In February I said I earmarked $700 plus from book sales to my daughter’s Terry Fox Team. Jane and I rounded the figure up to $1000. In six years she and her supporters have raised over $45,000 for cancer research. She plans to pass the $50,000 mark this September. She’ll make it -she is very determined and so are her family, friends and colleagues. That’s her, in one of the poses for the cover of The Devil’s Elbow.
The Great War
Life wasn’t easy during the Great War. My Grandad, Frederick Cornelius Hundey, joined the Canadian Expeditionary Force. He and Grandma Daisy had three children at the time of his deployment, my Aunt Nancy, my dad, aged one and a half, and Robert, four months old. He sailed to England on the SS Justica on May 5, 1917. (That ship was later torpedoed and sunk by a German Uboat.) In August of that year, hardship struck. Baby Robert died, a tragedy that had to have been traumatic for Grandma and Grandad both. In October, Grandad was shipped to France where he served until the spring of 1918. He was then assigned as a batman to a senior officer. At the same time, he contracted the Spanish flu but recovered. In September of 1918, still at the front, Grandad suffered a concussion and was hospitalized, having crashed his motorcycle into a convoy lorry. This was during the critical Hundred Days offensive led by Canadian forces under Arthur Currie. Grandad returned to London Ontario in May of 1919 where he and Grandma tried to pick up the pieces.
The Squirrel, the Fox and Grandpa’s Shorts with Fifty Pockets (as told to my grands)
Squirrels are pesky. They eat Grandma’s bird seed and they bite off Grandpa’s tulips. But that’s not the worst of it. You see, I was in the garden when it all started. From out of its hiding place, a demon squirrel darted out and ran up my leg, likely mistaking me for a horse chestnut tree (I was standing near one) and into my shorts.
Luckily I was wearing my favourite shorts, the ones with fifty pockets. And luckily I wasn’t wearing a belt even though I should have - my shorts were too big (the store didn’t have my size and I really wanted a pair of shorts with fifty pockets). And luckily too, I was carrying pliers and screwdrivers and nails and string and a weed digger in my pockets, leaving forty or so pockets available just in case. I’m pretty sure there was also an apple tucked away, meant for a snack… which I’d been unable to find last fall – I had 50 pockets after all. No worries though, I was smart enough to know, after five months, that it was no longer edible.
Here’s the point – my shorts were droopy, being so big and so heavy. In other words, there was lots of room for the squirrel to run up one leg, into my shorts, cross over and run out of my shorts, down my other leg, which is exactly what he did. I think he wanted out of there, lickety-split, upon realizing my legs weren’t tree trunks. (My legs have no bark for one thing.)
Of course, this episode gave me nightmares. And so I wanted revenge. I did yell but the squirrel had hearing problems. I threw stones and that sort of worked. He’d run off. BUT he always came back. Bringing a smirk with him. So here’s what I did. I left a note for the fox who’d also been visiting our yard. (The fox didn’t run up my shorts, there being not quite enough room). His name was Fred.
‘Dear Fred,” I wrote, ‘please get rid of the squirrel who ran up my shorts and who smirks at me. He’s really mean. Hope you’re having a good day. Your friend, Grandpa. P.S. The squirrel in question is the one who doesn’t trim his nails.’
Next morning, Fred, being a good fox, showed up and chased that smirking squirrel round and round my round flower bed. Next, they leaped up onto the fence and down again, before heading to the front yard. There, Fred followed the squirrel up the drain pipe onto the roof.
I ran into the house to tell your Grandma.
“Can’t you see I’m having a shower?” she said, before I could finish my story.
“But Fred the Fox is trying to catch the nasty squirrel with the smirky smile, the one who ran up my shorts. As you know, I am now burdened by nightmares and I am obsessed with clipping my nails.”
“Get over it.”
“It’s a good thing my shorts were droopy,” I said.
“You need new shorts,” Grandma said. “Shorts that have a normal number of pockets and that don’t smell like fermented apples.”
“We can discuss that later. Meanwhile, didn’t you hear me? The squirrel and the fox are on the roof,” I said, which is when I heard noises coming from the fireplace.
