Doug Dolan's Blog

 

INTRODUCTION

The complex squatted on land dredged from the adjacent river bed. Inthe spring, the saturated earth threatened to swallow the mill and the fewadjacent houses; The Summer heat baked the earth while listless winds wanderedthe grounds.

            My youthful view wasfrom the grimy windows of an ancient school bus groaning past the site withdepressing regularity. As a sullen teen, I knew the mill absently as the placewhere Dad worked. Actually, he didn't work "in" the mill. He was thebookkeeper/paymaster in the company office a few hundred yards up the street. Afew years later, when I needed work to pay student loans; the mill gave mesteady employment at a fair wage.

            It has been shutteredfor decades and forgotten by many except retirees and the bank that seized theassets in a bankruptcy claim.

 

In the late eighties and onward, many forestry and mining companies inthe Miramichi region shared similar fates. Raw material became unprofitable toaccess or process. With outdated equipment and shifting markets, manyindustries collapsed.

Economic and political variables play out withlittle regard for employees and citizens. People are left to stare at rustingmachinery and collapsing buildings. They have a brief time to reflect on theirlives and income before they drift to the next era in their community or leaveit. The Miramichi region has experienced the vagaries of primary industriessince the 1800s.

This story offers an alternate perspective. Itfollows four generations of the Burchill family, who created a lumber dynastystretching over one hundred forty years. The narrative draws from a variety ofsources, including John Burchill and his father, Senator Percy Burchill.

Through the experiences of successivegenerations, this account describes these men as entrepreneurs and communitysupporters.

The author gratefully acknowledges DerekBurchill (John’s son). His cooperation was essential in making much of thematerial available.

The Burchill story is compelling. Theirsuccesses and failures are intrinsically tied to the people of Miramichi,specifically the residents of the small village of Nelson, where the mill waslocated.

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE - Beginnings

The story begins onBeaubear’s Island (Quoomeneegook), or "Island of Pines" as itwas known to the Migmaw people. Less than 3 km long and 1 km wide,it’s at the confluence of the Northwest Miramichi and Southwest Miramichirivers. Towering White Pines still form a canopy over most of the island. Forthe Mi’gmaw, it was their living and hunting grounds for a thousand yearsbefore the appearance of Scottish settlers led by William Davidson.

Davidson was the firstnon-indigenous person to establish a community on Beaubear’s. His effortsincluded clearing a portion of the island, harvesting the White Pine for theBritish Navy, and setting up a fisheries industry. An Acadian populationfollowed after their expulsion by the British from the area we know as NewBrunswick and Nova Scotia.

 

 

General CharlesBoishebert the island’s namesake) led 900 Acadians from Nova Scotia in a desperateattempt to find a new home. They were not prepared for the harsh climate.

Inthe first winter of 1657, it is estimated, two hundred individuals died ofmalnutrition and scurvy. A couple of years later, The British, in a show offorce and retribution, massacred most of the others, including women andchildren.

Theisland remained unoccupied for the next century. In the early 1800s, the Irishsettled on Beaubear’s Island. In 1826, six-year-old George Burchill peered overa ship’s railing as it made its way along the Miramichi River. George, his twobrothers, and two sisters could barely contain their excitement. Their parentspaired the anticipation with uncertainty. Unlike the generation of Irishemigrants who followed, starvation from famine was not the motivator. TheBurchills left behind their comfortable home and way of life in Bandon,Ireland.

Thefather, Thomas, chose to bring his young family to the sparsely populatedcountry so they would know the value of creating a new life for themselves.

As he matured, George didnot disappoint his parents. He began work as a clerk while still in school.

JosephRussell, a local entrepreneur and shipbuilder, frequented the store where theyoung Burchill worked. He noticed the boy’s energy and efficiency. In 1840, hehired George as a clerk, and in less than seven years, Burchill had risen toBusiness Manager, and worked closely with John Harley, the young, ambitiousMaster Builder. The two became friends. They began to share a vision of one daycreating their shipbuilding company. Their first loyalty remained with Russell,who willingly volunteered his knowledge as a businessman and shipbuilder.

Burchilland Harley were enthusiastic students of the older man. Russell was aconscientious person who worked hard to improve the lot of his employees andthe community.

Hewas also a devout Mormon who attempted to recruit followers. The effort was metwith resentment from the predominantly Irish Catholic residents. At onegathering of the small Mormon flock, a band of hooligans broke into themeeting. They ridiculed the participants and beat Russell so severely that hegave up the pulpit.

Thepersecution of those he had helped weighed heavily on him, and Russell decidedto move his family to Beaubear’s Island to. Coincidental to his move, thetimber market was low. The once-thriving Cunard yard went broke. And with itthe savings of many residents of Chatham. Cunard was the de facto banker beforethe established institutions. Joseph Russell saw the future that did notinclude him. On June 24, 1850, he set sail for the USA on the Omega, the lastvessel he had constructed. Before he left, he negotiated the sale of hisboatyard and inventory to Burchill and Harley.

Itwas not the transition they anticipated but the two men met the challengehead-on. They introduced efficiencies in the boatbuilding process.

They reasoned, aship’s life could be expanded and thus made more profitable. Harley andBurchill built sturdy and reliable craft and they insured them adequately. Theyproduced nine square-rigged ships weighing 500 to over 1000 tons. The featwould be herculean by today’s standards when considering the rudimentaryconstruction tools. Two of their vessels, "Ocean Bride" and"Equator," carried cargo worldwide for decades. 

 

Mrs.King, my Home room teacher, is getting us to write about an important time ofthe year that we think is special. She feels that remembering those things ispositive and helpful for people. It builds character. I don’t know what allthat means, but if we do a good job, we won’t have to take the English exam, soI’m writing about Christmas.

Todayis December 2, 1979. My name is John. I am fifteen years old. We don’t use lastnames, don’t know why. I have a brother, James. He is my twin. I mention himbecause the things I describe, he is also involved. Linda and Gail are my oldersisters. We live with our parents, Earl and Julia, in the village of Nelson,New Brunswick. It seems the same as other villages, but I don’t know. I livednowhere else. A lot of people work at the nearby pulp and paper mills. Manypoor families remain. We don’t live in a mansion, but we got it pretty good.

I’mgoing to start my story here. That other stuff Mrs. King calls background, andshe says it is important. Christmas means much to our family and neighbours.It’s way different from what goes on in the cities you see on TV. There are nobig shopping places. Kmart and Zellers are the biggest. There aren’t any fancyrestaurants. At The Queensway in Newcastle, you can sit down and enjoydelicious burgers and fries. Dad says we may not be dollar-rich, but we havelots of what counts. Anyway, back to my story.

 

 

 

Weget ready for the season in mid-October with our family making meat pies. Theyare not just any meat pies. They are tourtières, a French-Canadian dish, madewith minced pork, veal or beef, wild game and potatoes. My grandmother (Mom’smother) is an Acadian. She taught her children learned to make them. Now we areanother generation keeping a tradition alive. Mom buys meat at the Coop storebecause there is more choice and it’s cheaper. James and I set rabbit snaresin late October after a full moon frost. We usually get a few and put them inour home freezer. Rabbit meat is tender and tastes great.

Ona Friday night, in early November, Mom brings out the crank grinder, which hasbeen in our family’s house for generations. The cast-iron design is perfect forits one purpose. Mom arranges the fresh meat on the counter. We cut each pieceinto one-inch cubes. She watches the operation like a Sargent Major. Aftercubing, we take turns adding the pieces to the grinder and turning the handle.It’s tiring after a while.

 Twolarge pots are pre–heated on the stove. Potatoes from our garden are cut upand boiled. Mom puts in onions, summer savoury and spices in amounts shefigures from experience. During the two to three hours of cooking, thedelicious aroma swirls around the kitchen.

Thecooking extravaganza happens on a weekend, so we get to stay up late and help.Most times, we crank out thirty pies. That is a lot of work, but we have plentyof laughs. When the cooking job is done and everything is cleaned, we are readyto hit the hay. Mom prepares the pastry late into the night. We tried to do it,but it kept coming apart, so she gave up showing us. She makes moulding androlling the pastry look easy. Meat pies filled the counter space and the tablewhen we came down for breakfast.

 

 

Afterthe pies cooled, we printed “Merry Christmas” on labels; Gail does this becauseshe’s the best printer. We fill the chest freezer in the back porch and the onein the refrigerator. The second big part of our Christmas planning happens inmid-November. That is when James and me go tipping. I don’t mean like inNewfoundland, where kids sneak at night and tip cows over while they’resleeping. I just thought of that. Kinda dumb but funny. Fir tips, used forwreath-making, are what we get. The woods are just across the road. We use thebig Ski-Doo that Dad has for his work as a forest ranger. He sometimes needs tofind lost or injured people. He trained us in orienteering and survival skills.

When choosing firtrees, we look for ones with many healthy branches and soft tips. To keep the treesgrowing healthy, we prune branches at different heights. To reach the top,someone must climb the tree. James is smaller. He can scramble like a cat andI’m not keen on going up too high. I think it’s true that twins are closer thanregular brothers and sisters. We watch out for each other and seem to know whatthe other is thinking.

Webring the fir branches and some white pine boughs home and put them on the backporch where it’s cold. They stay fresh. Mom and her sisters use the boughs tomake wreaths. The tradition began with our aunt Ovilda. She learned it from herolder neighbour. Our house gets lively when Mom and her sisters come for wreathnight. Mom sets out a big feed with clam chowder and a lot of sweets. Theyenjoyed conversation and laughter. They finished decorating, laughing as theyleft.

 

 

 

Thenext day, we get the boughs of white pine that we collected with the fir. Wetied the boughs together with a red bow in the middle. Over each downstairsdoorway frame, we put the decorations. We placed the wreaths in the windowsoverlooking the busy main road. On the bottom centre of each, we attach a smallclip-on battery light. They look nice and the fresh smell of fir and pine iseverywhere.

Thethird big preparation for us explains why we made all those meat pies. Myparents are active in our church. Folks here are not poor, but some familieshave a hard time getting by. The Coop displays a Christmas food drive noticenear mid-November, alongside a donation bin. Someone makes a gift list. Myfather and some villagers know who is having a rough time. A week beforeChristmas, they collect the groceries and the Coop donates a turkey for eachfamily. That all ends up in the “Front Room” at home. We keep the fancyfurniture there for special events, such as Mom’s card parties and visits.Following the list, Dad, Mom, and others fill about twenty-five boxes.

