GRACIE PURVIS?

Chapter 1 continued - Are some stories better left untold?

My father loved his country roads and I succeeded in finding new and interesting ones to explore with him on a regular basis. Early rides together lasted but a short while, long enough to sip and finish a small take-out coffee. Later rides lasted a full afternoon, and we found ourselves buying large coffees before we headed out and refills at the turn-around point. Dad, in his early eighties, eventually had to ask for more than one pit-stop. I recall also that he occasionally paid for the coffees.

As I recently discovered, some time after our country drives became a habit, father put pen to paper and wrote a story - intended for his faithful audience, readers of the Norwich Gazette - from his unique point-of-view about some of our experiences together.

 [“Stories bound for Dad’s small town paper”] 

He starts the story with a joke, in my opinion: “Every Sunday I get taken for a ride, sorry, my son guides me around the London area in his car.”

He mentions several items of interest and - perhaps for the first time ever - he and I appear in the same sentence doing something we both greatly enjoy: “This time of year we watch for the white flowering elderberries. My son Gordon maps them and we know exactly where to go when they ripen. The maps are available, at a price of course.” (He is right about the map. It’s quite expensive).

[“... son Gordon maps them and we know exactly where to go...”]

He writes a great deal about a short tour we took through a Quaker church that stands one kilometer north of Sparta, Ontario and finishes off with one more word about our beloved elderberries. (Mother made the best elderberry pies in Oxford County. He and I could both agree on that).

[“More specific information will cost you!”]

Thanks to finding and reading his story I can safely conclude that, to the end, he had a sharp eye and mind and liked to tell his stories. However, that being said, never did we speak about Gracie Purvis, and I regret my missed opportunity to this day. I’m sure, based on other conversations I had with my father about very delicate matters, we could have addressed the matter in a carful manner, without me passing any negative judgment on events that occurred nearly 60 years earlier.

Missed opportunity. 

Here I am today - almost ten years after father’s death - very interested in knowing more about a woman who was father’s dear friend for three months while he was in England (as a young sailor and brave combatant), a woman he could likely recall quite easily, even vividly, if he was here with me. But he is not. He is gone. So are some of his best stories. Such is life, my father would say to me.

[“Frank and Doug try to get the pick of girls”]

No doubt there are people who will tell me that some stories are better left untold, perhaps even forgotten. The past is the past. Shouldn’t be disturbed. The notion that men in uniform formed alliances with other women, forgetting for a time or turning their backs on commitments to girlfriends back at home, is a disagreeable matter about disapproved arrangements.

My own mother, if she was here, would likely be the most concerned person of all. She might be pointing a finger straight at my nose right now.

But even if she is or would if she was here, I feel there are some stories - difficult, challenging, upsetting stories for some people - that have to be told. Need to be told. At least explored, like winding, dusty, country roads.

And that’s what I intend to do.

* * * * *

More to follow.

***

Please click here to read (PG. 3) WHERE ARE YOU, GRACIE PURVIS? Chapter 1

My Mother’s Day

On Mothers’ Day I remember a wee girl who grew up during tough times and wanted more for her kids than they could likely imagine as youngsters.

[Edith J., between a very tall friend and R. Palmer, Norwich; circa 1934]

The following piece of prose was written three years ago for Edith Jane Harrison (born May 10, 1923; passed away Sunday morning, Nov. 26, 2000), the wee girl who became my mother.

thin times in a small town

where did she find

the money, that young mother

of mine, for the brand new

red CCM bicycle for

my birthday?

my brother and three sisters

never thought or felt

our family was poor.

but we knew -

if we wanted something -

we had better be prepared

to work for it.

God, what a good lesson

to learn as a young boy.

My dad had me try

one or two used bikes one day.

Tim Body’s didn’t fit me well

and it was hard to pedal.

I would have worked hard

for something better.

But, on my birthday,

after opening a few presents,

my mother told me

I wasn’t done yet

and said I should look

behind a tall bookcase

that hid the front door

from where I stood.

I did look,

and quite unexpectedly,

fell in love with

my new red bike.

***

I lovingly tip my hat to a girl whose father died young, who never had her own new red bike.

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It Strikes Me Funny: My favourite ‘five and dime’

I write a weekly column and am happy to do a bit of research when needed, as was the case for next week’s offering re my favourite ‘five and dime’, i.e., Irvine’s, once the reigning champ of stores in Norwich, Ontario.

I found the following story about Irvine's from the archives of the online Norwich Gazette, a small town newspaper that published scores of my parents’ columns over the years.

Preamble: How the tarmac became marred

Norwich Gazette, Wednesday, November 24, 2010

My brother Timothy (Timmy in his Norwich days) talked me into working on this story. He said he was going to send it to the Norwich and District Historical Society for the 200th anniversary. After being skeptical, I worked on it myself aimed at my family members. I realize the active anniversary celebrations were during the summer, but I submit this to you as one of my fond memories of Norwich. I actually lived in Norwich from mid-way Grade 1 to early Grade 7, but I simplified. My father was the minister at First Baptist Church, leaving in 1963.

How the tarmac became marred

I've lived in 11 Canadian municipalities from the largest city to small villages. From Grade 1 to 6 I lived in Norwich, Ontario, then a village of 1,700. Although I haven't been back for decades, my memories from Norwich capture my imagination more than almost anywhere else I've lived. This summer Norwich celebrated the 200th anniversary of its founding. When I was eight years old, I inadvertently left my mark on the village's gift to itself on its 150th birthday.

One hot summer morning I received my allowance, 10 cents if I recall correctly. Allowances were paid on Saturday. The best place to blow 10 cents in Norwich in 1960 was Irvine's Five and Dime and that was my destination. I arrived soon after it opened at 9 a.m.


["Irvine's Five and Dime was mid-way down the right side of the first block of Main Street, Norwich"]

The attraction at Irvine's was a series of tables with the tops broken by wooden slats marking off subdivisions of perhaps 12x18 inches. A pile of crayons filled one subdivision, some marbles filled another, then plastic cowboys, toy soldiers, etc. Lying in one rectangle were pea shooters, basically a heavy duty plastic straw in an era when all drinking straws were still made of paper. The "peas" for sale were really some sort of white bean. I made an inspired choice and emerged onto Norwich's main street armed with shooter and peas.