I ran out of the bathroom.
“Close the door,” Grandma later insisted she said.
I went to the fireplace. It was very noisy up the chimney. I heard Fred the Fox say, “If Santa Claus can do this…” which was when the squirrel burst out of the fireplace. Luckily I was wearing long pants. Fred the Fox was a split second behind the squirrel.
Thinking fast, I opened all the doors and windows in the house. The plan was to trick the squirrel and the fox into leaving by the most convenient exit. Unfortunately, the bathroom door was inadvertently left open. Fortunately, squirrels and foxes don’t normally take showers because they weren’t raised properly. So, the squirrel and Fred ran back out of the bathroom almost right away. Grandma’s scream may have been a factor.
I screamed too. Not that I was scared – I just felt like screaming.
As it turned out, wild animals don’t like human screaming. So the squirrel and Fred the Fox eventually found the front door. They headed down the street, looking over their shoulders, wide eyed, side by side now, as if they were running from the same thing… as if I was the crazy person and not the lady in the shower.
An hour later I decided to stop screaming.
Luckily there’s a happy ending - the smirking squirrel never came back. Though I do wonder if maybe he did return and I didn’t notice because he just stopped smirking. You see, unless they’re smirking, you can’t tell one squirrel from another.
I suppose I should mention that Grandma threw my shorts with fifty pockets in the garbage. As a result of Grandma’s unilateral decision, I no longer feel safe going near the horse chestnut tree. Because my remaining shorts are not squirrel resistant – they fit properly and they have hardly any pockets.
The end.
This was a true story. Well, mostly true. For example, there was a fox in our yard. And for sure, squirrels do not use nail clippers. Love Grandpa.
Creepy Places
It must be 7 years ago now while shunpiking in PEI, Jane and I happened upon this tourist home. A converted nunnery, it was three stories high with all kinds of nooks and crannies. Of course we had to stay there. Returning after dinner, we discovered we were the only guests. Then we find out that the home’s manager went home for the night. So, we wandered the abandoned halls and stairways, expecting Jack Nicholson to stick his head out a door. I love these cool, creepy places.
Come on Vaccine
Rummaging around, I found my little water colour from a couple years back. It is meant to show the 1909 steel truss bridge at the Devil’s Elbow. Quick, rough renderings of my emerging book scenes keep the ideas flowing - supposedly. Anyhow, it’s fun to show my paintings to the grands, a couple of whom have passed Grandpa, artistic-wise. They already run faster.
While I hope the vaccines soon find the arms of the frail, the immune compromised and our essential workers, I also hope the vaccine is not far away for the rest of us. Another part of the fun of writing comes from visiting libraries and book clubs. And the Devil’s Elbow bridge reminds me that maybe this spring, I can get back to that. Come on vaccine!
Forty-five Thousand Dollars for Terry Fox and Counting
For five years every September, our daughter Beth has led a Terry Fox Team, to date raising $45,775 for cancer research. In a small way, I’ve contributed to the cause from my book sales. So from my covic-reduced print run of The Devil’s Elbow, I’ve earmarked my profit of $700 for the September, 2021 run. The pic shows five team members including our children Eric, Beth and Tim, surrounded by Mum and Dad.
Lessons from the Seat of a Five Speed circa 1971
Dear Grand-kids:
When going on a bicycle trip from Saskatoon to the west coast, prepare and plan everything very, very thoroughly. That’s a very, very big lesson. Big lessons can be learned beforehand or afterward. Guess which one is better.
There are also important little lessons. For example, on my first day, I left Saskatoon (after sleeping too late) and discovered that the prairies can be a very hot place.
In 1971, I studied Climatology at University. Do you know about the Prevailing Westerlies? They are winds which always blow west to east. They ‘prevail.’ Do you know what direction Vancouver is from Saskatoon? Hint – it’s west. So, do you know what direction I had to peddle through the open prairie, where there are no trees or buildings to block the wind? In other words, do you know what my ‘prevailing’ direction was? Right, I was a ‘prevailing easterlie’ going head-long into the teeth of the prevailing westerlies. Let me tell you, wheat fields are no help. They just wave and mock you as you pass through. Little lesson two - pay attention in class.