Twodays before Christmas, Dad, James, and I load our car for the deliveries. Ourold car seems to work better on that day with a magical power. The “sleigh”driver is Dad and I guess we are the elves wearing Christmas stocking hats. Webegan at nine, handling boxes with care and courtesy when we deliver to thehouses.  It’s like Dad says,

“Poverty isn’t prettyboys. Some of these folks may look and sound rough. But remember, that doesn’tmake them any less than us.”

We start in the morningto get to all the places in one day. There we are with Dad, drinking from histhermos of hot tea, sometimes wiping the frost off the windshield to help thewheezing defroster. We take turns sitting in the front seat, listening to CKMRradio and belting out Christmas tunes.James and I inspect each house’s boxlabels. We put the tourtiere on the top, kinda like our special gift to them.It still hits me when I go into the home of a guy or a girl I know from school.I’m nervous but when I see the look of happiness and relief of a parent, I knowit’s right.

OnChristmas Eve, we drive to the church for Midnight Mass. One hundred years ago,builders constructed our church using stones from a quarry downriver. It hasstained glass windows that look nice at night when all the lights are on. Jamesand I do parking attendant stuff before and after Mass. Some folks may have abit too much cheer and forget how to park, but everybody is in a good mood, soit goes well. Even the choir, which sounds like strangling chickens, kicks itup a notch, and it’s not too bad. After we come back from the Mass, we get to enjoysome of the meat pies. They always taste great, especially with chow. Friendsdrop by and we have a good time.

OnChristmas Day, for supper, we have a big turkey with heaping bowls of snow-whitepotatoes, steaming hot gravy, carrots and peas. After the grand feast, theadults go to the “Front Room” to enjoy a plate full of Christmas cookies withcoffee or tea. We kids help serve people. We don’t mind doing it, even whensome folks have too much to drink and act foolish

It takes an hour or soto clear the tables, do the dishes and store leftovers. Our friends who come tothe meal help too. Everybody pitches in. After Mom approves the job, we put onour winter gear and head outside. Snowmobiling is popular, and several fellowshave them. The river is well frozen, with an excellent base of snow providingtraction.

 

 

I’mcoming to the end of this essay. I need to produce a good copy to hand in. Gailsays that a lad named Steve Jobs invented a “personal computer” that is thesize of a textbook. In five years, any family can buy one. Students will typewhile viewing a screen. Learning that would take me years.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS, Mrs. King

PS:don’t mark this too hard.

 Johnwrote this school paper over forty-five years ago. He is a grandfather now. Butthe person and the values behind it have remained unchanged.

 Forsome fortunate people, youth is a time of growth, spent in a secure family.When health and education work together, people pass on the blessings to theirchildren. This pattern continues throughout the generations of residents inthis small community and others in the Miramichi region of New Brunswick.

 

“Christmas On The River” includes stories from the authors childhood growing up in Miramichi, New Brunswick.
Other narratives are taken from personal interviews with a variety of people, including one with his ninety-eight-year-old aunt.
The episodes are an eclectic mixture of sweet, sad, and joyful events that occurred on or near the sprawling Miramichi River in New Brunswick. As well, the river becomes a character for a few of the adventures. Two talented artists richly illustrated the stories

Purchase at Amazon.ca

 I worked for thirty-eight years in education, first as a high school English teacher, then as a manager in various positions within a regional community college system. 

Have you noticed I haven’t used the word “educator”? For years, when someone referred to me as an educator, I felt like a fraud who eventually would be called out. I will explain what I mean by sharing what I have learned about teaching through teachers and students. This story follows an idea introduced early in the collection: seek opportunities to learn from people and experiences.

Before we start, can we take a moment? I promise this isn’t a test. Relax, close your eyes or keep them open. Your choice. Remember a teacher who has helped you move forward in your life. Few of us mature without help from others. After parents, teachers are the adults who probably spend the most time with us as kids. Because of the environment, their relationship with us differs from that of our parents. Let me tell you what life lessons I learned from a few of my teachers.

My elementary teachers were three gentle and kind nuns from the Congregation de Notre Dame (CND). They encouraged this capricious young boy to explore the world around him enthusiastically and delightfully.

My third-grade teacher continued the supportive method. When her father died suddenly in a workplace accident, she used it as a teaching opportunity with her young students. 

Mona returned to our class shortly after the funeral of her dad. She introduced the topic of death so we could understand and patiently allowed us to ask questions on a subject few of our parents could. Her gift to us was empathy. We loved her, and each returned the love in his / her childlike way.

Junior high students present unique challenges to teachers. They have a curiosity and desire to learn that may or may not align with the school curriculum. Hormones drive much of their thinking. The discovery that I was gay compounded my sexual transformation.

It was also when I morphed from a focused, diligent student to one who wanted peer approval above all else. I became the class clown. I was not a good fit for that role. 

One incident whispered about in the hallways for months after occurred in grade eight Math class. Mrs. Laney was the most feared teacher in our school. Her smile was rare and looked more like a scar when it appeared. She was an older widow who did not suffer fools well. I was sitting in the front seat, keen to show my clown side. Mrs. Laney was at the board. She bent down to tie her shoelace. Like the rest of the front-seat students, my attention was on the diversion, hoping it would last.

Just as she stood up, her bra came off, landing on the floor. Without missing a word, she turned to face the board and readjusted herself. Seizing the moment, I signaled to the other students. With lightning speed, 

Mrs. Laney whipped around, wardrobe intact and cuffed me in the back of the head, knocking me out of my seat. I climbed back to my desk, unhurt but humiliated. That ended my clown routine. 

With today’s code of teacher conduct, her actions would cause a stir. In the 1960s classroom, it was a helpful teaching and learning moment.

High school for this young man, struggling to understand his sexual identity, was a bland experience. At this point in my life, if I were to avoid a tormented existence in small-town New Brunswick, I would have to crawl into the closet and wait until I could get away. 

My experience was not unique; undoubtedly, my story would have been very different if I had come out to my family and community. But every disincentive was in place for me to consider that option, including social norms that were blatantly homophobic.

Most of my high school teachers failed to help move me, primarily because they were met by a young man locked in a world of depression. But some saw potential. 

René, a chain-smoking anglophone Quebecer, would roll up his sleeves at the start of history class. He would pace incessantly around the classroom with great conviction and dedication in every sentence. On those days when I was alert, I listened to his every word; other days, when I was too tired or hung over from loading boats at the local pier, he let me sleep. There was no judgment.

Paul, my grade ten English teacher, was tagged as gay. Paul showed up every day and did his best despite snide comments from a rarely disciplined bully who was a hockey player, which set him above the rest of us. 

I learned from Paul the courage to be yourself. But I threw the lesson away, afraid someone would discover I was gay. When I read of his death, I deeply regretted what I had lost in shutting him out.

Jim, the principal of my high school, called me to his office one day. I was in my first year of grade eleven, seriously depressed, and set to fail. He didn’t chastise me or bother with the cheer-up, better times ahead speech. We talked about mutually interesting topics, community and politics. He listened with interest to what I had to say. There was respect and a willingness to hear.

Despite my lackluster academic performance, I was accepted to university. Universities of the seventies were places to explore ideas and careers. I majored in psychology and was encouraged by my instructors to pursue the career, but later learned it could not be my profession. I was fascinated with people’s thinking. But I knew I would lose myself in helping others, leaving us both adrift.

As I neared the end of my undergraduate degree, I did what many do. I panicked. What job could I get with a Bachelor of Arts? I needed a specific skill set to be employed. Law or Education degrees were the following logical options. I knew more employed teachers than lawyers, and they seemed to like their work. It may have seemed like an impulsive decision. Still, forces are directing our lives well beyond our comprehension, as in my case. I spent the next two years in a Bachelor of Education program.

For the first week, I sat in Dr. Susan McNevan’s class, Elementary Education; I wanted out badly. She personified my hypermasculine image of an elementary school teacher, including her fawning, childlike voice. I spent the after-class discussions demeaning her teaching style to my friends and classmates. This quiet, non-assuming lady was jeopardizing my wafer-thin persona of masculinity. She silently removed each stone from the wall I was building to protect myself.

I filled out a course transfer request. A requirement of transferring is that a student meets with the instructor. 

At the appointed time, I knocked on her door, intending the meeting would be brief and direct. Two hours later, I left her office humbled by her ability to listen sincerely to this brash young man. She spoke of what she saw in me as a teacher, often commenting on my assignments and class discussions. Susan took me where I was, with no judgements. That evening, I tore up the transfer request in my dorm room.

Susan was also one of the few who looked behind the curtain to find an unhappy young man. She showed a unique empathy that I still find hard to describe. Eventually, she was the first adult I came out to. I studied and tried to emulate those qualities I saw in her: trust, empathy, respect, and humility. Almost a half-century later, I am proud to report that I am still a student. Thank you, Susan.

After graduation, Dad suggested I apply to teach in the local school district. Shortly, I received an invitation for an interview. The fact that the sole interviewer was the superintendent seemed peculiar. I had expected to meet with several persons who would quiz me on my teaching experience (none), other work experience (summer student), and educational philosophy (working on it). No, just me and the superintendent, who seemed more nervous than I was.

He emphasized the strong working relationship he had with my father. Dad had been a leader on the School Board for three decades. 

Several days later, he called and offered me a full-time position teaching at the regional high school. I casually accepted. The inability to see that I did not have the academic credentials or background to teach English escaped me. I was the poster child for the privileged white male, believing I deserved an award for just showing up. I soon learned I needed more than my father’s name to instruct a high school English class.

It’s time to fast forward again, a bit slower this time and after my first-year teaching. I will fill in a few pieces along the way. Classroom discipline, which often dominates today’s talk of education, was relatively easy for me. 

When I first wrote this paragraph, it was to show that I had incorporated the life lessons my teachers taught me over the years. It would have neatly wrapped up my story. But our lives are like rivers; they find their own paths, seldom direct. At this stage of my life, my persona seemed set. My first evaluation read, “Doug is an outgoing, enthusiastic and hardworking young man. He brings to teaching a no-nonsense approach to classroom management.” That was the outward image I presented. But internally, I had made little progress in accepting the young man hiding from himself.

I survived my first year of teaching. In some ways, I thrived by gradually learning to apply some of the characteristics of a good teacher I had been taught. As often has happened, the right people were there when I needed them.

Carl was the supervising instructor in my practice teaching. He was a unique individual, intelligent and an excellent mentor. Methodical in lesson planning and delivery, he was a teacher’s teacher. The students and their peers respected him. He had a Master’s degree in English and had been teaching for twenty-five years when we met. With his guidance, my practice teaching sessions proved rewarding for the students and me. I later learned he had recommended me for a full-time appointment.

On my first day with him as my Department Head, he offered to share his teaching materials and lessons until I got comfortable. I was stunned. As a novice, I was being given the holy grail! But Carl was no fool.

