Shine Like A Little Candle

Recently, I received a phone call asking me if I’d help with a local church’s anniversary. Apparently, someone had suggested my name because of my early affiliation with the church as well my background as a local historian. In a way, I think they were surprised when I said, “Yes.” 

To some extent, I surprised myself as I am not a regular church goer. The Presbyterian Church of Canada would call me “an adherent”—a phrase which always reminds me of something that gets stuck on the bottom of one’s shoes—but if I am an adherent, one could be forgiven for thinking that these ties are tenuous at best. Nevertheless, it is my parents' church and the church of my childhood.  

Notice the Blogger's Hat

The fact is that my values are largely Sunday School values. From pre-school until the age of twelve, I attended regularly. At the time, it was by convention and parental edict rather than a personal choice on my part, but I have taken to heart the “Do Unto Others” lessons that I learnt there. Two hymns from that era still resonate with me: God Sees the Little Sparrow Fall and Jesus Bids Us Shine. I like the idea of, and believe that there is, a higher consciousness at work in the world; one that watches over and cares about us. Likewise, the spiritual advice that we are meant to shine like “pure clear lights” in a “world of darkness”—“you in your small corner and I in mine” still makes a lot of sense to me. The world would be an infinitely better place if we all did that.  

When it came time to join the church around the age of twelve, I balked and refused to do so. The argument that all my peers were joining and my mother’s teary pleas didn’t sway me. Truly a child of the 1960’s, I cited two major flaws in the church at that time: 1) They published the amount of money each church member gave in a little booklet for all to read and 2) They did not allow anyone to take communion unless they were an adult member of the Presbyterian Church. I argued that when we gave, we were meant to do it in such a way that one hand didn’t know what the other was doing. As for communion, I said that, under the current rules, Christ himself would be excluded from it.  

 

A Hat Encore

It is noteworthy that both of these practices no longer exist; at the tender age of twelve, I was already a deep thinker and ahead of my time. The mandatory Church clothes that we had to wear—one’s best dress; hat; gloves; purse have given way to more casual attire. I suspect that the sermon on the “evils of Marilyn Monroe” which was preached from the church pulpit during my childhood wouldn’t take place these days either. As a child, I didn’t know who Marilyn was, but I thought she must be a terribly bad person.  

 

During church services in my childhood, it was not uncommon for me to experience what is known in yogic philosophy as Kundalini.  The best way for me to describe it is an electric current moving up one’s spine. Somehow, I knew that this was connected with the sacred or more specifically, God moving through me. Other times, I would sit there quietly counting the many light bulbs in the ceiling. The self-discipline that was required to sit still in one’s seat for an hour each week was useful training for later in life—a kind of sitting meditation that to this day allows me to hear the still, small voice within.  

 

Another Hat Encore

Having said that, I felt equally close to God when I climbed up onto the roof our house at the age of five; carrying a basket of purple grapes and staring up at the clouds in the sky. I spent two days up there on the roof, coming down only for meals and bedtime. During the busy time of harvest on the farm, no one noticed that I was gone. At an early age, I learned that one does not need four walls or a church in order to feel close to God.  

At mid-life and feeling burnt out, I quit my job, walked the Camino in Spain and then, enrolled in Knox College. It puzzled people as to why someone who had drifted away from the church might decide to attend Theological College. All I can say is that I envisioned (incorrectly) that it would be akin to a lively Irish pub filled with folks like Bono who would sit around discussing the “Big Questions” of life. Questioning was at the heart of my own spiritual journey; I was taken aback to find myself in the midst of those who seemed certain in their answers. Needless to say, I fit in like the proverbial square peg and lasted only one term there. 

However, my time at Knox was not a complete loss. Thanks to a class taught by The Rev. Dr. Stuart Macdonald, an extraordinary Professor of Church History, I had the opportunity to learn about the Quakers which was the faith of my Great-Grandmother’s family. During that course, I learned that the Quakers were known as “seekers” or “Children of the Light;” that they believed: that knowledge of God is direct and inward as opposed to coming from an outside authority; that the Light is within all people (not just Christians) and has the power to transform us; that spirituality is an inner experience. Since my time at Knox, I’ve known that, while I might have been raised a Presbyterian, I am Quaker in my thinking and have more in common with the early Christian mystics who went into the desert than with those hard-working souls who make all those delicious church suppers. 

