From Passchendaele to Juno Beach to Ontario: I will remember

I Remember

Je me souviens. I remember.

I remember my great-grandmother’s tears when she sent four of her boys off to fight in the Great War. I remember her muted joy at seeing three of them - including my grandfather Fred - return safe but never truly sound. Her son John – my father carries his name – fought valiantly during that horrible spring of 1917 before he was left behind in the deadly quagmire that was the first day of Passchendaele.

I remember my grandfather, who died when I was eight, never talking about what happened in those trenches of death.

I remember English Sally, she who married a son of Pennan, walking the length of the island from her family home in the great naval port of Southampton to the north-east coast of Scotland, just to be with her man, homeward bound from the Napoleonic Wars.

I remember Alexander Hendry of Aberdeenshire fighting for his freedom at Culloden in 1746. Life for Alexander and the rest of the Scots who fought with Bonnie Prince Charlie would never be the same.

Passchendaele

I remember a newlywed Rozel straining to deliver her baby on the very day her husband, an American loyal to the crown and kin to my children, was fighting for Canada’s freedom alongside Isaac Brock at Queenston Heights. The soldier would return safely to meet his son; his wife would not see either ever again.

I remember my Great-Uncle Charlie, who left his wife behind while he tried to carve a living in Malaysia’s rubber industry, struggling to stay alive in a Japanese POW camp during World War II. Charlie, who served me marmalade on toast when I visited him in Rotorua, New Zealand 44 years later, risked his life to keep a diary as he toiled daily to rebuild the bridge over the River Kwai while the good guys rained down a daily dose of death from above.

I remember a son of a former classmate losing his life in Afghanistan; the shock when I read the news lingers with me still.

I remember my friend’s Uncle Don, a Second World War navigator who died in battle in the summer of 1944. Don passed on his name to his nephew and his story to you.

Pvt. George Savage

I remember the 3rd Canadian Infantry and Pvt George Savage – father to Jamie – braving an apocalypse of bombs and gunfire to land at Juno Beach on D-Day in 1944 to begin their push into Germany.

I remember other dads from the neighbourhood and their efforts in that war. John Baschuk’s father and uncle both answered the call, as did Diane McNeil’s Uncle Fred – a pilot – and her father, who was waiting for the go-ahead when the war ended.  Art Canfield – father of Bruce, Diane and Paul – went overseas at 19 to serve with the Royal Regiment of Canada. Phil Hennessey – father of John – got to meet General George S. Patton. Rick Skillater, a neighbour and a pilot with the British Air Force, flew hundreds of missions into enemy territory.

I remember Tom McCaw – father to Janine – enjoying great meals and an accommodation upgrade on a Canadian naval ship because crew members were convinced he was King George VI in hiding. Janine’s grandfather Tommy also served and lost his life at the Battle of Somme a generation earlier.

I remember Frederick Wilmot – grandfather to Nicole – who enlisted in 1941 and rose to the rank of Sergeant. I remember Ron McVicar, who served in the same war on HMCS Cornwall. I remember Vic Shirreffs, my first father-in-law, who served as a stoker in the Canadian Navy.

I remember William Findlay, great-grandfather of Amy and the youngest Sergeant Major in the British Army, being awarded the Distinguished Medal of Honour. I remember Royal Navy Seaman Stanley March, great-grandfather of Josh, and I remember Bill Ryan, father of Dave, who fought with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

I remember John Cossaboom, dad to Steve, and his RCEME regiment in Korea.

John Cossaboom and his RCEME regiment

I remember my friend Hago, who did two tours – the first in Kosovo and the second in Afghanistan – and continues to serve to this day.

I remember the future pilots at the old Portage la Prairie air base in Manitoba and the men and women from the local armoury who came out to Karaoke at Stag’s Head in Oshawa on Tuesday nights.

I remember the funeral of a young man related to me by marriage who was just beginning his military career. The sound of the pipes as they played Amazing Grace sent shivers up my spine.

I remember Vimy Ridge, the four-day battle in the spring of 1917 that marked – at a cost of 10,000 soldiers killed or wounded – a coming of age for Canada as a nation, as well as the end of our innocence about wars and the people who profit from them.

I remember the Remembrance Day service held a day early a few years ago in downtown Brooklin for the benefit of the school children. After being so many generations removed from war, it was important the kids knew what their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were fighting for and that they would have a better understanding of what they were supposed to remember.

I remember Remembrance services during COVID; muted and masked just like they were more than a hundred years before during the last pandemic.

I remember the services in Oshawa where military vehicles from the local tank museum would fill the streets prior to the always sombre ceremony at Memorial Park.

I remember every soldier I have ever known and I remember those who fought and died for my family and me and for our freedom, and for the freedom that we all enjoy and too often take for granted. I remember the families and friends of those soldiers and the tears that were shed for fallen loved ones.

I remember the blood spilt by innocents, and I remember the heartbreak of everyone affected by war.

I remember like it was yesterday the signing of the Armistice to end the Great War. One hundred and seven years ago today.

I remember. So I won't ever forget.

Badgers, breweries and prairie skies

Bison, badgers, a beer crawl and even my first ever mooses marked my mini-vacay out in the Saskatchewan sunshine in the last week of July, a memorable trip marked by plenty of new-to-me critters in the great outdoors and even a surprise or two (jackrabbits!) in the prairie metropolis of Regina.