It was already a hot day and perhaps made hotter by the sun being absorbed by the pristine stretch of fresh black pavement the village had laid over the quaint bricks that had covered the main street until the day before. The pavement hadn't had time to fully harden and summer temperatures had delayed that process.

Heat and pavement played no part in my consciousness. I looked for a victim and beaned the first kid I saw. That sparked an immediate arms race on pea shooters. By late morning the village's supply of pea shooters had been exhausted. One boy offered me a quarter for mine, but I wasn't bright enough to accept it. I should have because by then the beans at Irvine's had been bought out and spit out.

Kids crossed the main street to buy feed corn from the feed store opposite Irvine's. The corn may have had some sort of vitamin supplement on it because it tasted horrible. My technique was to store the ammo in my cheeks. It made for a soggier shot, but a more satisfactory hit, from the shooter's point of view. You got familiar with the taste of the ammo before it was expectorated.

As the sun got higher, the not yet cured asphalt got softer. Adults started to notice that beans and corn were being trampled into the expanse of virgin black asphalt, a permanent blemish on Norwich's sesquicentennial advance into modernity. The village fathers banned all pea shooters and stores were forbidden to sell peas, beans or kernel corn to any little boy who asked.

My family members have teased me about this incident all my life. After 50 years, this is my best recollection. I wonder if my contemporaries who corroborated in this tarmac desecration even remember it at all, boys with classic names such as Billy, Doug, Randy, Kim, Brian, Monty and Mac.

Daniel (then Danny) Johns, Edmonton, Alberta


["Danny and Kim, and Timmy and Gord attended classes together at Norwich Public School in the 1950s and '60s"]

Click here to visit Norwich Gazette

***

Timmy Johns was my best bud in Grade 8. I recall that Danny had a good sense of humour and my brother Kim got along with him well.

Brother Kim assures me that the ‘boys with classic names’ are the following: Billy Hopkins, Doug McLees, Randy Bishop, me (i.e., Kim), Brian Arn, Monty Fish, and Mac Cunningham.

Please click here for more It Strikes me Funny

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Theatre of the Restless Mind: PT 2 “Dad, a picture is worth a thousand words”

I’m glad my dad carried a camera on his way west from Ontario to Vancouver Island, while he travelled toward a naval base situated in Comox, a small town on the north eastern side of the island, and 90-minutes north (today, by car) of Nanaimo’s ferry landing. By examining one of a handful of photographs from that time in his life, I recently learned the once-thriving town of Hornepayne exists somewhere along the way.

I sussed out from the ‘black and white’ that Horne-payne lies 572.4 miles west of Toronto, 722.4 west of Montreal and 635.4 east of Winnipeg. And that when six young men in navy blue stepped off the train there (with Doug behind the camera) in January or February, 1944, it was cold enough to turn one’s breath into clouds of frost.

In a road atlas I discovered that the town sits on highway 631, about 100 kilometers north of White River (200 km. north of Wawa) and Trans-Canada Highway 17, and about 70 km. south of the intersection - likely a very quiet one - of 631 and Trans-Canada 11.


Hornepayne also sits on the CN rail line that connects Toronto, Sudbury and Winnipeg and many tiny spots that the vast majority of Canadians will likely never see or hear about, even once, over the course of a lifetime.

For example, do Capreol, Wilnet, Westree, Gogama, Kukatush, Foleyet, Elsas, Peterbell, Argolis, Fire River, Oba or MacDuff ring a bell? Not very likely, unless you regularly travel on the CN line between Sudbury and Hornepayne and keep your eyes peeled for signs erected at all the little whistle stops along the way. It may have been while on that stretch of rail that someone first said, “Be careful, pal. If you blink you’ll miss it.”

At www.railfame.ca I read that Hornepayne is the ‘quintessential railway town’. It is ‘hewn out of the wilderness of northern Ontario... symbolic of the railway’s determination to develop that region, and of the character of its inhabitants’. The town was called Fitzbach when first established in 1913 ‘as a divisional point on the Canadian Northern Ontario Railway’s main line between Montréal and Port Arthur. It was renamed Hornepayne about 1920’.

I also learned that the highway that runs through it today (i.e., number 631) was not completed until the 1980s, so it was about 40 years after my father stopped there that ‘the community’s dependence on the railway was ended’. In other words, if I’d lived there in the 1960s and wanted new blue jeans, in all likelihood I would have had to thumb through an Eaton’s catalogue, measure the length of my inseam with the help of a cloth tape from my mother’s sewing basket, mail off an order and then go wait (impatiently, very impatiently) at the train station for six weeks or more. That being said, to this day the railway serves as a vital link to the northern community.

What would six young sailors, chiefly from south western Ontario, have thought of Hornepayne? Would they have felt like they were in the middle of nowhere, or said, “We’re so far out of town we can’t even see the boonies from here?” I don’t know. Never will.


But I do know the old CN train station still stands, though, according to Wikipedia, it "is no longer in use and fallen into disrepair."

I also know, when I drive west to Comox this summer, I’ll likely feel a strong urge to turn north at White River, and drive about 100 km. out of my way in search of hot coffee and a quiet place to stretch my legs.

***

Please click here to read Theatre of the Restless Mind: PT 1 “Dad, a picture is worth a thousand words”

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Theatre of the Restless Mind: PT 1 “Dad, a picture is worth a thousand words”

The train whistle shrieked louder than the cold wind racing past its windows, but when Doug Harrison took note of the sound - it came to him as a muffled moan - while he sat upon a bench seat inside a rattling passenger car, six back from a steaming engine, he didn’t immediately realize what it meant.

He looked up from a well-thumbed Toronto newspaper (one of his five buddies had paid a nickel for it the day before, a heavy price he’d thought at the time, but not so now), gazed out the train window and noticed the trees rushing past, as they had for the last hundred miles or more, were thinning.

“Boys, we might see another face in a few minutes,” he said to Leading Seamen Chuck Rose and Buryl McIntyre sitting on the opposite bench and on either side of his resting feet. “I heard the whistle blow and the train seems to be slowing. Good Lord, I could sure use a stretch.”

The train slowed more perceptibly, another sharp whistle blast was sounded, passengers stirred and one old-timer, familiar with isolated Northern Ontario stops and the spare amenities offered at each, said a few words to Doug and the other sailors.

“We’re coming into Hornepayne. Not much more than piles of raw lumber to look at, but there’s hot coffee inside the station.”