“Doug, I don’t know how much longer I can teach. I was diagnosed with MS this summer. (He was 44.) I’m losing muscle strength and tire quickly. When I leave, I want to know that the person I guided is here for the students. Teaching is changing. Many instructors your age don’t want to spend the time preparing and teaching. I watched you in practice teaching. You are still rough around the edges, especially when you let some of the local dialect slip out.

“But you are prepared, and you care for the students. You have full access to my material, and if you need more clarification on a lesson, come to me. Is that understood, and will you agree?”

I said yes to both and left Carl’s office, relieved and humbled.

David had been my first-year grade eleven English teacher before we met on my first day at work six years later. He also had a Master’s degree in English. As a lost and bored student, I enjoyed David’s teaching style. He seemed to blow into and around the classroom. He had energy, and his feisty teaching style kept the class on its toes. David’s preparation seemed limited to a few notes scribbled in the corners of the Teachers Plan book.

As coworkers, he and I bonded almost immediately. We shared a quirky sense of humour, which included an irreverent worldview. David believed his coworkers lacked the necessary degree of skepticism and that I might know what he was talking about. He offered me free access to his teaching materials to demonstrate his confidence in appointing me as his consort. 

The fact that our desks were adjacent ensured I could call upon his vast vault of knowledge.

So, there it was, for very different reasons; both Master instructors had adopted this young teacher and would ensure his success. As I matured in the field, I did take pieces of their styles and moulded them to fit my personality. I remain grateful to Carl and David, both of whom, as Shakespeare would say, have “thrown off the shackles of this world.” I hope I did not disappoint them.

I promised to include input from students who helped me craft my career.

Christine was a grade twelve student in the Business program. She had a sincere and lively personality. She was part of a class of students from the Industrial and Clerical programs. The group was on a vocational stream, and English was not a favourite subject. The curriculum included a unit on poetry. I knew this would be an uphill battle.

We talked it over, and with their help, I put together a course that featured lyrical music from our albums. We laid out a list of objectives we would look at in the songs, and each class would feature about four pieces. It was a sensation. I was intrigued by the students’ interpretive skills. They made up for their lack of eloquence by connecting a song’s message and their lives.

 Several years later, I met Christine in a local store. She introduced me to her daughter as “the best English teacher I ever had, and Mr. Dolan, that music thing you did was some nuts!” I hold that comment as a tremendous compliment.

Ricky was a quiet and serious pupil in my grade eleven class. He was a solid second-level student, so when his marks started to slip, I was concerned and talked with him after class. I didn’t want to pry into his personal life. I recalled my angst at that age. I offered an ear should he want it. And I added that he was intelligent with real potential, encouraging him not to be discouraged if things were bad now. They would change if he stayed focused. His marks improved, and he passed easily. 

Twelve years later, Ricky was a senior police officer, and I was the Department Head of Protective Services at a Community College. We were reviewing a small project on which I had agreed to help. 

Wrapping up our discussion, he became quiet and asked if he could share something with me.

“Doug, you may not remember me in grade eleven (I did). My marks were slipping. You took the time to show me you noticed and encouraged me to keep focused. I always remembered that; it helped me get where I am now. Thank you.”

Gregg was one of those students who was a pleasure to work with. Intelligent, polite and focused. Despite being shy, he consistently enjoyed my classes and was always eager to participate. I was reading the provincial news recently and saw that he had been appointed to serve as a judge in the provincial court system. I sent a brief congratulatory email. I was surprised and humbled when he replied, telling me he considered himself extremely fortunate to have me as his teacher. He made particular mention of feeling respected as my student.

I am generally proud of my work in teaching and my relationship with my students. I incorporated many life lessons I was taught as a student and later as a teacher. I am disappointed that the students did not know me as a gay man. They would have seen a more expressive, spontaneous person open to different ideas and people. For those former students whom I may have curtailed their uniqueness, I apologize. And to my former self, I am sorry for not letting your light shine as brightly as it could have. You did your best, and your students are the better for it.

 

On December 14, 1974, twoMoncton police officers, Constables Michael O’Leary and Corporal AurèleBourgeois were shot to death and buried in shallow graves outside of Moncton.They had been searching for the kidnappers of a 14-year-old boy. The effect oftheir deaths on the families and co-workers was immediate and has lasted forgenerations. This historical fiction piece attempts to follow the life of oneof those persons. Names and other information have been changed to protectidentities.

Introduction

The rhythmic hissing of theventilator is strangely calming to the woman holding vigil at his bedside. Lastweek, a nervous young doctor told her that her husband had “multiple cancers”discovered on the CT scan. Like an electrical grid map after a lightningstrike, her mind shut down, unable to assimilate the information. Reg respondedwith determination and desperation that he would “beat this thing.” Now, as helay in a coma, she struggled in an eddy of emotions, trying to connectthe pieces of their life.

Reg Storey was born in southernNew Brunswick. His community offered little employment to a high schooldropout. While still young, he travelled to the old-growth forest of BritishColumbia, where he worked sixteen-hour days. He cut an imposing figure andnever shied away from a co-worker foolish enough to challenge him to a scuffle.Returning to New Brunswick, his reputation as a tough but fair man followed. Hewas hired and trained by the local police force. After completing the program,on a fine summer evening, he met Rita Arsenault at a local dance. Reg was not asubtle man. He spied the pretty young woman as he entered thehall. Abandoning his police buddies and fortified with a few drinks, he walkedover to introduce himself. Rita, who had just moved to the city from her homein Nova Scotia, found the man

 

charming in a rough sort of way.She made room for him among her friends, and the two fell into a conversationlike old companions. He stopped in to visit many times after that. Threemonths later, they sat quietly in the corner of a local café while the snowfell heavily outside.

He couldn’t find a place to resthis big, brawny hands, so he impulsively kept pushing back his thick brownhair. Finally, he got the nerve up to ask young Rita if she would marry him.Without hesitation, she answered yes. Her mother was not thrilled when she wasgiven the news. She liked the polite young man well enough, however, being apoliceman didn’t pay very well, and at the same time, the city was dangerous.

But the young couple weredetermined to be together, and she relented. After a short engagement, theywere married. They settled into their new life with the optimism reserved forthe young. A year later, their first child, Sonya, was born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTERONE

Thursday, December 12, 1974.Mike O’Leary’s patrol car blocked the entrance to the police station with thehood raised. It was 8:10 p.m. He and his partner, Aurèle Bourgeois, weretrying to jump-start the vehicle. Their shift was supposed to start ten minutesago. Aurèle sat in the car reviewing the day shift report. The two men shared afriendship built on a bond of trust, not unusual with police officers. A radiocall can mean split-second decisions resulting in injury or death. Aurèleturned over the ignition while Mike jump-started the solenoid. He came aroundthe front of the car laughing. Aurèle grinned, knowing something was up withhis partner.

“Hey, I know that’s a goodtrick, bud, but I didn’t think it would make you laugh,” said Aurèle.

“In 19 days, this lad is going tobe a corporal! Sarge told me I passed the exam.” Mike’s face beamed.

“Wow, that’s great news. Youworked hard for it, Mike, congrats.” Aurèle jumped from the car and hugged hispartner.

“I won’t be driving old clunkerslike this one. And in 19 days, Angie and I move into that house we have beenlooking at. We are in for some good luck; I can feel it. Let’s get this rustbucket on the road. We will be off for a week after this shift. Time to getready for the best Christmas!” Aurèle swung the car smoothly onto Main Street,humming his favourite Christmas carol.

“Why was the second shift kepton?” Aurèle wondered aloud.

“Yea, I don’t know, but afterthe Sergeant was talking to me, he and the Chief went into a huddle likesomething had them spooked,” responded Mike as much to himself as to hispartner.

 

 

“I don’t remember seeing theChief in the briefing room, after 6:00 p.m. since the Bank of Montrealrobbery last year.”

Their conversation was cut shortby an all-points bulletin. “All units be on the lookout for a 1968 to 1970two-door Cadillac car with a light-beige body and a dark top, New Brunswickplate number Alpha, November, Whiskey, 315—possible Code 11. Use extremecaution. Subjects are armed. Stand by for further bulletins.” The two men looked at each otherwith concern.

“Well, bud, there goes hope fora quiet shift,” commented Aurèle as he stared into the dark December night.

*

The morning of December 13 was cold,and dampness had settled into the small apartment. Rita had been up during thenight with their infant daughter, who was running a fever and had a worrisomecough. Rita glanced at the kitchen clock, 7:00 a.m. Reg was late gettingoff the night shift.

She had heard a lot of sirensthe previous night, they’re probably raiding some bootleggers, shethought absently. A few minutes later, a car door closing announced Reg’sarrival. The pent-up stress in her shoulders began to melt. She put the kettleon the stove and set out his treat of molasses cookies and King Cole tea, hisusual after shifts. Last night, Rita placed the matching teacups, saucers, and sugar bowl onthe table. It was part of a six-piece setting her parents had given them as awedding gift.

Before setting out the tea, Ritalistened for the thud of Reg taking off his boots in the hallway closet. Butinstead, she heard his heavy steps as he hurried to the bathroom. She cockedher head to one side, listening as the tightness returned in her shoulders.Being the wife of a policeman was a challenging transition for Rita. The midnight shifts werethe worst. There were few distractions, and Sonya usually slept. The silencewas broken occasionally by sirens. Even worst still was when a shooting or bigevent caused the police scanner to buzz with activity, like last night. Regdidn’t want her to buy it, but it was her way of being close to him.

When he came into the kitchen,his face was ashen. He dropped heavily onto his chair, rubbing his face as ifto erase a difficult event. "What’s goin’ on Reg?” Rita asked asshe poured the tea. “You look as though you’veseen a ghost.”

“I hope to Christ I haven’t.” he responded ashe picked up his cup with a shaky hand. “It’sbad, Rita, as bad as it gets. A couple of low-lifepunks kidnapped the son of Abe Luckovich, the restaurant owner. Mike andAurèle Bourgeois were out looking, but now nobody knows where theyare." Mike and his wife Angie were part of a circle of friends made upmostly of policemen and spouses. Mike and Reg had worked together when Regfirst joined the Force. The four men were well respected among the front-linecrew and management.

“It’s a full call out. Lads fromanother shift are backing up the call sheet. They couldn’t reach Mike and Aurèleon the radio. When a crew member went to their last known location, the car wasempty, and nobody was around. We think the dirtbags got them.” Standing withthe teapot, Rita suddenly felt weak as she tried to take in what was happening.

Willing herself not to fall, sheslumped into the nearest chair and looked across to her husband, his facecontorted in anxiety. She sensed their quiet, predictable life was tumbling outof control and they were powerless to stop it.