 

So why then, you might ask, would I agree to help the local Presbyterian Church with its Anniversary celebrations? To be truthful, they asked for my help; it happened to require my particular skill set; and so I said, “Yes.” Sometimes, it’s that simple. I think it is to their credit that, given my lapsed status, they were willing to work with me.

At the first meeting, I offered to do research and assemble an Anniversary booklet; I have created a blog on the church’s history as well. In doing so, I’m developing a new appreciation for the church of my childhood and am re-discovering a wonderful community of people that I’ve known for many years.  

Will I become a full-fledged Presbyterian member any time soon? Not likely, but who knows? It’s hard to imagine that I will ever recognize a spiritual authority other than God speaking directly to my own heart, but it has been said that God works in mysterious ways. In the meantime, I am grateful to have been raised in the church and for the lessons that I learned there. Well, other than that Marilyn Monroe thing. I’m sure God will forgive me if I don’t take that one too much to heart.

South of Town

The wind is howling outside. Somehow, it serves as an eerie reminder that this weekend marks the 100^th Anniversary of the Great Storm of 1913.  November 9^th was also the date when the power went out across Eastern North America back in 1965; an event that was immortalized in the Doris Day movie, Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?

 

Sadly, this was also the day that my Grandfather was buried back in 1965. According to my mother, he would often talk about the storm of 1913. Given his farm’s close proximity to Lake Huron, he would have witnessed the events as they were taking place and been of an age to remember it.  A storm of this magnitude would have become part of the local folklore in his community.  The fact that he died on the same weekend many years later seems fitting somehow. 

The phone call came early on a Sunday morning telling us that he had gone out to milk the cows and had been found dead in the barn; later, we learned that he'd died of a heart attack. I was only seven years old at the time. My experience of death had been quite limited up to this point, but I knew that he was gone and that it was very sad. When everyone went downstairs, I sat on the floor of my parents’ bedroom and wrote a poem about him. I have no idea what happened to that poem, but it was the first time that I had ever tried to use the written word to express emotions that seemed too big to say aloud. On an intuitive level, I understood that while my grandfather was gone, he might live on through my words. In that sense, this weekend also marks the date of my birth as a writer.

Images of my grandfather’s death remain vivid in my memory to this day: sitting on the cold, bedroom floor writing the poem; the funeral where our family was closeted away in a little room (picture a closet with church pews) and the funeral director pulling a curtain across at the last minute so we could not see anyone, presumably to shield others from the contagion of our collective grief; sitting in the backseat of the car at the cemetery, shivering; seeing the snow swirl outside the windshield and my mother in the front seat, crying; feeling at a loss as to how to console her; the tea party that was held afterwards in the basement of my aunt’s house where everyone was chatting and laughing over sandwiches and then, looking over and seeing my grandmother sitting at the far end of the table with tears rolling down her face. How dare people laugh when she was so sad? I felt outraged on her behalf. For a child, witnessing such grief can be overwhelming, but I'm glad that the adults in my world did not feel the need to shelter me from their grief or pull the curtain across so I could not witness it. I'm grateful that I was allowed to take part and that I have those memories now.  

Grandma Maddock used to say, “Someday, when I’m south of town…” meaning “Someday, when I’m dead.”  This was just her euphemism for the cemetery where she would be buried eventually; it just happens to be located south of town. South of town puts a lighter spin on what might otherwise be a difficult subject. South of town is like a favourite, old sweater—comforting somehow. When I walk among the graves south of town and see the names of all the old neighbours and friends who have passed on, I am comforted by the fact that I remember them. To me, each name represents a story; each life represents the larger story of our community. Today, I wanted to pause and remember my grandfather and his story; perhaps, one day when I'm south of town, someone will remember mine.

High Flight

A.D. (Don) Haylett

Recently, I wrote about a man named Don Haylett who worked on my grandfather’s farm; as my father recalls, he studied aviation in the evenings by the light of an oil lamp and went on to be an officer in the Royal Canadian Air Force during WWII. To be precise, he was known as Wing Commander A.D. (Arthur Donald) Haylett and was the Chief Instructor at the No. 2 Service Flying Training School at RCAF Station Uplands in Ottawa, Ontario. 