Doug and the other sailors stood, straightened, stretched, and shook out a few wrinkles before throwing on standard-issue, heavy, navy blue long coats.

More to follow.

***

Please click here for a related post.

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Dad’s Navy Days: Chilly temperatures in Hornepayne, 1944

In early 1944, six merchant mariners on their way to Comox, B.C. - by way of CN rail through Hornepayne, Ontario - kept their jackets buttoned up tight due to cold weather. As Chuck Rose of Niagara Falls lit up a cigarette, his frosted breath hung in the air.

Unlike today, with Hornepayne’s temperature standing at a relatively mild minus 1 C (feels like minus 6 with wind gusts reaching 31 km/h), Joe Watson (in his long coat), from Simcoe, Ontario and Don Westbrook, from Hamilton, Ontario would have fully appreciated the protection of their thick, navy blue woolen pants.

What would the six young men, most from south western Ontario, have thought of Hornepayne, located north of S.S. Marie, Wawa and White River on a quiet road between (now) two Trans-Canada highways (number 11 and 17).


[Five sailors L to R - Unknown, Chuck Rose, Buryl McIntyre (back), Joe Watson (front), Don Westbrook; Doug Harrison (behind the camera), circa Feb., 1944]

Would they have remarked that Hornepayne “feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere,” “is stuck out in the boonies,” “is over 570 miles from Toronto” or “feels colder than a witch’s brew?”

(According to the CN station’s sign, Hornepayne is 572.4 miles west of Toronto, 722.4 miles west of Montreal and 635.4 miles east of Winnipeg.)

I’m sure those thoughts or others like them crossed their minds before finishing their break, stepping back onto the train west and thinking about all the miles yet to travel before settling down in barracks on Vancouver Island.

Good luck, boys. And Dad, don’t forget to write home.

Below is a recent photo taken near Hornepayne.


[“ I took this photo at 6:30 a.m. at the camp at First Government.” Lisa Verrino, Sept. 14, 2011]

Is Hornepayne worth a visit? Does the CN station still stand? Let me know.

***

Please click here for more about Dad’s Navy Days.

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Burgessville and Norwich Stories: I want them all

["Burgessville Public School": photos by G.Harrison]

Yesterday I posted a few emails sent to me as result of my latest column re a visit from my son and his busy family. (I survived, but barely). One was out of the ordinary, and I think an issue that was raised will be on my mind for a while.

Last night, after coming home from a hockey game, I opened another email and its contents quickly stirred up a pile of childhood memories.

Really, after writing about grandkids, I didn’t see this one coming.

On 20-Jan-12, at 7:35 PM, Don T. wrote:

Hi Gord,  Since you once were a resident of Burgessville I wonder if you ever did some research about the village.  When I was very young my parents and I lived behind Roloson's  Mill and I can still remember the boom boom of the engine that ran it. 

My grandfather, Allan Pembleton, operated a woodworking, carriage shop next door to the Mill and his son-in-law  M J Buckrell operated a farm sales and repair shop next door to that.  Grandfather's shop has long been removed but Buckrells  is now someone's residence. 

The train used to run next door to the mill and the tracks were eventually abandoned.  My grandparents passed away in the 1960s but their home near the Baptist Church is still there and hasn't changed any. 

We moved to Norwich and my Dad eventually purchased the old blacksmith shop on Stover St. from John Armour and operated there for many years before replacing the building with a more modern one for the time.  I gave brother Gary your email once and I wonder if he ever contacted you?  Keep writing those stories for the paper.   Don T.

While writing my reply, my brain travelled back more than 55 years. I recalled my first girl friend could have inherited a general store if she'd only stayed in town.

Hi Don, 

I am very happy to hear from you. Time passes quickly and our lives get busy (or busier) but it's always a lot of fun to stop and think about my days in Burgessville and Norwich. 

I didn't know that your family spent early years in Burgessville. That is a pleasant surprise. Can you recall the years you were there? Does your early house still survive?

I lived from 1949 - 1955 north of Burgessville's main intersection, in a house halfway between Wettlaufer's General Store and the elementary school. Dad worked at the Co-op across the street, closer to the main corner, and played ball with Gord Bucholtz, who lived with his young family above a metal working shop (Danny B. made tin swords from scrap and, at 6-years old, could fold tin in some sort of press without slicing off his fingers). The Bucholtz building and upper apartment still stands near or beside the post office, just south of the main corner. Immediately south of it is the large Wells family home, red brick, up for sale as of last summer, I believe.

We moved to Norwich in 1955, I entered Gr. 1 and have an early picture with Gary and I sitting side by each with the rest of Miss Beattie's class. She taught my dad as well and he wrote a column about her in the Norwich Gazette in 1993 or so. The column was sent to me recently by Miss Beattie's niece, a Londoner.

Gary and I haven't reconnected after our visit in 1992 in Hanover and a few subsequent emails. I picture him with his feet up in a nice home or snug cottage near Eagle Lake, or polishing his 1960s Chevy for a summer cruise. I visit my oldest boy in Fenelon Falls regularly and I think Gary's about an hour north of there, so he's within reach if he'd like to grab a coffee sometime. If you have his email address I'd be happy to write and suggest such a plan. 

Please also let me know where Roloson's Mill and Pembleton's carriage shop once stood compared to the intersection on Highway 59. I drive through Oxford County several times each summer and will get my bearings about where your family used to live compared to our own next time through.

I played after school with Gerald Buckrell and Eddie Something (his dad operated a garage at the main corner (NE) and can still pick out the Buckrell home. My family attended the red brick Baptist church and my parents were friends with the MacKenzies, a missionary family that lived near and west of the church. Maybe you remember that family. The daughters had funny stories to tell about monkeys chasing them while in Africa or India.


["Gord looks for his old mug inside his first public school"]

We likely attended the same public school and I had a pleasant tour of the building in the summer of 2010. I believe, as a museum, it is now closed due to funding shortages. Miss Dixon's room has been kept as you may remember it - even neater - and another tiny, one room schoolhouse from Springford or Springfield was erected inside the second classroom. Well worth the trip back in time, I must say.