She reached for Reg’s hand. Thespeed which he pulled back caught Rita off guard, leaving her momentarilyconfused and lost. “I’m okay; you don’t need to worry about me,” Reg said with determination, as much to himself as to hiswife. “When we catch those sleazy bastards, we’ll string them up by their balls,” he said, gulping his cup of tea and putting his servicecap and equipment back on. “The Chief says we need everybody on this one. Willyou and the baby be okay, eh? I will call you later.” He picked up a package of Mackintosh cream toffee.Rita made sure one was always on the hall table. It was his stress relieversince he stopped smoking. The start of the police car’s heavy engine wasfollowed by a trail of headlights that swept the wall. He was gone.

Rita turned on the radio todrown the silence and the worried voices in her head. At times like these, shefelt adrift, alone. It was increasingly this way when something threatenedtheir routine. It seemed Reg was trying to shelter her from its effects;instead, it left her feeling shut out, unable to be a full partner in herhusband’s life. The shrill, metallic sound of the telephone pulled her from thedark void into which she was falling.

“Hi, Rita, it’s Angie.” Rita’s throatcontracted, and she again felt light-headed. She struggled to find her voice.The result was a hoarse whisper.

“Hi Angie, how are you holdingup?” she asked.

“I’m not doing well,” was theresponse. “The telephone’s been ringing steadily, and other wives are calling.I know most of them mean well, but Jesus, Rita, I don’t want to be talkin’ witha bunch of nosey crepe hangers.” Angie was from Newfoundland. She and Ritashared the same offbeat view of people and events. They bonded the first timethey met.

“The Chief and his ass lickin’ lap dog SergeantFitzpatrick were here snooping around. Gawd, I can’t stand either of them. TheChief is sayin’ all that syrupy stuff about Mike. Last week, he was ready tocan him when Mike spoke up about cops beating up the bums on St. George Streetfor no reason. And that Fitzpatrick pullin’ out the plastic evidence bag,lookin’ for the bathroom. Does he think I don’t know he was going to get hairsamples from Mike’s hairbrush in case they find him dead?” There was a pause that seemed like an eternity. As muchas she wanted to, Rita didn’t try to fill it. “He’s not dead, is he Rita?” Angie’spleading voice was a whisper now. As her friend’s voice trailed off, Rita foundthe strength in her own. Over the years, this interdependence defined the twofriends.

“Angie, you and I have beenthrough a lot with our husbands. We know they are good men and good cops. Wehave to trust that Mike knows how to take care of himself and Aurèle is thesame way. They are out there doing their job. When Sonya wakes and hasbreakfast, we will come over. You can try and beat me in a game of forty-fives. And I’llbe watching you, don’t cheat!”

Angie responded, her voicefirming up. “Girl, you got to learn to play by Newfie rules. I can teach you,”she replied, cheered.

“We will be over in about anhour.”

Rita hung up the receiver withdread hanging over her, but it was outweighed by her determination to stick by her friend.When she went in to check on Sonya, the baby stood up in her crib, smiling. Ahand on her forehead confirmed the fever had broken in the night. A wave ofrelief washed over the young mother as she gathered the baby in her arms. Thejoy was tempered with concern as she recalled the anxiety Angie was experiencing.

As she changed and bathed Sonya,her thoughts turned to Reg; where was he now? He would be obsessive insearching for his friend. She hoped he would not compromise his own safety inthe hunt. What must he be feeling? The look on his face earlier had frightenedher. A combination of resolve and fear she had not seen in him before. Whywould he not talk about how he was feeling? When they were young, she found thetough, unwavering facade an attractive quality. But now they were married witha child. Their small apartment was cramped, and their limited budget was alwaysstretched. These were thoughts and concerns they should be sharing, but fromother situations, she had learned of Reg’s belief in the division of labour.His was his paid work. Hers was to keep house. The two worlds were not to mix.After breakfast, she bundled up Sonya securely, and they headed down the streetto hold vigil with her friend.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Radio silence had been orderedsince the abandoned police car and Mike’s portable radio were found a milenorth of the city. The fear was that the kidnappers had Bourgeois’ portable and could hear where the units were being directed.

Despite the ban, the radio chattercontinued as officers followed up on dozens of public reports. Reg snatched themic from its holder. “Jesus Christ, boys, stay off the radio. Those bastardsare listening. Call if you have something; otherwise, contact Sarge on alandline.” The radio went silent. Reg was a young officer but respected and, insome cases, feared by all ranks. He and Morel had covered over two hundredmiles since starting the double shift at eight that morning. He glanced at thedim numbers on the car clock to see it was nearly 1:00 a.m. December 15.He hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours, aside from the fitful naps he got inthe break rooms. The adrenaline coursing through his veins would prevent moreuntil they found Mike.

They used Morel’s car to avoidunnecessary attention. They had a portable radio and a cherry light in casethey had to move fast. The rain and snow mix stopped; now a cold front hadmoved in, making driving treacherous. They pulled over to look at a city map.The cords on Reg’s neck felt like live wires as he chewed furiously on thetoffee bar.

“You and Mike were good friends,eh Reg?” Morel attempted to ease the tension.

“What the fuck do you mean bysaying, were?” Even in the muted light, Morel could see the lividity in hispartner’s face. He considered getting out.

“I’m sorry, Reg. I wasn’tthinking straight.” A heavy silence crept between the two men. Several tenseminutes slipped by in silence.

“Yea, Mike and I were wet behindthe ears, rookies. We were sworn in the same day and were partners for a while.Man, that guy’s instincts were keen. He used his head where I, maybe, used myhands too much. Fuck, I did the same as you, talking like he is dead. He isn’t,he can’t be.”

Reg’s voice was lost in a hoarsewhisper. He struggled to get out of the car, feeling it was crumbling aroundhim. Try as he might, but he could not breathe. A sudden and violent weight wascrushing his chest. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body. 

*

Rita and Sonya walked alone onthe street, usually buzzing with morning traffic. Joyful Christmas music playedfrom a small grocery store as they passed. Pretty lighted ornaments dazzledSonya, who was snuggled warmly in her stroller.

She carried on a livelyconversation with herself as they came up to Angie’s house. It was a modesttwo-story building in a quiet part of the city. Mike had worked hard tolandscape the yard, and even in December, it stood out among others. Angie wasa creative seamstress. Her handiwork was evident in the intricately designed curtainsseen through the windows.

Angie opened the front door asRita approached. “Hi! I was watching for you two,” she said excitedly. Shescooped up Sonya, much to the delight of the baby, who was obviouslycomfortable with the routine. “How’s my little princess?” she asked as sherubbed her nose on her belly. This brought squeals of delight from Sonya. Angieand Mike were not able to have their own children and were awaiting word on anadoption application. She had raised several of her siblings after their motherdied from cancer when Angie was fifteen. It was obvious to Rita, watching herdote on Sonya that she would be a wonderful mother.

“The fever broke overnight,”offered Rita. “Themustard plaster you made is a miracle cure. She stopped coughing an hour afteryou left.”

“Yea, I swear byit. Mom used it on all of us, even when we got older. Jesus, the smell!” Theyboth laughed freely for a moment. “I put the tea on and have some of thosemolasses cookies you and Reg like.” Angie said as she placed Sonya on a thickblanket with toys she had bought. “And I took the phone off the hook. Sergeant SnagglePuss said he would send a car over if anything happens.” Rita smothered achuckle at the reference to Sergeant Fitzpatrick as she joined her friend onthe couch.

“It looks like you’ve beencleaning," said Rita, pointing to the mop and pail in the corner withseveral rags.

“I went through the house twice,even the windows. Next thing, I probably will start scrubbing the sidewalk.” Angie repliedas she filled their cups with hot King Cole tea.

“That’s better than watching theTV,” answered Rita.“They are really working hard. Reg came home for afew minutes and is staying on till they find him. I know Mike would be doingthe same if it were him who was missing. They are two peas in a pod for sure.”

“Yes, they are. Remember thattime they did over the upstairs bathroom? The cursing and swearing, mostly Regof course.” The two women laughed fondly at the memory.

Angie’s face darkened. “I knowhe may be dead. We talked about the possibility. He took out a big insurancepolicy, so with the police pension, if he is gone, I will be okay. And you knowMike and his ‘prepare for anything’ motto? He planned and paid for his funeral.He asked Reg to do the eulogy. We were laughing, Father Dolan would have towarn Reg, no cursing.” Angie’s voice fell away as she gazed at Sonya, asleepwith a stuffed toy.

“God, please don’t take him. Imiss him so terribly. What would I have to live for?” Tears streamed freelyfrom her dark eyes. Rita said nothing. But she held her friend firmly andquietly.

*

Reg sat on the frozen groundbeside the car, struggling to breathe against the weight on his chest. Hisuniform was soaked with sweat. Morel crouched attentively beside him. “HereReg, take deep breaths into this bag, slow deep breaths. Pretend you don’tsmell the bologna sandwich my wife packed in my lunch. That’s it, slow andsteady wins the race, deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.” Reg’s breathingslowed and became more regular.

“I don’t know what the hell cameover me. Maybe it’s a heart attack. Christ, this can’t be happening now whenMike needs me.”

“I’m no doctor for sure, but Ithink you may be having a panic attack,” said Morel as he leaned heavily againstthe car door. “The first one I had; I wasfive years on the Force. A neighbourhood kid got run over by a drunk. Twomonths after, I was a mess with flashbacks, panic attacks, the works. Francine,my wife saw it all. When I came off shift one day, she and this nerdy guy werein our kitchen. He is a psychiatrist and they work together in the psych unit.I was super pissed with her. She told me how my crazy behaviour was freakingher out and scaring our baby girl. I think I bawled more that night than I didall my life. Anyways I agreed to talk with Ken. Reg, no shit, I don’t think Iwould have made it without that guy’s help. Francine, she stuck by me. It musthave been so hard for her. I thought that I had to handle everything and showno emotion. That bullshit we men are told has messed up too many good guys.”

Reg’s breathing was more regularnow, and he felt a chill creeping up his back from the frozen ground. He got upslowly. Morel reached down to help his partner up. Reg recoiled, pushing thearm away. “I’m okay, I don’t need help.” He leaned heavily on the car to steadyhimself. “Let’s run up to where this roadmeets the Old Line,” he said brusquely as he wiped the mud off his uniform. Hewalked quickly to the driver’s side and was already on the radio. Morel pickedReg’s cap off the ground, shaking his head; his partner had heard nothing ofwhat he offered.

*

Sonya was awake, gazing at hermother and Angie with that cherub look reserved for infants. Rita lifted herchild from the blanket and placed her gently in her friend’s arms. Thetransformation in Angie’s face was immediate and complete. Sonya raised herchubby arms in delight as her tiny fingers discovered Angie’s face.

