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.

The Sky Is Not the Limit

This week, nine students from our high school had the privilege of attending a talk which Canadian astronaut Chris Hadfield gave at SCITS in Sarnia. The following day, one of the students told me that Hadfield took questions from the audience and that someone asked a “neat question” about whether aliens existed. Since I wasn’t in the audience to hear Hadfield’s response firsthand, I won’t attempt to paraphrase it here, but from what I can gather, he didn’t discount the possibility. 

Don Haylett

When I heard about this, it reminded me of a conversation which I had with the late Don Haylett. Born in England, Don immigrated to Canada by himself at the tender age of fourteen. As a new immigrant, he lived and worked on my grandfather’s farm; at night, he would study aviation by the light of an oil lamp. Eventually, he got his pilot’s license and became a commercial pilot; when WWII broke out, he signed up as an officer with the Royal Canadian Air Force.  

Although he moved on from his early stint as a farmhand, he maintained his friendship with our family throughout the course of his life. I can remember his visits to our house and how one day, as a curious teenager, I quizzed him about the existence of UFOs. As I recall, he got a funny look on his face and said he couldn’t talk about it. In retrospect, I wish I’d been able to break through his reticence and tap into whatever insight he might have had in regard to this subject.  

When I was working as a local historian, I made a point of saving any stories about “the unexplained” that I happened to stumble across in the newspapers. One of my favourites is an article which appeared in the Watford Guide-Advocate on July 21, 1939. The headline read, “Had A Preview of Meteor.”  I believe this refers to the eighty-eight pound meteorite which landed near Dresden, Ontario on July 11^th of that same year.  

According to the article, two women in West Adelaide, Ontario (near Strathroy) were standing on the side of the road, chatting. All at once, a huge mass of rough rock came over the trees and came to rest about six to ten feet from them. The interesting part of the story is that the article reports that “it came down within two feet of the ground and then, all at once, the bottom part broke into sparks like striking flint. Slowly it rose almost straight up and gathering speed swiftly went off in the direction of Detroit. It was brilliantly lighted, so that it lit up the yards around like buildings afire.”  The news report goes on to say that the women were so frightened that they could not recall any colour or noise, but that they said it “was at least six feet high and round at the top like a balloon.” 

To the modern eye, this reads more like a UFO sighting than a “preview” of a meteor which hadn’t yet landed. I’m not much of a scientist, but I’m pretty sure meteors don’t hover above the ground and then, take off in the direction of Detroit! 

Another Watford Guide-Advocate article dating back to February 15, 1889 includes a small news item about a man who was returning home “perfectly sober” one night when he spotted a light a short distance ahead. The article stated that its size attracted his attention and that “he soon discovered by its foolish antics that it belonged to another world.”  It went on to state that the “ghostship followed him home” and then, “sat down on a neighboring hill and watched him all night long.” 

The June 30, 1954 edition of the Alvinston Free Press features a small report about a UFO sighting by Mr. and Mrs. Percy Brown of Aberfeldy which is south of Alvinston. Returning home about midnight one night, they “saw an object, said to be half the size of the moon, with a circular ‘bite’ out of the rear side.”  The object threw a light of various colours and “when first observed, it was high in the sky, then took a dive, seemingly to collide with the earth. About to collide, it swerved upward to a high point, then to the downward way again. It continued these undulations until passing from view.”  The couple stated that the object was travelling at speeds faster than any jet plane they had ever seen. The following month, the Dresden Times reported that groups of “saucers” had been sighted near Florence, Ontario and in nearby Kent County. 

Alvinston Free Press
March 8, 1950

Back in March, 1950, the Alvinston Free Press published a statement by Wing Com. H.D. Haylett, A.F.C., London. He predicted that within the lifetime of those children of “today,” flights to the moon would be achieved. When people living in this small farming community read that statement back in 1950, it must have seemed too fantastic to believe and yet, sixteen years later, this seemingly far-fetched idea became a reality. It is said that at the age of nine, Sarnia-born native Chris Hadfield saw this Apollo moon landing on television and in that moment, decided to be an astronaut; this week, he returned to Sarnia to inspire our next generation of young people.  