["This one-room schoolhouse is now inside Gord's first classroom"]  


["Gord learns he's one assignment short of a Gr. 1 diploma"]

I was very happy to meet the owners of our old house in 2010 as well; they bought the house from the Co-op after my family moved out, and the property is littered with birdhouses, which would have pleased my dad, an avid bird and birdhouse man. The original barn is still there, hidden under siding, and when I mentioned that it looked like it had been moved, I was informed by the owner that he took it apart board by board in the late 1950s, turned the structure 90 degrees (so he could park inside it) and reassembled it. He also showed me the birdhouse he was working on - number 2,550 or some such high number. I wrote a column about my Burgessville adventure and know he, as of last summer, is still building birdhouses; well over 3000 by now, I bet. He puts me to shame with my paltry numbers of 100 or so units per year.

I have many fond memories of your family's Norwich property, your home above the large workshop, your dad's electric steel guitar, and of a lovely thing your mother said to Gary and I one day when asked, by Gary, which crayon drawing she liked best, his or mine. I would love to stomp down the lane toward where your old sawmill once stood, in which I saw for the first time a saw blade the size of a young boy. You had access to a deep wild property behind the last of many out-buildings as well. Way out back I recall Gary showed me how to float across a large puddle atop a car or truck's gas tank - while rocking it with the funnel. He also shot BBs at me in the winter but my clothes were frozen so I shouted at him for no good reason, unless I was thinking he'd shoot my eye out! (One of mother's many warnings).

Such a long reply. Sorry to fill your afternoon!

Keep well, Don. Say hi to Gary for me sometime. I play hockey every week and think about his smooth style every time a younger guy skates past me... often.

Cheers,

Gord Harrison

Now, if any readers are from Burgessville and/or Norwich (or environs), please let me know about a few people you recall (“Do you recall Mrs. Hilliker? She lived right next door.”) or experiences you had there.

Let’s call it ‘research.’

***

Please click here for another story that mentions Norwich.

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The Odd Reflection: Twenty-three years to go

My wife mentioned her Uncle Bill at lunchtime today while putting a few cheese curds and crackers onto the dining room table. Bill had the cheese delivered to us after Christmas.

Bill is 94 years old, continues to live an active life (he loves to gab, takes part in weekly dances and occasionally speaks to elementary school classes about his experiences in WW2), and now resides in a retirement home in Gananoque, Ontario.

Seconds after the curds arrived at the table I popped a curly piece into my mouth, thought of Bill and the move he’d made a year ago into the ‘old folks home’ from his apartment overlooking Lake Ontario. It was a necessary move. I’ll likely have to make that kind of move in the future too. Many readers will have to as well.

That being said - about the curds and all too - regular readers with very, very good memories will know how long I want to live, and why.

(Quick review: 87. Why? I retired at 53. I contributed to the pension fund for 32 years and want to withdraw from it for 32 years - plus 2 extra years. We all want two year’s of gravy, don’t we?)

At the moment I’m 62 years old, hope to live in my own house until I’m 70, and then a small apartment until I’m 85. And at 85 I plan to walk from the elevator of the Kismet Apt. on Wortley Rd. (two blocks from the Red Roaster; the Kismet isn't built yet, but maybe someday soon) carrying just one cardboard box of household items on my way to the cab that will drop me off at Punkydoodle Old Folks Home overlooking Thames Park. (Punkydoodles isn’t built yet either, but I have the lot picked out if anybody cares about such things).


["This photo just might make the cut."]

And what’s in the cardboard box? I’m glad you asked.

two pairs of used Levis

one leather belt (the one I bought from Quigley’s Leather Works in 1969 for $5)

four T-shirts

one sweatshirt, likely a hoodie

ten pairs of underwear

three pairs of socks

my iPad 12

six particular framed photos

a bottle of Tums

wild cherry breathmints

a small red cedar birdhouse

one well-thumbed copy of “I Want to be Buried at Sea”

the Good Book

Besides the clothes on my back and leather shoes on my feet, I won’t require much else, except regular visits from family and friends bearing cold IPAs or hot dark roast coffee.

Of course, I have 23 years to go, so plans might change a little.

Maybe I’ll see you at Punkydoodles.

PS Uncle Bill. Thanks for the curds.

***

Please click here for a trip down Memory Lane.

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Chasing Dad: PT 1 “His love of ships began at an early age”

[“To my family I dedicate this resume of my Naval Service from June 20, 1941 to September 5, 1945.” Leading Seaman Coxswain Gordon Douglas Harrison, RCNVR V8809, Class Very Good, Jan. 6, 1975]

I don’t have many traditions because I’m easily distracted, very forgetful and some things just go out of fashion.

For example, as a marathoner I met with other runners for a traditional Christmas morning run for several years in a row, but gave it up about five years ago because I’d stopped running and couldn’t keep up.

I do celebrate Happy Hour at 5 p.m. regularly, however, because by that time, if I’m working in my shop, there’s enough dust in the air for me to signal a pause for a cold beer to help clear my throat.

Also, I almost always replace worn out clothes by buying used jeans and t-shirts - oh, it’s a tradition, for sure - during regular trips to the Village of Values.

And, as some readers may know, I write a column about my dad on or near Remembrance Day (I think I’ve been doing it for enough years now to call it a tradition) to keep thoughts and an appreciation of his service in the Canadian Navy and for his country alive in my mind and heart.


The process of preparing a suitable column enlivens other memories as well, and for that I’m always grateful.

While writing this week’s column (Nov. 10) I dipped into a document my father assembled in the mid-1970s entitled ‘The Naval Memoirs of Leading Seaman Coxswain Gordon Douglas Harrison’ and I was briefly taken back in time to the 1930s, a time when pennies were hard to come by, when a family of seven - with no father at the head of the table - was more common, when dreams of a life upon the sea entered young boys’ minds.

In dad’s ‘Foreward’ I read the following:

I was born September 6, 1920, 12 lbs. 10 ozs.

As a young boy I was crazy about ships. I used to make boats by folding paper in a certain way and then sail them on the creek.

I was from a family of seven, three girls and four boys. My mother needed a new door sill for our home so she somehow procured a lovely board from a lumber yard. I stole the board and Sonny Bucholtz and I hollowed it out and used it for our first ship, the Bluenose.


["Gord Douglas and Gord "Sonny" Bucholtz, Senior ball champs"]

We got old car batteries, melted the lead and molded it to fit the bottom of the boat as a keel. Built masts and yardarms, made sails and halyards and her maiden voyage at Vandenburgh’s swimming pool was a terrific success. She was painted blue and white. I always admired the real Nova Scotian Bluenose and have a plastic replica in my rec room today. Yes, Mum found out about the board and I not only got the board, I got the shoe brush on my bottom.