“Angie, I know you are in aterrible place. I would do anything to push away the darkness if I could. Thiswill sound crazy, but I wish Reg and I had the love you two have. You havestared the possibility of Mike’s death in the face together and he had thecourage to plan for it.

I do love Reg, but we don’t havewhat you do. He shuts me out anytime crap is coming down the pipe. He thinks hehas to protect me as if I am weaker than him because I am a woman. His dad wasthe same. I imagine it goes back generations. Angie, that’s not love, that’swanting to control, and it’s eating us up. Jesus, what am I doing babbling onwhen I came here for you?” Rita looked over at Sonya and Angie, who always hadthat gift of bringing joy to the little girl. Angie smiled as though recallinga happier time.

“Mike’s dad was a kind andgentle man. He and Mike are the same. They listen more than talk. I do enough talkin’for both of us.” She laughed, then turned away.

Angie shifted her weight on thecouch and stared listlessly out the window. A figure appearing on the walkwayshook her out of her stupor. She bolted for the door and tore it open. The manholding his plumbing tools took a step back in surprise.

“I got the part for the washerMrs. O’Leary. Sorry I should have called ahead. I can come back when it’s moreconvenient.”

“Yes, that would work better. Wewill call you, thanks.” said Rita, who had slid between Angie and the door. Theserviceman nodded and was gone.

Angie slipped back to her seat. “Thanks,Rita. That guy musta’ got a scare from my crazy lady look. Man, I am so woundup.”

“That’s nothing,” said Rita. “The same guy came to our place to unplug the toilet, lastmonth. I was up half the night trying to open it, and Sonya was bawling like acow left in the back field. I opened the door with a plunger in my hand. Neversaw a man so afraid of a woman!” They broke into spontaneous belly laughs.Sonya, watching from her place, joined in with plenty of giggles. “Okay,” announced Rita; “MissSonya and I are parking our asses here for the night!” she paused, looking overat her friend. Angie’s response was to return her friend’s earlier deep hug.Nothing more was needed.

*

Reg was behind the wheel ofVince Morel’s car as it crept along the streets, now slick with ice. The wipersfought uselessly against the constant freezing rain. “There are too many thingswrong here. It isn’t adding up. The Luckovich kid was kidnapped around 11p.m.Thursday. The family made the money drop at 3:45 a.m. Friday near the Riverviewmall.

Our guys didn’t tap the line thekidnappers used to talk with Sarge and the Chief, so we had no units who couldhave picked them up. On top of that, nobody thought to tell the Mounties. Theycould have set up roadblocks going into Salisbury a few miles away. At leastthe kidnappers released the child, and we know he is safe, but nobody has aclue where the kidnappers disappeared to. I’m not liking this at all Vince. Nowwe hear two of our guys were wasting time tailing the Chief’s own car when theyshould have been looking for the kidnappers. Why was he out there and why didhe not let anybody know? Was he trying to set this up so it would be his show?It’s a Keystone Cops episode and nobody is laughing.”

Morel, who had been silent afterhis partner’s collapse, now came to life. “Reg, what we know is Mike and Aurèlewere tailing the kidnapper’s car after they dropped off the kid and picked upthe ransom money. They called in. That was about 4:00 a.m. Friday. There hasbeen no communication since then. With the kidnappers and our two guysmissing, we can assume the two parties met. And we also have to assume thatsince Mike and Aurèle have not called back, they are still with the kidnappers.We don’t know what happened. Where would they have taken our lads with theransom money?It can’t be far but Mike and Aurèle are extra baggage for them. I’m thinking ithas to be in an area off a side road within a five-mile radius of where we are.”Morel turned the car on to Coverdale Road. He squinted to read thecar’s clock. It read 5:45 a.m. Saturday. “Weare going to search every side road and driveway through to Salisbury. I wasraised not far from here and I know this area like the back of my hand. We won’tquit Reg, we can’t!” Reg began to look at his partner in a different light. Theprivate battle he was fighting had an ally he could trust.

 Al and I met when I was43. He was 38; I think. Truth in gay men online encounters is subjective.That’s where the story begins.

Mylife at forty - three was hanging in a balance, a single misstep threatening aplunge into the unknown. I was married with a wife and child, living in aconservative rural community. He lived an urban life, with his wife anddaughter. We rarely touched on this part of our lives. Our chat room aliases ignoredinconvenient tags like, MGM (married gay male), GMK (Gay Married with Kids). Wedisguised ourselves among the hidden. It was a schizophrenic existence. Ouralternate selves never left our sides, providing ample room for guilt andself-doubt.

Earlyon, I could tell that Al was a doting father to Marion, a high school senior.They would walk their dog around their neighbourhood, and she would chat abouther life. Marion was bright and often challenged his conservative middle-classviews on current events. He was proud of her independent nature. In some ways,I envied their relationship. My son Sheldon was about eight years old. He wasalready showing aspects of what would become his defiant and challengingpersonality.  

Al’s wife, Darlene, was asenior administrator in the private sector. Their relationship and mine wasnearly casual. I think it was the path of least resistance for all concerned.But it doesn’t adequately consider our children’s best interests. As a result,we were left with half-lived lives.

Myjob required travel outside the province. Following a month of onlineconversations, we met. A port city always attracted me. It was at what hadbecome my favourite watering hole over the years, a rowdy downtown Irish barcalled The Split Crow. I was into my second beer when he came through the door.Using pictures we shared (all G rated), he was recognizable at about five feetten inches tall, and his light brown hair was greying at the temples. Movingfrom the bright summer afternoon sun into the cool dark interior of the barcaused him to walk cautiously. We exchanged greetings, friends. He wiped thesweat from his brow, clearly yearning for a more tranquil setting. After acouple of drinks, he relaxed a bit. We talked about the city and its historicharbour. His knowledge of the local area and its significance was impressive.

We talked about our jobs.He was desperately unhappy with his work in a massive government bureaucracy.His work had long since extinguished his initial intellectual curiosity. Iwatched as he scanned the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Apopular local band wound up the crowd for the evening performance. Groups ofyoung men enjoyed a midsummer outing. We surveyed them with a practiced gayman’s eye and jokingly shared a few lurid comments. Had I been solo, I wouldhave chatted up someone who caught my eye and returned the look. I haddiscovered an aspect of my gay character I was unaware of. I was a bit of alone wolf, not interested in banter. Seeing an attractive man, I observed hisgroup comfort level. In my insecurity, I limited myself to masculine-lookingand acting men. I’d approach intriguing individuals, start a conversation, andgauge their reaction.

Al’s strategy tendedtoward passive, preferring observation over approach. At the end of theevening, however, we both agreed, at our age, we were late to the party and nottoo skilled in modern dalliances.

Thatwarm summer night came to define our activities during my visits, peppered withoccasional sojourns to the local gay bars. We interspersed these jaunts withwalking tours of the city and many enjoyable restaurant meals I wouldn’tordinarily visit. This was Al’s world, and he was gracious in sharing it. 

We continued with ourregular emails and occasional phone chats, updating each other about ongoinglife events. Encounters between men who are gay often lead to sexual events.Ours would not go in that direction. We found ourselves in a unique state of findinga trusted friend. When Gary, my future husband, entered my life a few yearslater, it felt like Al had made space for him. He tried to introduce Gary tonew culinary experiences with little success. Undeterred, Al made extra effortsto befriend my young partner, and we three enjoyed lots of laughs andconversations. 

In2004, Al was granted extended sick leave because of his growing depression. Itwas a tremendous relief. He talked about the places he and Darlene would visitwhen Marion went to university the following year. It was the most outwardlyhappy I had ever seen him. I still have a picture of Al shovelling his drivewayafter that year’s massive blizzard. He has this crazy grin and a mound of snowtwice his height behind him. He told me it took three days to clear the snow ashe met neighbours he had never spoken to before. It was a snowy blockparty. 

Abouta month later, Al complained about being tired and unable to catch his breath.After a visit with his doctor, he called me to at my. He was whispering. Iassumed he didn’t want Darlene to hear. He had tested positive for HIV. Hespoke in a cracked and weak voice. Al’s doctor was optimistic about controllinghis condition, but Al hadn’t told Darlene. We talked about how she might handlethe news, and he agreed it was best to share the news with her. The followingweek, he called, sounding more optimistic. His treatment had started and theearly blood results were promising. But weakness consumed him, sapping hisstrength. They agreed not to tell Marion, as it would distract her fromfocusing on end-of-year exams and university applications.

Ivisited Al in the early spring of 2005. A small restaurant, our regular spot,became the setting for our talks and watching others. My first view of him wasshocking. My friend had aged thirty years. His once youthful face was gaunt;his skin, wizened. He wore a winter parka despite the warm day and shuffledwith the gait of a man twice his age. He threw himself onto the chair,exhausted. A wide grin spread across his face at my arrival. If he had seen myshocked look, he didn’t show the isolation he must have felt.

He asked about Gary andhow our relationship was developing. Al being Al, he couldn’t avoid requestingany salacious details I could offer. Satisfied that we were doing well, heleaned in to share his own news. He had full-blown AIDS. Two days before, a scanhad shown lesions on his liver. He reached over and placed his hands over mine.I shivered, unsure if it was because of his chilled skin or the sudden realitythat my friend and I were about to embark on a dark path.

Ilet him take the lead in conversation. He talked about Marion; she hadcompleted her exams and would graduate with honours. His face lit up when hereported her acceptance into the prestigious university’s science program. Shehoped to go into medicine. His unabashed pride as a father was palpable. He hadshared the news of his sickness and prognosis with her. Since his initialdiagnosis, he dreaded the moment, anticipating she would respond with vitrioland bitterness. Instead, she gathered him in her arms and held him, sayingnothing. Life offered him unprecedented solace. We talked a bit more, but itwas apparent he was tiring. He promised to be up for a more extendedconversation during my next visit.

As I walked back to myhotel, I considered Al richly blessed amongst those who suffered. He had a wifeand daughter whose love was steadfast and a person who he could call hisfriend.

Mylast visit with Al was in the late summer. Reviewing work emails, I noticed anunfamiliar address. It was Al’s wife, Darlene. She got my email address from him.I had not met her, preferring to avoid any uncomfortable moments with the wifeof a gay friend. Her message was direct but sincere. Al’s condition haddeteriorated over the past week. Her silence notwithstanding, his physiciandelivered grim news: his life was over. Then the most extraordinary thinghappened: she asked if I would visit him. Al had told her about our friendship,and she felt it was important that I say goodbye. Gary would also be welcome. Iwas astonished.