As a teenager, I would often listen to his wartime stories. One of my favourites was about a poem entitled High Flight.  According to Don, the author of this poem, John Gillespie Magee spent time at Uplands. At the time when I was hearing this story, it did not mean a great deal to me as I had never heard of the poem. Being a typical teenager, I half-listened to his tale and never took the time to write down the details.  

However, as I recall, Don told us that the poem was found scribbled on the back of a letter or envelope; that it was discovered in his personal effects after Magee was killed in the war; and that one of Don’s jobs was to deliver the deceased’s personal belongings to their family members. It was fitting that many years later when Don died, this poem was a part of his funeral service.   

In retrospect, I wished I’d listened more carefully because according to the official version, Magee wrote the poem and sent the letter to his parents. Given the short three month window between the time when Magee wrote the poem and when he died, it’s possible the letter was never mailed. It’s also possible that he sent the letter, but kept a copy for himself which was later found in his personal effects.  

Either way, it shows how we can have a personal connection with history. High Flight has been recited by many people over the years; one of the most famous was President Ronald Reagan who, on January 28, 1986, spoke to his fellow Americans about the Challenger disaster. At the end of his speech, he paid homage to Magee's poem by saying that the Challenger Crew, “Slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God.” 

There is another line in the poem which reads, “Sunward, I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds…and done a hundred things you have not dreamed of.”  

Now picture my father and his brother Don growing up on a farm in rural Ontario during the 1930’s. In the midst of this relative isolation, appeared a young British man who worked on their family farm, but who studied aviation at night by the glow of an oil lamp. He must have seemed an exotic creature to them and made them dream of what was possible beyond the limited confines of their rural world.

Uncle Don

It is probably no coincidence that my uncle worked for over sixty years in the aviation industry as a pilot and airline mechanic; that he eventually started a business pertaining to the inspection of jet engines; in turn, his son Don became an airline mechanic and now runs this family-owned business.

I can remember how Uncle Don landed his airplane in the field of our farm back in the 1960’s; to a child growing up in rural Ontario, this seemed terribly exciting. Family folklore says I flopped myself on the couch saying, "I think I'm going to faint!"  In my own defence, I would like to point out that planes didn't land in our fields every day. I’m sure it also fuelled my desire to explore places beyond our small corner of the world.

The Story of Uncle Don Maddock's Career



In addition, my Dad’s cousin Marion, who lived in Michigan, spent her summer holidays on my grandparents’ farm and went on to get her pilot’s licence while still a teenager; this would have been an unusual accomplishment for a young woman in that era. Many years later, as a grandmother in her 60's, Marion bought herself a motorcycle and travelled solo around the world with it.


Dad & His Plane

In his 40’s, my Dad studied for his pilot’s license and with two local men, purchased an airplane that was kept on our farm. As a teenager, one of my jobs was to mow the grass on the plane’s runway. Given this background, it shouldn't be surprising that at the age of seventeen, I boarded my first jet airplane and flew around the world to be a Rotary Exchange Student in Australia.  

At the time, we were told that one of the theories behind the idea of the Rotary Youth Exchange was that of the “ripple effect.”  It was believed that sending young people to live in other countries for a year would lead to a wider "ripple effect" of goodwill and better understanding amongst people of different cultures. Looking back, that has been true in my own family. We forged ties with people in Australia (and also in Brazil because we hosted a girl on Exchange from there) that have lasted for many decades. 




Dad Fuels Uncle Don's Plane

I would argue that “the ripple effect” was also at work in the case of Don Haylett. One young British man had a burning dream to fly; my uncle Don, my Dad and their cousin Marion witnessed this and were inspired to take flight themselves; a generation later, my cousin Don Jr. joined his Dad in the aviation field. Although I have never had the yen to pilot my own plane, I have had one foot planted firmly on the soil of our family farm; the other in airports.  

So I guess we should never underestimate our own individual power and influence. Surely when we dream, we put out our hands and touch the face of God; we also serve as an inspiration for others.  

 

This Remembrance Day, when I stop and observe the official two minutes of silence, it will be for all the men and women who served for our country and fought for our freedom; it will also be for one particular man who, simply by daring to have a dream, changed the course of one family’s life. This one’s for you, Don!