In the navy if an officer says “well done” it is nearly the same as getting a citation or medal. I hope my efforts at this story may interest someone enough to say “Dad, well done.”

I don’t think it’s ever too late to say “Dad, well done” so I say it now.

I knew dad’s love for the S.S. Silver Walnut ran deep (he served upon it in 1941), and I wish I knew more about the ship he motored to Sicily upon (that is, when the motors were running), but it was great to learn his love for ships started as a young boy.

gah

PS

Because dad maintained his connection with Gord “Sonny” Bucholtz until Gord’s death, I include a photo of the two men together during good times in 1949.

***

Please click here to read about dad’s 1941 adventure upon the sea and near Scotland.

http://itstrikesmefunny.blogspot.com/2011/05/dads-navy-days-pt-3-door-opens-at-kings.html

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“IT STRIKES” Again: The secret to Christmas shopping - It all starts with a long list

[What a great day for a Christmas story, eh? The following was first published in December, 2002. I was much younger then, still willing to take time to write cheques. Now, at Christmas, I buy gift cards with great skill. gah]

The secret to Christmas shopping - It all starts with a long list

I don’t take advice or suggestions well.

My reluctance to listen started when I was six and my mother told me to do up the top buttons of my coat while my friend Gary Thorne stood at my side with his collar open.

If Gary had his coat open, I had to have my coat open too. End of story. Out the door and down the steps we ran, collars flapping, all the way to school.

I can therefore empathetically understand why family, friends and others would offer some resistance to any advice I might want to give.

But this is good advice.

Before you run out the door and down the steps to do your Christmas shopping, make a list. If you don’t, you venture forth into a great storm at your peril.

Pat and I tried Christmas shopping together once without a list. It didn’t start, continue or end well. The fact we are still together is a proud testament to how careful we are to repress painful events in our marriage until we are mature enough to air them without causing injury.


We had arranged for a sitter for our two boys, oiled and gassed up the car, stuffed a few dollars in our pockets, secured the top buttons on our coats and headed out the door to White Oaks Mall on December 22, 1981. Even though I was a wee bit stressed because my December report cards, school Christmas concert and pay cheque had been later than usual, as I opened the car door for Pat I remember saying, “Great night for shopping, eh?”

Pat simply looked at her watch.

Our brown 1970 Skylark took forever to warm up but we eventually found ourselves huddled together in the middle of the old K-Mart store struggling to collect our thoughts.

“Who are you buying for?” Pat asked.

She stumbled toward me due to a bump from behind.

“I don’t know. Who are you shopping for?” I stepped sideways to dodge an overflowing cart and bustling shopper.

Pat quickly responded with, “Well, I still need to get something for my parents, my brothers, and our boys.”

“Wait, wait. How much money did we bring?” I inquired hastily as three bulky kids in snowsuits ran between us. “I have to get some stuff too.”

Pat asked again, “Who are you buying for?”

“I don’t know,” I answered while ducking to avoid a flying four-pack of gift-wrap. “Who should I be buying for?”

We couldn’t agree on anything or even take the first step because of the rush, the crowds, the noise, the lack of organization on our part. We did agree, however, to stop long enough to sit down, get coffee and put pencil to paper. And that’s now where it starts every year.

With pen and paper in hand I recently asked, “Who’s on our list this year? Who’s been good?”

While compiling this year’s version of the all-important list I placed Pat’s name at the top where it belongs and probed for any hints she might be willing to reveal. The boys get their decades-old stockings stuffed and a cheque, easy work for me. I sign the cheques to prove that I am involved in some small way in the actual decision-making in our house.

Our grandson Jack gets something dinosaur related and an ice rink - if it stays cold enough.

I get to walk through the shops in Wortley Village like I know what I’m doing.

***

Please click here to read more “IT STRIKES” Again.

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Dad’s Navy Days: PT 3 - A door opens at the King’s Arms Hotel

1941. Late at night, Irvine, Scotland

My father was ordered over the side of an LCA or LCM (landing craft armoured, or mechanized) by Commander Koyl in order to free it from a sandbar.

Over the side he went. He helped free it.

My father didn’t get back aboard before Koyl raced off to participate in a training exercise. Dad later wrote, “I didn't really know what went amiss but the fact that the landing had to be made on time was uppermost in Koyl's mind.”


["...the landing had to be made on time...": photo GH]

Koyl was likely anxious to get moving. Prime Minister Winston Churchill was on hand to witness the landing.

Very early the next morning

My father, Koyl and Bailey (another cold, wet sailor, one who had made it back into the boat before it sped off) stumbled into a local pub in Irvine.


["Diamond Lil, LCM, 1941. Don't fall out!"]

They were warmed with rum, hot porridge and dry clothes by members of the Skinner family. “All of this help came from ladies,” wrote my father. He thought the name of the pub had been changed to Harbour Lights.

2010

I write to Harbour Lights three times. Father died seven years before, but I feel a thank you is in order to any surviving members of the Skinner family

No replies.

Last week

I find a news article online. ‘King’s Arms family snap up the Harbour Lights.’ King’s Arms pub was not renamed Harbour Lights as I had been led to believe.

I write to the King’s Arms:

You may find this a confusing email from Canada but any help you can give me will be appreciated.

Was the King's Arms known by another name in the 1940s?

I ask because of a short story left behind by my father concerning a mishap during World War 2 off your coast. After dislodging his landing craft from a sandbar, being left behind and alone in the sea, and later rescued (hours after the craft's training exercise) by his commander, my father was taken to a Irvine pub.

He writes, "...to a local pub (now known as the Harbour Lights)... the Royal Sovereign, the King George? Help came from a few ladies (in the form of dry clothes, hot porridge and rum)."

I believe someone else supplied the poor quality picture of the King's Arms Hotel that accompanies my father's story, which confuses the matter re name of hotel, and adds that members of the Skinner family revived my father.

Do you know if any members of the Skinner family remain in the local area? A big thank you is in order. I suppose most involved with the story would be in their 80s or 90s, or gone, but any information you could provide would be very helpful. Sincerely, Gord Harrison

Within the hour I receive a reply.

Stay tuned.

***

Please click here to read PT 2 - A door opens at the King’s Arms Hotel

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A Series of Some Significance: Dad’s ‘Navy Days’ mean more to me now

[The following lengthy post was originally presented in seven separate parts. Bon voyage!]