Two days later, we pulledup in Al’s driveway. Without the circumstances, the event would have feltunreal. Here I was with my partner half my age, visiting a man I had befriendedin a gay chat room. Darlene welcomed us. She directed us to the sunroom, whereAl sat snoozing.

She said he was excitedabout our visit and had insisted on shaving that morning, but even that was toomuch and he had fallen asleep afterward. He didn’t wake up as we came around totake our seats opposite him. His breath was barely audible and came sporadically.Jaundice had discolored his once-tanned skin.

Gary and I whispered soas not to startle him, but Al slowly opened his eyes and smiled his welcomingsmile. We began with our usual banter, which dissipated as the moment weighedon all of us. Then, I did something that still surprises me today. I reachedover, took my friend’s hands, and held them in my own. The warmth seemed tobring Al comfort as a few errant tears slid down his cheeks.

I smoothed them away,realizing how incredibly deep and blue his eyes were. We said nothing for a fewmoments. Words were superfluous. He thanked us for the visit and wondered whatbrought us down his way. I invented a nearby meeting, yet I believe he detectedmy falsehood.

We talked about how wemet and embarrassed Gary by describing some late nights at the gay club. Thevisit was, by necessity, brief. Following Darlene’s signal, we left for supper.He apologized for missing out but promised to join next time. We would all goto a fancy restaurant where Gary could not find hamburgers or fries. I embracedhim, knowing it would be our last. When we reached the front door with Darlene,we heard the soft sound of Al snoring in the warmth of the sun-filled room.

Garycame to the funeral with me. It was an early October day, sunny and mild. Thismarked Gary’s first close friend’s funeral; I worried about his response.Throughout my time as an altar boy, I learned to steady my emotions duringthese events. We took seats near the back of the church. A few moments later,the minister began his walk from the altar to greet the family.

Sometimes, despite ourbest intentions, life throws us off balance. The choir’s hymn marked thatmoment for me. A tidal bore came rushing against the wall I had built toprotect myself from feeling my emotions. The wall disintegrated. Theoverwhelming emotion left me gasping for air. I struggled against drowning ingrief. It was the loss of my friend, combined with the reality I could not hidehow I was feeling. I felt exposed and alone. Gary’s hand on mine was like a hotknife. I recoiled, leaving him startled. The emotional cascade slowed as thechoir took their seats. I heaved myself into the pew, spent. While the ministercontinued the service, I tried to shore up my defences against anotheremotional tsunami. But as the service concluded with a familiar hymn, I wasonce again caught in roiling emotions. 

I attempted to pay myrespects to Darlene, but the result was a jumble of words which did nothing butput her in an awkward position. I left the church as people stared at thisperson, probably thinking he was one of Al’s sex partners. It was a mixture ofsympathy and scorn. The embarrassing event left me struggling to understandwhat had happened to my defence shield, which had kept me fortified fordecades. I don’t think I had the resources to pursue an answer. I wasunprepared.

Reflectingupon twenty years of considerable personal development, I recall that day.First, I should shift the focus off me and onto Gary. Picture a young, recentlyout gay man’s love for a closeted, older married man. You try to find yourplace in the hall of mirrors built by this older man and then you meet one ofhis friends, who is also married and dying from AIDS. At his funeral, you seeyour partner collapse before you. We have remained together and now, as myhusband, with quiet determination, he is helping me to replace that emotionalfacade with self acceptance. There are lots of retreats on the battle field butknowing he is there gives me confidence in finding the real me.

PostScript addition: Iadd this note to examine Al’s fatal pursuit of another man’s affections and spentthe years I spent playing sexual roulette, hiding from myself. How does ithappen that I’m the one who got to meet this young man whose love has outlastedmy growing-up period?

Compassion characterizedAl’s friendship. Maybe he also loved me. Self-absorbed, I disregarded it;return was impossible, undesirable. But he stayed and taught me more than helearned. My aging mind recalls a poem. “The Prayer of an Unknown Soldier” speaksto our feeble attempts to design our own world while ignoring the chances ofgrowing from the negative circumstances that befall us. The poem reflects whatAl and Gary have shown me. “I asked for all things so I might enjoy life, I wasgiven life so that I might enjoy all things…I am among all men most richlyblessed.” Allan Gray rest in a peaceful graveyard with a granite marker. Hiswife Darlene’s name is inscribed beside his.

  

Al and I met when I was43. He was 38; I think. Truth in gay men online encounters is subjective.That’s where the story begins.

Mylife at forty - three was hanging in a balance, a single misstep threatening aplunge into the unknown. I was married with a wife and child, living in aconservative rural community. He lived an urban life, with his wife anddaughter. We rarely touched on this part of our lives. Our chat room aliases ignoredinconvenient tags like MGM (married gay male), GMK (Gay Married with Kids). Wedisguised ourselves among the hidden. It was a schizophrenic existence. Ouralternate selves never left our sides, providing ample room for guilt andself-doubt.

Earlyon, I could tell that Al was a doting father to Marion, a high school senior.They would walk their dog around their neighbourhood, and she would chat abouther life. Marion was bright and often challenged his conservative middle-classviews on current events. He was proud of her independent nature. In some ways,I envied their relationship. My son Sheldon was about eight years old. He wasalready showing aspects of what would become his defiant and challengingpersonality.  

Al’s wife, Darlene, was asenior administrator in the private sector. Their relationship and mine wasnearly casual. I think it was the path of least resistance for all concerned. Butit doesn’t adequately consider our children’s best interests. As a result, wewere left with half-lived lives.

Myjob required travel outside the province. Following a month of onlineconversations, we met. A port city always attracted me. It was at what hadbecome my favourite watering hole over the years, a rowdy downtown Irish barcalled The Split Crow. I was into my second beer when he came through the door.Using pictures we shared (all G rated), he was recognizable at about five feetten inches tall, and his light brown hair was greying at the temples. Movingfrom the bright summer afternoon sun into the cool dark interior of the barcaused him to walk cautiously. We exchanged greetings, friends. He wiped thesweat from his brow, clearly yearning for a more tranquil setting. After acouple of drinks, he relaxed a bit. We talked about the city and its historicharbour. His knowledge of the local area and its significance was impressive.

We talked about our jobs.He was desperately unhappy with his work in a massive government bureaucracy.His work had long since extinguished his initial intellectual curiosity. Iwatched as he scanned the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Apopular local band wound up the crowd for the evening performance. Groups ofyoung men enjoyed a midsummer outing. We surveyed them with a practiced gayman’s eye and jokingly shared a few lurid comments. Had I been solo, I wouldhave chatted up someone who caught my eye and returned the look. I haddiscovered an aspect of my gay character I was unaware of. I was a bit of alone wolf, not interested in banter. Seeing an attractive man, I observed hisgroup comfort level. In my insecurity, I limited myself to masculine-lookingand acting men. I’d approach intriguing individuals, start a conversation, andgauge their reaction.

Al’s strategy tendedtoward passive, preferring observation over approach. At the end of theevening, however, we both agreed, at our age, we were late to the party and nottoo skilled in modern dalliances.

Thatwarm summer night came to define our activities during my visits, peppered withoccasional sojourns to the local gay bars. We interspersed these jaunts withwalking tours of the city and many enjoyable restaurant meals I wouldn’tordinarily visit. This was Al’s world, and he was gracious in sharing it. 

We continued with ourregular emails and occasional phone chats, updating each other about ongoinglife events. Encounters between men who are gay often lead to sexual events.Ours would not go in that direction. We found ourselves in a unique state of findinga trusted friend. When Gary, my future husband, entered my life a few yearslater, it felt like Al had made space for him. He tried to introduce Gary tonew culinary experiences with little success. Undeterred, Al made extra effortsto befriend my young partner, and we three enjoyed lots of laughs andconversations. 

In2004, Al was granted extended sick leave because of his growing depression. Itwas a tremendous relief. He talked about the places he and Darlene would visitwhen Marion went to university the following year. It was the most outwardlyhappy I had ever seen him. I still have a picture of Al shovelling his drivewayafter that year’s massive blizzard. He has this crazy grin and a mound of snowtwice his height behind him. He told me it took three days to clear the snow ashe met neighbours he had never spoken to before. It was a snowy blockparty. 

Abouta month later, Al complained about being tired and unable to catch his breath.After a visit with his doctor, he called me to at my. He was whispering. Iassumed he didn’t want Darlene to hear. He had tested positive for HIV. Hespoke in a cracked and weak voice. Al’s doctor was optimistic about controllinghis condition, but Al hadn’t told Darlene. We talked about how she might handlethe news, and he agreed it was best to share the news with her. The followingweek, he called, sounding more optimistic. His treatment had started and theearly blood results were promising. But weakness consumed him, sapping hisstrength. They agreed not to tell Marion, as it would distract her fromfocusing on end-of-year exams and university applications.

Ivisited Al in the early spring of 2005. A small restaurant, our regular spot,became the setting for our talks and watching others. My first view of him wasshocking. My friend had aged thirty years. His once youthful face was gaunt;his skin, wizened. He wore a winter parka despite the warm day and shuffledwith the gait of a man twice his age. He threw himself onto the chair,exhausted. A wide grin spread across his face at my arrival. If he had seen myshocked look, he didn’t show the isolation he must have felt.

He asked about Gary andhow our relationship was developing. Al being Al, he couldn’t avoid requestingany salacious details I could offer. Satisfied that we were doing well, heleaned in to share his own news. He had full-blown AIDS. Two days before, a scanhad shown lesions on his liver. He reached over and placed his hands over mine.I shivered, unsure if it was because of his chilled skin or the sudden realitythat my friend and I were about to embark on a dark path.

Ilet him take the lead in conversation. He talked about Marion; she hadcompleted her exams and would graduate with honours. His face lit up when hereported her acceptance into the prestigious university’s science program. Shehoped to go into medicine. His unabashed pride as a father was palpable. He hadshared the news of his sickness and prognosis with her. Since his initialdiagnosis, he dreaded the moment, anticipating she would respond with vitrioland bitterness. Instead, she gathered him in her arms and held him, sayingnothing. Life offered him unprecedented solace. We talked a bit more, but itwas apparent he was tiring. He promised to be up for a more extendedconversation during my next visit.

As I walked back to myhotel, I considered Al richly blessed amongst those who suffered. He had a wifeand daughter whose love was steadfast and a person who he could call hisfriend.

Mylast visit with Al was in the late summer. Reviewing work emails, I noticed anunfamiliar address. It was Al’s wife, Darlene. She got my email address from him.I had not met her, preferring to avoid any uncomfortable moments with the wifeof a gay friend. Her message was direct but sincere. Al’s condition haddeteriorated over the past week. Her silence notwithstanding, his physiciandelivered grim news: his life was over. Then the most extraordinary thinghappened: she asked if I would visit him. Al had told her about our friendship,and she felt it was important that I say goodbye. Gary would also be welcome. Iwas astonished.