We may not fully understand how the universe works, but here on earth, the stories of people like Don Haylett and Chris Hadfield,who gazed up at the sky as young men and dreamed of what could be, have the power to uplift and inspire us. As to speculating on the existence of alien life on other planets or those secret dreams harboured within the individual human heart, I’d like to think that poet Emily Dickinson said it best when she penned the words, “I dwell in possibility.” 

You're History!

Canadian humourist Stephen Leacock once said, “I did not realize that the old grave that stood among the brambles at the foot of our farm was history.”  To some extent, I think we’re all guilty of this. We tend to think that history is something that only happens in textbooks at school, on some far-off battlefield or to those illustrious faces we see featured on TMZ. Often, it doesn’t occur to us that history is also here in our own backyards; in our own lives.

One thing about genealogy--the study of one's family tree--is that it shows us how our individual lives fit into history. For instance, imagine that history is like a giant jigsaw puzzle and every life is a piece; without your story, the picture will be incomplete. Anyone who has ever tried to put together a jigsaw puzzle only to discover a piece is missing knows how exasperating this can be.

To some extent, history is always incomplete. Documents go missing; photos and letters get thrown out; people don’t get around to writing information down. A good example is this family photo of my great-grandfather Daniel Maddock. He's the man on the left in this picture.

His father William emigrated from Stamford, Lincolnshire, England to Canada in the late 1840's. Daniel was born in Canada, but we know that he made a trip to England with a shipment of cattle that he was selling; according to oral history that has been passed down through the generations, he visited cousins while he was in England.

The photos of this visit list a photographer’s name J.J.P. Bowler and Wellington and Oakengates; another has Lilleshall. We even have a box of nails that is labelled “John Maddock & Co., Great Western Nail Works, Oakengates, Shropshire.”

This information matches nicely with family stories about a John Maddock who was a sibling to my ancestor William. Apparently, he owned a foundry in Shropshire. Using the website familysearch.org, I found a John Maddock who was living in Wombridge, Shropshire when the 1871 Census was taken. It indicates that he was 51 at that time and was born in West Deeping, Lincolnshire. I'm assuming that the people in the photo with my great-grandfather are descended from this John, but their names and the date that the photo was taken were never written down. I’m sure it never occurred to my great-grandfather that his descendants might not recognize these people. Perhaps he did not realize that future generations would be interested in this information.

Before I judge him too harshly, I just have to pause and think of my own photo albums. How many of my pictures have I taken the time to label? What steps have I taken to preserve my individual story? Too often when people pass on, their stories die with them. Their families will divide up the dishes and dollars, but tend to look at paper documents as “a bunch of old junk." All too often, it just gets thrown out.

Alexander Vidal’s papers are a good example of this. He was a well-known historical figure in Lambton County’s early history. As a land surveyor, he was often away up north working. In an era before texting and Skype, he would write letters home to his wife. I can remember one letter in which he said that he missed her so much that he took her nightgown to bed with him!

The beauty of a story like this is that suddenly, he is not merely an historical (and arguably dull) figure from the past, but also a flesh-and-blood man who once lived.  It adds a human element that might otherwise be missing and helps to bring his story to life. The irony is that in one of his letters, he tells his wife to burn his letters; presumably being sentimental, she saved them instead. Years later, a local historian by the name of George Smith bought an old cupboard from the Vidal estate and in it was a cornflakes box filled with these letters. They are now housed at the Lambton County Archives in Wyoming, Ontario. To check out their link, see: www.lclmg.org/lclmg/?TabId=110

The first step in preserving your own piece of the puzzle is to recognize that your story—whatever it might be—is important. Contrary to what the world might have you believe, you are not a mere cog-in-the-wheel that can be replaced on a whim. The phrase “You’re History!” might seem to imply that you’re irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, but quite the opposite is true. The truth is you matter; your story is a vital piece of the bigger picture.

Once you acknowledge this, there are practical steps you can take:

• Write down or record the stories which you have in your head. What do you want future generations to know? The important thing is to put in lots of details. Personal anecdotes and feelings will bring your story to life; factual information such as dates and places will help your family relate your stories to larger events in history.
• Label your photographs including names, dates and places.
• Make arrangements for your family papers, documents, photos etc. to be saved. This might means entrusting them to a younger family member or donating them to a local historical collection or both.

Ultimately, it is up to each of us to ensure that our individual story isn’t lost. And the next time you gaze up at a towering monument honouring the past and find yourself feeling insignificant by comparison, please remember that you too are history!