Memory Lane PT 1: I find clues about dad's 'Navy Days'

When I was a young teen, an older boy told me that he really respected my father as a baseball umpire.

“He is dead honest. He calls a really good game,” the boy said.

Those words have stuck in my mind for over four decades, likely because (readers may agree) many memories related to dads are significant.

When I was recently given a dozen newspaper columns - written by my mother and father - from the Norwich Gazette (early 1990s), I instantly felt they were treasure and have read the bunch.

One written by my father in November 1992 is particularly noteworthy since Remembrance Day is around the corner and - honestly - I learned something new about the man.

It begins:

“In 1944 I was stationed in barracks on a piece of land called ‘The Spit’ at Comox on Vancouver Island, B.C. About a half mile of water separated the spit from Comox and to get ashore we had to be inspected and travel to Comox on a real Liberty boat.” (Down Memory Lane: Navy Days)

I noticed the following three things upon first reading:

1. “I was stationed in barracks” - this sounds like a military phrase to me, and he still used it in 1992. The military life did have an impact on him, for sure.

2. “The Spit at Comox on Vancouver Island, B.C.” - I didn’t know he spent part of his tour of duty as a merchant mariner on Vancouver Island. I’ve known for many years he trained in Halifax (and I took a long motorcycle trip there a few months ago) and later in Scotland. I also know he was a dead honest man, but not one inclined to reveal his past. Now I have to plan to visit ‘The Spit’ in British Columbia in order to connect with my dad a bit more deeply.


[“This wee boat, containing half of my father’s ashes, travelled with me to Halifax in June”: photos GH]


[“The Walnut was made up of some walnut timber and metal ballast”]

3. “a real Liberty boat” - I love Liberty Ale from San Francisco. It has an anchor on the bottle cap. I wonder if the boat is related to the ale. I’ll sample a few ales while in B.C., then ask around.

I noticed and learned a lot more while reading the full article and now have a headful of memories - about a light-haired man of 24 who later became my father - to guide my thoughts for future Remembrance Days and journeys.

***

Memory Lane PT 2: ‘Navy Days’ have more meaning now

While reading an article written by my father entitled “Down Memory Lane: Navy Days” I learned for the first time - among a few other things - he was stationed in barracks at ‘The Spit’ on Vancouver Island, B.C. in 1944.

The Spit was offshore opposite Comox and near Courtenay, home of the Sons of Freedom Hall where a bit of dancing took place, so I’m told, when my dad was all of 24 years old.

If the experience was considered a break from action (the year before he had been aboard the SS Silver Walnut and in convoy from England to Sicily, via the southern tip of Africa), my father doesn’t say so in the article.


["I could make this bigger but then what would I write about?"]

What he does say, however, spurs my imagination and gives me a better understanding of the man during some of his formative years.

For example, he writes, “Fishing for salmon was great there. I myself never fished; I ended up on the business end of a pair of oars in the captain’s dinghy while someone else sat in the stern and trawled, using filleted herring as bait which acted as a shiny spinner. Some Fridays we were able to supply the noon meal with freshly caught salmon. We didn’t have meat because of the R.C.s.”

I know my dad liked to fish. He and pal Gord Bucholtz (from Norwich) often fished for green bass at Long Point, Ontario, and he told stories about catching smelt by wading into Lake Erie with nothing more than a basket.

Too bad he didn’t get to fish for salmon, but he sure wasn’t afraid of hard work, so if somebody had to man the oars for hours at a time, dad would have been up to the task.

He mentions salmon a second time in another context:

“A few miles west of Comox was the small town of Courtenay, and I have stood amazed on the bridge over the river in spawning season and watched the salmon. Bank to bank salmon - it didn’t seem possible.”

His appreciation for nature and raw, natural scenes lasted into his later years.

On one of our longer car rides together during his last year or two of life (from his residence at Parkwood Hospital in London to Long Point and back), I stopped at the side of a gravel road as a flock of birds flew toward us.

The flock turned out to be about two dozen crows chasing a bald eagle in a south-easterly direction toward Lake Erie, and the eagle, keeping low to the ground for protection, flew directly toward us and then over the car.

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen that!” he said as we pulled away to head home.

One of us joked that the eagle looked big enough to pick up my Civic.

We also spotted bluebirds - truly, his favourite birds - along that same road, so all in all, that was a pretty fine day in his book, and mine.

Already my wife and I are talking about a trip to B.C. within the next year or two, and we’ll have to look for that bridge near Courtenay.

I feel it would be very rewarding to look upon a few of the same raw, natural scenes that my father did, and perhaps eat a plate or two of fresh oysters while we’re at it.

***

Memory Lane PT 3: My dad was an oyster lover?

I recently learned for the first time that my dad developed a taste for oysters while stationed in barracks on Vancouver Island, B.C. in 1944.

Occasionally he’d go to a dance and drink a beer at the Sons of Freedom Hall.

Once in awhile he’d handle the oars on the captain’s dinghy while someone else sat in the stern and trawled for salmon, or stand “amazed on the bridge over the river in spawning season and watch the salmon.”

Now, about the oysters mentioned earlier.

Dad writes:

“At Comox, right close to our barracks was a government breeding ground for oysters. I never knew of such a thing and didn’t care particularly as all I had eyes for was those monstrous oysters which showed up when the tide went out. I wasn’t alone, believe me.”


["A banner kept at the Naval Museum in Esquimalt, B.C. My dad, D. Harrison, is listed"]

Dad lived his life in Oxford County (the western edge is not far from London; it’s bisects the gravel pit between Putnam and Ingersoll) and though you’ll find significant bodies of water in the county, e.g., the Gordon Pittock Dam north of Woodstock, there is not one monstrous oyster to be found.

Sorry, I digress.

Dad continues:

“As the tide ebbed at night we once again borrowed the Captain’s dinghy and a few burlap bags and rowed out to the oyster bed. We climbed out of the dinghy into the horrible muck, filled our burlap bags and paddled away before the tide left us aground. These choice oysters were dumped into the sea out of sight behind the barracks, thereby assuring us of our own private oyster supply.”

“We ate most of them raw; salt water and a bit of sand didn’t matter too much and a good slap on the back was required most times to help swallow them.

Wonderful!”

Wonderful adventure, I say, for the 24-year old man who eventually became father to five lively kids.

I enjoyed reading just a touch of a line; “salt water and a bit of sand didn’t matter too much.”