Two days later, we pulledup in Al’s driveway. Without the circumstances, the event would have feltunreal. Here I was with my partner half my age, visiting a man I had befriendedin a gay chat room. Darlene welcomed us. She directed us to the sunroom, whereAl sat snoozing.

She said he was excitedabout our visit and had insisted on shaving that morning, but even that was toomuch and he had fallen asleep afterward. He didn’t wake up as we came around totake our seats opposite him. His breath was barely audible and came sporadically.Jaundice had discolored his once-tanned skin.

Gary and I whispered soas not to startle him, but Al slowly opened his eyes and smiled his welcomingsmile. We began with our usual banter, which dissipated as the moment weighedon all of us. Then, I did something that still surprises me today. I reachedover, took my friend’s hands, and held them in my own. The warmth seemed tobring Al comfort as a few errant tears slid down his cheeks.

I smoothed them away,realizing how incredibly deep and blue his eyes were. We said nothing for a fewmoments. Words were superfluous. He thanked us for the visit and wondered whatbrought us down his way. I invented a nearby meeting, yet I believe he detectedmy falsehood.

We talked about how wemet and embarrassed Gary by describing some late nights at the gay club. Thevisit was, by necessity, brief. Following Darlene’s signal, we left for supper.He apologized for missing out but promised to join next time. We would all goto a fancy restaurant where Gary could not find hamburgers or fries. I embracedhim, knowing it would be our last. When we reached the front door with Darlene,we heard the soft sound of Al snoring in the warmth of the sun-filled room.

Garycame to the funeral with me. It was an early October day, sunny and mild. Thismarked Gary’s first close friend’s funeral; I worried about his response.Throughout my time as an altar boy, I learned to steady my emotions duringthese events. We took seats near the back of the church. A few moments later,the minister began his walk from the altar to greet the family.

Sometimes, despite ourbest intentions, life throws us off balance. The choir’s hymn marked thatmoment for me. A tidal bore came rushing against the wall I had built toprotect myself from feeling my emotions. The wall disintegrated. Theoverwhelming emotion left me gasping for air. I struggled against drowning ingrief. It was the loss of my friend, combined with the reality I could not hidehow I was feeling. I felt exposed and alone. Gary’s hand on mine was like a hotknife. I recoiled, leaving him startled. The emotional cascade slowed as thechoir took their seats. I heaved myself into the pew, spent. While the ministercontinued the service, I tried to shore up my defences against another emotionaltsunami. But as the service concluded with a familiar hymn, I was once againcaught in roiling emotions. 

I attempted to pay myrespects to Darlene, but the result was a jumble of words which did nothing butput her in an awkward position. I left the church as people stared at thisperson, probably thinking he was one of Al’s sex partners. It was a mixture ofsympathy and scorn. The embarrassing event left me struggling to understandwhat had happened to my defence shield, which had kept me fortified fordecades. I don’t think I had the resources to pursue an answer. I wasunprepared.

Reflectingupon twenty years of considerable personal development, I recall that day.First, I should shift the focus off me and onto Gary. Picture a young, recentlyout gay man’s love for a closeted, older married man. You try to find yourplace in the hall of mirrors built by this older man and then you meet one ofhis friends, who is also married and dying from AIDS. At his funeral, you seeyour partner collapse before you. We have remained together and now, as myhusband, with quiet determination, he is helping me to replace that emotionalfacade with self-acceptance. There are lots of retreats on the battlefield, butknowing he is there gives me confidence in finding the real me.

PostScript addition: Iadd this note to examine Al’s fatal pursuit of another man’s affections and spentthe years I spent playing sexual roulette, hiding from myself. How does ithappen that I’m the one who got to meet this young man whose love has outlastedmy growing-up period?

Compassion characterizedAl’s friendship. Maybe he also loved me. Self-absorbed, I disregarded it;return was impossible, undesirable. But he stayed and taught me more than helearned. My aging mind recalls a poem. “The Prayer of an Unknown Soldier” speaksto our feeble attempts to design our own world while ignoring the chances ofgrowing from the negative circumstances that befall us. The poem reflects whatAl and Gary have shown me. “I asked for all things so I might enjoy life, I wasgiven life so that I might enjoy all things…I am among all men most richlyblessed.” Allan Gray rest in a peaceful graveyard with a granite marker. Hiswife Darlene’s name is inscribed beside his.

       Illustration by Terry Matthews

October 07, 1825 7:30am

Thedawn cracked like a scar on the cloudless sky. Dew lay miserly on the few remainingplants. It had been four months since rain had fallen. John Jackson tended to hisduties as Sexton of St. Paul's Anglican Church in Bushville. The small butdedicated congregation had erected the building in the Spring and Summer of1825. It sat prominently on a knoll close to the river. John was honoured whenhe was asked to oversee its maintenance and operation. He and his wife Ann hadlived in the Miramichi Valley for a decade. They had made the dangerous journeyfrom their native Scotland with two sons, William and Charles. The boys,

nowfifteen and thirteen, were joined by three brothers and a sister (Margaret). Theperiod leading to and a year after the voyage from Edenborough had beenunseasonably cold with constant rain. The crops failed, forcing the Jacksons andthousands of other Europeans to escape famine. A volcanic eruption on MountTambora, Indonesia, the previous year had spread a layer of ash across theglobe, blocking out the sun for months. The memory of that uncertain period haddissolved with the promise of a brighter future for the young couple and theirchildren.

11:00am

John answered a loudrapping on the vestry door. A terror-stricken resident grabbed John’s coat andpulled him outside, pointing wordlessly to the western horizon. The azure bluesky was erased by a coal black cloud thirty kilometres wide and towering kilometreshigh. His first thoughts were the safety of Ann and the children. He raced totheir home and directed William and Charles to gather the bedding and soak it inthe river. He and the boys worked to place the wet materials on the wooden roof.Ann was busy distracting the younger children while leading them to the cellar.He reasoned their stone house would not be a source of ignition. If the firejumped across the one-quarter-mile river, they would be secure in the earthen crawlway.

2:00 p.m.

Wordhad come from Nelson that Malcom's Chapel, the Catholic Church, had beendestroyed. In a miraculous turn of events, the rest of the community wasspared. Several ships loaded with masts bound for England had been caught in arain of flame and were charred to their water lines. Like most Miramichiresidents, John Jackson had no experience with forest infernos. But he hadstudied the historical documents brought from congregants' homes to make achurch library.

Oneof the papers described previous incidents which occurred in the region. Herecalled with fear and some hope one of the characteristics of a big blaze.Crowning is a product of the firestorm. The superheated embers are carried atextended intervals often giving the perception that a structure has combustedspontaneously. Jackson prayed fervently that this phenomenon would spare himand his family. John looked across to Rosebank and Douglastown. He wept as hewitnessed a single sheet of flame nearing forty metres in height and kilometresin length bearing down on the area. Across the half-kilometre distance, he heardthe shrieks of terror from man and beast as they sought a common refuge in thewater.

Johnbegan to realize that the Bushville side was not experiencing the worsteffects.

His thoughts turned tohow he might save his church. He ran the short distance to the church, whereearlier he had placed buckets of water around and sheets provided byneighbours. He had placed a ladder high enough to gain access to the peak. Jacksonspent the remainder of the night laying the wet materials across the roof. Thevaliant effort worked, and as the grey smoke filled, dawn broke, he felt amoment of joy and triumph. As the black curtain diminished, John recognized afellow parishioner half stumbling up the wagon path from the direction ofJohn's home. His clothing was burnt, and his face blackened. His voice was strangledfrom acrid smoke as he told Jackson the unimaginable news that Ann and three oftheir beautiful children were dead.

 

October 08, 1825, 8:00am

JohnJackson looked over the site of his massive defeat. His lovely Ann and three oftheir children were gone forever. Trapped in their stone house, they suffocatedas the waves of flame stole any oxygen in the area. The remaining children hadbeen taken to a temporary hospital. The sound of the painful screams callingfor their mother reverberated in his head. Mercifully, they later died fromtheir injuries.

Conversationswith his God, when he pondered risking the safety of his family to save his Church, left him wanting. Jackson died alone six months later in February 1826. Ann andher children are buried in the cemetery of St. Paul's Anglican Church, which standsintact today, a conflicted symbol of religious devotion and the recognition ofthe price one person had paid for it.

 

 

Conclusion

Statisticshelp explain the scope of the 1825 Miramichi fire. Sixteen thousand square km(6,000 sq. miles) of forest land was burned in an area extending approximately150 km (90 miles) northeast of Fredericton. The track of the fire moved toNewcastle, Douglastown, Bartibogue on the west and Nelson, Bushville, Chathamand Napan to the east. One hundred and sixty people died. Nine hundred homesand structures were destroyed.

Overthe years, an idealized version of the recovery has become a legend. TheMiramichi is portrayed as a Phoenix, rising from the ashes, leading to there-emergence of a prosperous region. The truth is somewhere in the middle. Thetown of Newcastle suffered the most deaths and property loss followed closelyby the hamlet of Douglastown. The initial fear that 3,000 woodsmen spreadthroughout the Miramichi Valley had perished was proven unfounded.

 In addition, there was a common belief thatthe maelstrom had consumed all the lands. That also was overstated. Crowningand spot fires leave sections of the forest untouched. A survey five yearsafter the fire concluded that a large portion of marketable timber remainedintact.

Thesenotations do not diminish the courage and determination of the Miramichi people.Many immigrants decided to remain and rebuild their independent communities andeventually their commitment to a united city over a century later. As time wenton, the population of the Miramichi Valley did not match the growth ofneighbouring counties, but it gradually recovered. The export of solid whitepine masts to the British Navy dropped. That was a result of negative pressmore than a reduction in fibre availability. The vacuum was taken up as Britainexpanded its colonial possessions, needing more ships and supplies. And so, thelapse in exports was short-term.

TheMiramichi region eventually assumed its place in the province of New Brunswickand the Confederation of Canada. The fire of October 7, 1825, has become afootnote of our history. The strength and determination of the people continueto grow.

 

NOTE: The author gratefully acknowledges AlanMacEachern's "The Miramichi Fire: A History" as a source document.

 December 1968, I was fifteen years old. It is an age that blends personal doubt with the potential of discovery. The previous year, I tacitly accepted I was gay and began to move parts of me into a dark closet.

I saw life events differently earlier on than many of my peers. I enjoyed reading books beyond my grade level. Where many kids preferred to be in a group, I was comfortable being by myself. The Miramichi River by the family home was my playground.