What with the hot sun and howling winds, I struggled. But it wasn’t my fault. Until that day, I’d got all my exercise in a pool hall. Do you know what a pool shark is? Not me. I was the seal getting eaten by the shark. After a time, I moved on. In other words I met your grandmother. So kids, I ask you - was there a third little lesson here? Hint - it has to do with something called ‘getting fit before trying something crazy.’
Around two o’clock on day one, lesson four occurred to me. Pack sandwiches.
Despite hunger and hardship, I managed to ride fifty miles. (Kilometres hadn’t been invented yet.) But I hadn’t a clue where to sleep for the night. Lesson five - get a tourist map that shows where the campgrounds are kept.
What to do? One choice was to sleep in the ditch. A better idea was to stand on the side of the road and wait for a beautiful farmer’s daughter to drive by while smiling seductively (Ask Daddy or Mummy what that means).
Unluckily most of the beautiful farmer’s daughters were sitting in the front seat of the cab of their flatbed trucks, between their mother and father, who I found don’t respond to seductive smiles. The rest of the farmers’ daughters were at the big square-dance. (That was an educated guess.)
Luckily, there was a third choice because up ahead I thought, ‘Hey, up there, is that a roadside picnic area?’ Lesson six – the police don’t arrest knuckleheads who embark on a cross-country bicycle trip, without training, food or a change of socks, for the crime of sleeping where they’re not supposed to.
Taking advantage of my lucky break, I erected my tent and fell asleep, which brings me to lesson seven. Which was actually not a little one. It was a big lesson. How to put it… let’s just say, fences are useful things.
To understand my final lesson today I have to ask, do you know what it’s like to hear the cries and moans and snorts of a million beasts of unknown type, trampling about and sniffing at a little red tent pitched in the middle of a picnic area, which has no fence to keep them out?
If you don’t quite get the severity of the situation, here’s another question - have you ever been stepped on by an unknown beast? I’m not one to catastrophize, but the question crossed my mind as I pulled my sleeping bag over my head.
Next morning, I stepped on evidence which suggested a herd of elephants happened by. It was that or buffalo. (My bet - it was buffalo poop I stepped in because the buffalo’s home is the wide prairie which is where I was and which after all is ‘where they roam.’ I learned this from the song. Let’s sing it later. Here are the first words, ‘Home, home on the range’ Etc.) Regardless of beast genre, I managed to get a photo of one of them.
Love, Grandpa.
PS. Feel free to draw pictures that illustrate these lessons. You might tape them on your wall to guide you through life.
Unknown Beast.
This was one good read.
This Swanson guy spins a great yarn. Guarantee this mystery will surprise you. It’s going back to Exeter Branch Library as soon as Jane finishes it.
Twas the Night Before...
Do you have a favourite Christmas story?
I’m still a big fan of The Night Before Christmas because of the memory of our family of five (Jane, me, sons Eric and Tim, daughter Beth) taking turns to read the story, year after year on Christmas Eve.
Nice to Hear
In my mystery novels, I try to keep readers guessing about ‘who dunnit’ while tripping them up with red herrings and prompting laughs at Jack Beer, my PI’s, antics. Sometimes I wonder – am I succeeding?
Sue finished my latest, The Devil’s Elbow, in one day and she’s already asking ‘how long before book seven is ready?’
Jan of Windsor quoted a favourite passage from Things Left Behind: “ ‘In the near distance, a weak bulb atop a leaning telephone pole coated a century farmhouse in gloom. In the background, the night sky silhouetted a barn’s skeletal remains’” and said “I feel like I know these places.”
A Lucan reader ‘raved’ to Leigh, the town librarian, about my books. (Honest, she really did use the word ‘raved.’) Every time she thought she’d figured out ‘who dunnit’ she soon discovered otherwise. And she loved the dialogue, and my main characters, Jack for recognizing his own flaws and Sheila for giving as good as she got.
Thanks to such kind thoughts, I’ll keep going.