Dad felt no need to insist on absolute cleanliness; salt water, sand - it’s fine.

Total refinement wasn’t dad’s strong suit, as I recall. Honest hard work, raw hands, shoulder to the wheel - that’s the fellow I remember.

Thankfully, because of his own story, I remember him more fully today.

***

Memory Lane PT 4: My dad swung for the fences

In 1992 the following single sentence - about what sounds like my dad’s chief form of recreation during his days in the navy - appeared in one of his weekly columns:


["Poor picture of a banner, w Dad's name aboard, now in Esquimalt, BC"]

“I was on the navy softball and hardball teams and we played as many as six games a week.”

The next sentence moves on to another topic, i.e., weekend activities in Courtenay.


["Esquimalt, SW of Victoria; Comox and Courtenay are N": photos GH]

Not that the rest of his days in Comox, British Columbia in 1944 were all work and no play. He fished for salmon, mucked for oysters and visited the Sons of Freedom Hall in Courtenay for a show or beers and dancing on occasion too.

The whole article helps round out the meaning of his ‘Navy Days’ for me. I know he liked to play ball and my youngest sister recalls he used the term ‘semi-pro’ to describe some of his wealth of baseball experience.


["Senior Champs, 1949; D. Harrison - top row, third from right"]

As a young boy and later as an adult I didn’t think much about his days in the navy or his own love of sports because I was too busy with my own life - including lots of sports.

Hockey filled my winters, baseball filled my summers, and many other school sports, including football and track and field, made mostly welcome demands upon my time.


["The back of Senior Champs photo; I was born in 1949 - a very good year"]

Now that I’m older I am growing in appreciation of my dad’s role in the navy and in my life “way back when” - and now, even though he’s gone. Perhaps, because he is gone.

For example, I certainly am happy to learn about his activities and pastimes in 1944, that they took place on home turf, i.e., in Canada, and that I can visit some of the places in which he spent some of his youth.

I’m also glad he had time for a bit of ball after long and harrowing months on a merchant marine ship in convoy upon the Atlantic Ocean the year before. (More about that later).

So, one day in the future I’ll find that spit of land near Comox where he was stationed in barracks, see if a ball diamond can be found and swing for the fences in memory of a proud man who still comes to mind every day.

***

Memory Lane PT 5: A positive tone follows many trials

Reading and writing about a 20 year old column belonging to my father has been a meaningful exercise for me.

It has added a bit more flesh to the bones of the memories I have of my dad and inspired me to plan a trip to British Columbia to see the banner (a merchant marine insignia with names of the crew of the SS Silver Walnut, including my dad’s) and walk upon some of the same ground my did walked upon when he was 24 years of age.

The tone of the article, about his activities while stationed in barracks in 1944 in Comox, British Columbia, is very positive.

He mentions salmon fishing, mucking for oysters, paying baseball, catching herring with a comb of nails, acting as Coxswain on large navy cutters “as soldiers worked the oars” and much more. Even his final sentence (“Got away from the subject of the navy, didn’t I?”) was surely meant to bring a smile to the face of readers.

One of my final thoughts relates to the positive tone.

I’m happy for it. It reflects part of the character that made up the man when he was alive and young and also when he was old.

I’m also aware that the positive notes expressed in 1944 fell on the heels of events that would try the patience and virtue of the strongest of men.


Dad hints at some of his own trials in another column from the 1990s about his time upon the Silver Walnut and in stories found in Volumes I and II of The Canadian Amphibious War 1941 - 1945 (books that contain stories in sailors’ own words).


For example, he writes, “The Walnut chugged along, past Lands End (the SW tip of England, after leaving the Irish Sea in a convoy) and the seaward edge of the Bay of Biscay, which was a very dangerous zone because of German submarines; if we made it through this area there were great hopes of making it all the way (i.e., around the southern tip of Africa and to the Suez Canal).”


The threats and dangers associated with submarines were real. I’m sure my dad knew that.

“Although we Canadian sailors scraped and painted large Maple leaves on landing craft aboard ship, we also became voluntary lookouts. No one was relaxing his guard, as we hoped soon to enter less dangerous waters off West Africa.”

Unfortunately, the Walnut was not in the best of condition for wartime service.

Though the long voyage started relatively well (my dad writes, “perhaps out of fear, the Walnut’s engines purred along at about ten knots,” or about 12 mph), the ship experienced some difficulties that put many lives at risk.

So, the positive tone expressed in 1944 doesn’t surface as often in his stories from 1942.

Little wonder.

***

Memory Lane PT 6: Real trials at sea in 1942

Though I appreciate the positive tone in one of my father’s columns that related to his days in the Navy in 1944, I realize he faced real trials at sea two years earlier in ’42.

The ship he was on, the SS Silver Walnut, though remembered fondly by those who lived on board during WWII, was not in tip top shape and its sailors perceived real dangers during many stoppages and breakdowns.


["Convoy preparing to leave Bedford Basin in Halifax, WWII"]

My father writes:

“Quite possibly there was the odd submarine about when the Walnut started her antics off the African coast.”

Antics. He’s being kind.




["Photos from or of books found in Canada's War Museum"]

“The first hint of trouble was when she slowed down, and a more severe hint was when the Captain ordered the engineers below in the deplorable heat to make repairs. About 15 minutes was all the men could stand, and then the Captain, in no uncertain terms, sent more men below; meanwhile the convoy was stopped, the escorts were circling, and all eyes were on the Walnut.”

For darn good reason. A sitting boat is a sitting duck and endangers all who travel with her.

“Minutes became hours; we all suddenly became quiet, our stomachs churned, and we doubled up on our lookout stations.”

Lest you think I’m being dramatic without cause, allow me to share a few words from a historical essay about the submarine war found at the back of a thick book entitled ‘U-Boat War’ (1978), an inside look at submarine warfare by German writer - Lothar-Gunther Buchheim (author of The Boat) - and onboard observer in real wartime (WWII) conditions.


The essayist, Michael Salewski, writes the following:

“Nothing was to be gained by ranged naval battles in the North Sea and the Atlantic. British supremacy on the Atlantic could never be broken, but it could quite literally be subverted - by the submarine.”

“For the submarines did not join battle with the enemy’s warships; their real targets were enemy freighters. Control of the seas was nothing other than the ability to guarantee one’s own merchantmen a safe passage, while curbing the enemy’s ability to do likewise.”