And a brewery crawl, which was definitely not on my bingo card when I filled in a few remaining vacation days with a trip to Regina and Grasslands National Park.

It was a three-and-a-half-hour drive from the airport to Grasslands, hard on the Montana border - where the bison and the prairie dog play - which I cut down a bit with an overnight stay at the Mankota Inn to give me a full day at the park.

(Mankota, if you're interested, is one step removed from being a ghost town but the food and the service at the inn was top notch and was one of my better decisions on the trip.)

The park itself was pretty cool. Plenty of huge hawks on the way in - including my first ever Ferruginous Hawks, the largest hawk in Canada and a bird not found in Ontario - and hundreds of protected prairie dogs and ground squirrels (or gophers, as westerners call them). A single Burrowing Owl - my first - and just one bison, likely a young bull who hadn't perfected his dance moves for the rutting season just yet.

An amorous pair of moose, an animal I have never seen in Ontario despite my best efforts, a magpie or two and a super cool close encounter with a badger rounded out the critter spotting.

Alas, no snakes, or specifically, bucket list prairie rattlesnakes.

The scenery was outstanding - if you're into grasslands and rolling hills, which I am - but eventually I made the long drive in the rental car back to Regina for the rest of the Tuesday-to-Saturday trip.

With my beer consumption in Toronto reduced to the odd social outing back in Oshawa and maybe a beer a week at home, a pub crawl in Regina, Saskatchewan was an unexpected addition to the itinerary, but when my server at Pile O' Bones Brewery told me if I visited all six breweries on the city's 'Hop Circuit' and had a pint at each I would score a beer glass, well, despite the 'self-guided' disclaimer/warning, the challenge is on, innit?

To be entirely truthful, I hadn't planned on hitting up all six - maybe three or four - on this steaming hot Thursday in the prairie city, but when the old legs get moving and the old mind stops making sound decisions, challenges are simply met.

My legs were already barking a bit after a 600-mile walk the night before to Creekside Brewery, which my GPS said was just a few blocks east of my hotel (it lied), for a beef dip au jus and a couple of beers, but hey, I definitely needed the exercise.

It was early afternoon the next day and after I had a burger (you need a base for the day) and a flight, followed by a delicious Cosmic Celebration IPA (which I had the night before as a guest tap at Creekside) at Pile O' Bones, which is noted for its Wheat IPA (entirely appropriate for the wheat capital of Canada) and its proximity to Mosaic Stadium, home of the CFL's Saskatchewan Roughriders.

I was asking for the best way to get to Regina's Warehouse District when my server presented me with the offer I couldn't refuse.

I already own a couple dozen branded beer glasses, mostly packed away in boxes, so one more was incentive enough to motivate my legs, already pushed hard by a 300-mile walk from the Legislature to Pile O' Bones.

So I put one foot in front of the other and made the 150-mile trek to Bushwakker Brewpub, the OG of craft in Saskatchewan (it opened in 1991). Bushwakker was located right in the middle of the torn-up section of downtown - the city was putting down new pipelines and downtown was a bit of a mess - so it was tricky getting there.

Europeans may snicker at calling this brewpub 'historical,' but there's plenty of local brewing history within these walls. Founded by a former chair of the Saskatchewan Health Research Board who pushed the provincial government to finally allow brewpubs - the legislation only passed in 1989 - Bushwakker has a distinctly German feel to the place.

A man of habit, I resisted getting a classic Dortmunder blend and opted for a Chico IPA, which provided some extra malty west coast flavours to jolt me onto my feet again in search of brewery #3.

I took the long way to get to Copperhead Brewing to avoid the worst of the construction - still easily 50 miles away - and enjoyed their New England IPA while pleading with my server to finish her half-eaten sammy before it got cold.

(It's my paternal instincts; I can't help it.)

With my scorecard stamped, it was off to stop #4 at District Brewing, where I still retained enough sense to pace myself with their 5.1 per cent Charm Pale Ale, which was pineapple-citrus delicious.

Rebellion Brewing was next back on ripped-up Dewdney Street, with this place boasting a super cool vibe, great service, tasty tacos (I needed fuel for the last stop) and their Hazy IPA, which was as good as it gets.

The Holy Grail

At this point there was no way I was not completing my quest, so I started the long walk - 200, 250 miles for sure - to Malty National, which was south of the Warehouse District and right in the middle of a residential neighbourhood.

It seemed to fit in beautifully with the character of the area. Perhaps a lesson for city planners that breweries don't HAVE to be plunked down in industrial and factory zones.

I had Sporty, their six per cent NEIPA and then had another half-pint after the cab took too long to take me back to the hotel.

The next day was spent doing more walking - five hundred miles at least, and uphill both ways - touring the downtown and eventually making my way back to Pile 'O Bones for a pint before I walked across the road to take in a Saskatchewan Roughriders football game.

The atmosphere was electric - they take Rider Pride seriously out here - and the good guys won.

All in all, it was a damn good trip.  I already know the beer scene is awesome. Maybe next time there will be snakes, even if have to walk a thousand miles to find them.