In other words, protect and save your own freighters and merchant mariners; pursue and sink the enemy’s freight and merchant sailors.


I have to ask myself. Why did my father enlist in the Merchant Marine?

I think I have the answer in yet another of his articles, but that’s for another time.

Salewski continues:

The Germans recognized early on that “they couldn’t maintain their own Atlantic trade routes. There was nothing for the German Navy to protect in the Atlantic.”

“Therefore, the German High Command had one single aim: the destruction - despite British sea power - of the objects of that power’s protection; namely, the essential lifelines of Britain’s overseas trade.” (The Submarine War: A Historical Essay)

What did dad say Canadian sailors spent time painting on the sides of their landing craft? Wasn’t it Maple leaves?


["The thoughts of a merchant mariner"]

They might as well have painted targets, because boats such as the SS Silver Walnut, filled with freight, supplies, food, medicines, etc., were the German sub’s chief prey.

Danger indeed.

In spite of it, however, my dad fell in love with the sea and expressed the wish, later in life, to be buried within its cold embrace.

***

Memory Lane PT 7: Family ties - better late than never

While motorcycling into Ottawa in June, just a few days after setting my father’s ashes upon the Atlantic Ocean in a hand made cedar boat called SS Silver Walnut 2, I got bogged down in thick traffic about four blocks from my hostel accommodations.

The heat was stifling. I flipped up the face guard on my motorcycle helmet, took a breath or two, and looked more closely at my surroundings.

I noticed the following:

Wall to wall cars and trucks, thick pedestrian traffic too, and a used book store on my right with piles of books on the sidewalk.


["I spotted a large book while in the middle of traffic": photos GH]

One large book caught my eye. U-BOAT WARS. Traffic eased. I moved along.


["Famous sea battles were often about about sinking freighters"]

I rode back to the book shop a day or two later, after visiting Canada’s War Museum, ready to learn more about Canada’s Merchant Marine, and found the large book I’d spied earlier and one more about famous sea battles of WWII.

Readiness to learn is a powerful force. As a young man I showed little interest in my dad’s own youth and war experience. Only in his old age, as he drew closer to his final years, did his words, deeds and concerns resonate more deeply inside my busy head.

A few lines from U-BOAT WARS make perfect sense now, whereas they never would have penetrated my own thoughts 10, 20, 30 years ago:

“It was the (German) submarine’s job to destroy enemy tonnage - as much tonnage as possible, never mind where, or whether it was carrying cargo or not. What mattered was the shipping capacity: if the “Anglo-Saxons” ran out of ships to carry freight, it would not matter how many aircraft, tanks, and projectiles they produced, or whether the Americans could grow sufficient grain to feed the British Isles. The main thing was therefore to destroy the means of transport.”

Whether or not my dad knew that the Merchant Marine was in the business of hauling tons of freight, I’ll never know. I just know he was inspired to enlist by words from another merchant mariner from his home town, Norwich.

In another of his stories my dad writes:


["Dad was inspired by a few words from Skimp Smith"]

“I told Skimp (Smith) that my high school principal, the late J.C. St. John, wanted me to join the army in the Elgin Regiment. He must have forgotten how much I disliked high school cadets.”

“After further conversation I recall Skimp asking me what I wanted to do. “Join the navy,” I replied. His response was akin to, “Then go for it.”

“I would curse him later, many times, but on that day and with the urging of Skimp, the die was cast. It was to be navy blue for me.” (Merchant mariner ‘true Norwich hero,’ Norwich Gazette, March 1993)

I didn’t read of any cursing in the article that inspired this 7-part series, and for that I’m grateful. His time on Vancouver Island in 1944 was more about training soldiers, playing ball and mucking for oysters.

Honest, with the hope of spotting wall to wall salmon, eating a plate of raw oysters and swinging a bat on my dad’s old ball field I’ll head for the same island myself one day in the not too distant future.


Readiness to learn is a powerful force.

***

I hope you enjoyed this journey with me down memory lane.

And when my west-bound trip is underway, you’ll be the first to know.

GH

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My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

[Post 4]

Chapter ONE - The Early Days in Burgessville PT 2

I visit Burgessville, my first hometown, on my motorcycle once or two times yearly.

I like visiting my first school, now an under-funded museum, with one room unchanged from the 1950s. Last summer I was given the full tour by a kind-hearted university student who was inside preparing for a summer vacation program for young children.


["The two-room school in Burgessville is still standing": photo GH]

I also like visiting my first home and the current owners, Les Knotts (a prolific birdhouse builder) and his wife Betty.


["My first home is half a block from the school."]

The house and property are of goodly size but seem absolutely huge in my earliest memories.


["It took hours to crawl to the edge of the property."]

When I think about my first six years of life in the tiny village, a limited number of memories surface, most of them as warm and fuzzy as a pair of Dr. Denton’s sleepers.

The memories are fairly clear ones and include each of my parents as well as three siblings (out of four) that also spent their early years in Burgessville. I have a few that feature neighbours, an irritated car driver and a scary guy in a peaked cap who chased me around the local Co-op for some unknown reason.

The stupid ass. If it weren’t for him my time in Burgessville would have been completely untroubled.

Well, almost.

My earliest memory that includes my mother doesn’t end well.

She wanted me to eat my crusts at breakfast and I refused.

“There are children in India who would love to have your crusts,” she said.

Stop the movie right there.

I’m in pajamas, I’m about three years old, and my mother, who is tight with a missionary family that attends the Burgessville Baptist Church (the McKenzies - you wouldn’t know them), wants me to stay at the table and eat dried crusts of bread, or else she’ll send them off to India, wherever the heck that is.

As a kid, I felt I had only play one card to play.

I said, “If you want to send them to India, go ahead. I’m not going to eat them.”


["Kim and I sit at the kitchen table. No crusts allowed!"]

Knowing me the way I do, I’m pretty sure my mother had zero chance of forcing me to stay at the table to eat the crusts.


["My mom and I clown around with a paper bag."]

Fortunately, our relationship improved, and one day she complimented my chalk drawing of the Indian chief that appears on American nickels of that era. She even helped me draw the side view of his eyes, and for that I thought she was wonderful.

And I was right, as usual.

***

More exciting adventures will surely follow, perhaps on some sort of regular basis, now that the holidays are over.

Please click here to read ‘Chapter ONE - The Early Days in Burgessville PT 1.’

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