While I was comfortable with seclusion, an odd thing began happening. I was becoming the reluctant leader of a misfit group I hung with. It may have had something to do with being physically rugged and able to talk my way into and out of situations. (Locals called it “the gift of the gab.”)

On a sunny, cold December day, one of my friends, Michael, came by to announce that a skating party was being held that afternoon at our local outdoor rink. Michael had a serious nerdy look that would become popular in movies featuring the 1960’s. He was a good guy. But he always had a nervous chatter going on. On this day, he was really wound up. 

“It’s going to be a blast. I heard there is supposed to be music. And you know there will be lots of hot girls,” he said. “C’mon, get your skates. I will wait for you.”

Skating was near the top of the many athletic skills I had not mastered. Still, my mother had overheard the conversation and was standing behind and prodding me to go.

“That’s a good idea, Douglas. You need to take a break from reading. Your skates are up in the attic.”

While my older brothers were good skaters, they had not taken the time to pass along the skill. I was okay with that until this moment. Michael persisted, and I knew Mother would not give up, so I reluctantly climbed into the attic for the skates. And, of course, there they were, hung up with the other pairs belonging to my brothers. I looked them over, hoping to find them dull and rusted, but not a chance. They were shiny and sharp. 

I then remembered that Mom told my oldest brother, John, to bring mine with him to be sharpened. I was out of options and cursed as the closing attic door narrowly missed hitting me on the head.

Michael and I walked the short distance to the community rink. He was nattering on like a wind-up toy monkey while I was getting a headache. My final hope was that the school custodian, cranky old Bert, had forgotten to flood the rink the previous night, or maybe a hole had opened up and swallowed the ice!

As we rounded the corner, we met a bee hive of activity with parents dropping off their kids. The rink was packed with skaters, and the music was blaring. 

Michael saw the rest of our oddball gang and walked over to them, immediately chattering about the many “hot babes” on the ice. Michael and the other guys started toward the warming shack, where most people put on their skates.

  I chose a snow bank to avoid attention. I slowly pulled on the skates and began lacing them up.

“You guys go ahead. I will be out in a minute,” I said, trying to sound casual. “My laces are all knotted up.”

I understand the theory of skating is to glide by pushing your right foot out, followed by the left, creating a fluid motion. I was a good student because I could read and understand the theory. It was the same in Boy Scouts. I had many theory badges, but throw me a rope and tell me to tie a sheepshank? I hope somebody’s safety didn’t depend on me. 

On this day, theory and practice met. I stepped onto the ice with a death grip on the rink boards. My friends came from the warming shack, saw me and flew across, stopping and spraying a shower of ice crystals.

I tried to act cool by leaning one arm on the rink boards but realized too late that it threw off my balance. I fell on my butt, landing like a sack of potatoes. A chorus of hoots and laughter greeted this.

“Hey, I slipped. I hurt my foot yesterday!”

The world of teenagers is something like the animal kingdom. The strongest rules the pack until one day, one or more of the followers spot a weakness in him. David, my cousin and confidante, was the first.

“Holy Jeez, you can’t skate, can ya?”

At first, I blustered. “Damn right, I can and beat you any time! I haven’t been out since last winter, just a bit rusty.”

But the others smelled blood. Kevin was beside me and began showing off by skating backward; he was good.

“Skate out to center ice,” he taunted.

I didn’t move; if I tried, I was bound to repeat the first fall. My secret was out.

My friends had not known until now that their leader was a cow on ice.

“Yeah, have your fun. It’s not my fault I got a rotten pair of skates,” I protested angrily.

“Ah, it’s okay,” said David, suppressing a laugh. “We can get a chair and push you around the rink!”

The humiliation was complete as they roared with laughter. After a bit more ribbing, they offered to show me how it was done. Kevin said he would hold me up, but that was too shameful to accept. I went hand in hand along the boards, climbed over to a snowbank and dejectedly took the skates off. 

Afterward, I walked over to our school in the same yard. Free hot chocolate and cookies were being served by some of the parents.

“It’s a great day for skating, eh?” the lady at the table offered, passing me a drink.

“Yeah, it sure is, and lots of people too!” I replied enthusiastically, still trying to maintain the self-imposed facade. When I returned with the hot chocolate, my buddies were skating effortlessly around the rink, some holding hands with girls.

I had already planned a quiet exit when a guy I had seen from another class came over. We chatted easily about the big crowd and the ice conditions. I was back in my element of theory, so I was comfortable. His name was Gerald. I had seen him in another group at scout meetings. He was about my height and build with black wavy hair and deep blue eyes that seemed to look right through me.

I began feeling awkward, unable to direct or anticipate the conversation, but something told me it was okay. As we talked about school and scouts, I realized how much we had in common. 

Our conversation swung over to books we had read. We debated, and time flew by. It was neat talking with a guy my age about things that interested us both. I felt a strange mixture of emotions I had never experienced. I liked it a lot, but at the same time, it was scary.

In the back of my mind, I wondered if he was setting me up to walk away laughing, accusing me of being gay. That humiliation would be too much to handle. In this small rural community, an accusation like that had destroyed some persons I knew. 

Even at my young age, I had worked hard to create an image of masculinity that would fit the village narrative. With my few previous sexual experiences, I attempted to make an emotional bond, but with each, I was pushed away. The rejections reinforced my decision to be alone and to bring my shame with me.

Gerald didn’t push me away; instead, the conversation and laughter kept flowing as the skating party began to wind down and parents returned to retrieve their kids. My friends came around the corner to announce they were headed down to Marg’s canteen, our local hangout. I said I would follow shortly with no intention of doing so. After they left, our conversation turned to movies.

“Have you seen the new Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly?” Gerald asked.

“Not yet, but any of his movies are great,” I responded. “I like how he goes in and gets it done when everyone else is afraid to do anything.”

“I know, and he doesn’t waste time just talking,” Gerald said. “Listen, I was thinking of going on Saturday. Do you want to go? Dad could drive us and pick us up after.”

I played it cool until I got my breath back. My friends and I went places together, but this was different. This guy I met asked if I wanted to go to a movie with him. Was this a date?

“Yeah, sure, that sounds great,” I responded casually.

We agreed they would pick me up at my house.

Walking the short distance back home, I felt deliriously happy. All problems evaporated, and the sky was never more beautiful. My sister and mother looked at me curiously as I came in the door smiling.

Later, I went down to meet Dad as he left work for the day. I did that occasionally. It was my time, alone with him, to talk. As we walked, he commented that he had not seen me so upbeat in a long time. I wanted to tell him everything that happened in the last few hours. A wave of sadness washed over me as I realized I could not share my joy. 

While my parents generally accepted new trends that came and went in our home. This was something very different. They were strong Catholics, or at least Mom was, and Dad followed suit. To be gay and Catholic in New Brunswick during the sixties and for decades afterward was to be in the pipeline to hell. 

I was not a firm believer in the faith. From the perspective of an observant young gay male, I had read and seen too much hypocrisy and prejudice in the Church, not to mention a “handsy” priest.

 I felt my brothers and sisters wouldn’t care much about the church curse. Their concern would be how far the shadow would spread, causing them to be isolated. The potential family response, combined with the gay jokes and slurs from others, was enough to keep my ray of sunshine hidden.

After supper, I replayed the afternoon events in my mind. At that early age, I was already a master at second-guessing and analysis, all to maintain my perceived armour of masculinity. Was I reading too much into Gerald’s invitation? He came “from away.” That could be how things were done in other places.

I didn’t sleep well that night, alternating between intimate dreams with my potential boyfriend and a nightmare of an emotional crash when he said I got it all wrong with him. I was up early and went for a soul-searching walk in the quiet village, which helped me settle. Afterward, I enjoyed a long bath with none of the other nine in my family banging on the one-bathroom door. I dressed later, putting on my favourite burgundy sweater and black pants.

I brushed my hair, looking for a new style, but settled for “tidy,” my old standby. I put a bit of Dad’s Old Spice on to seal the deal.

“You look very nice, Douglas,” Mom commented as she came from the basement with a basket of clothes to hang on the line.

“Yeah, I’m going to a movie with a friend from school,” I responded almost too casually.

“That sounds like fun. Do you need some money?” she asked.

“No, I have lots from the pulp I sold last week.”

I had done so well that I could buy the coat she had admired from Eaton’s catalogue. The price of salvaged pulp was high, so I had plenty of money left over.

On Saturday, I would usually help Mom hang out the clothes. Still, she said nothing as she opened the small doors on the porch wall leading to the outside and the clothesline. I sat next to her on the old mirrored bench.

“Sorry, I can’t help you today,” I said nervously, tapping my foot.

“Don’t worry. I’m glad to see you happy. Sometimes I wonder if you spend too much time alone, Douglas. I mean, you never give your father and me cause to worry. Your grades are good, and you help me around the house. But you need to enjoy yourself too.

 Are you happy, Douglas?” she asked, looking at me softly.

At that moment, I wanted to pour out my soul to her with the daily weight I carried. But I knew it would just move the load from me to her, and she had more than enough worry about raising her family.

“I’m okay.” I stood up, took a sheet from the tattered plastic laundry basket and passed it to her. “I met this guy at school, and it turns out we like a lot of the same stuff. His dad is driving us to the theatre and picking us up. I will be back for supper.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mom responded, closing the clothesline doors. “You know you and I are a lot alike, Douglas. We are quiet deep pools. You can trust me to talk about anything,” she said as she tussled my hair gently.

“Yes, I know, thanks,” I responded quietly as I pulled on my Sunday jacket and headed outside to wait for Gerald and his father.

Gerald’s dad’s new candy apple red Ford Mustang pulled into our driveway. The car purred powerfully as I got in the back seat while Gerald sat with his dad. He introduced us. His father insisted I call him Reg. We never had a car, but that didn’t stop me from reading about the new models for 1968, and this Mustang was near the top. Reg was also a car hound, so we talked about the new design, especially the mighty 390 cu in engine. He let us out in front of the Uptown theatre. Gerald said we would probably get a burger at Zellers down the street, so Reg could pick us up here at five pm.

In the theatre, as we got our popcorn and drinks, Gerald whispered, “Dad likes you. He says most of my friends only talk in grunts.”

I replied casually, secretly pleased, “My dad says the same thing about young lads today. I like talking with most people.”

We sat near the back where the best view and least talking happened. I didn’t go to many movies, but I loved the atmosphere, the subtle lighting, the hushed tones as people found their seats, and the enormous red velvet curtains when it opened, whisper quiet, and the theatre lights dimmed. We munched our popcorn and didn’t talk much except when our hero, Clint, squinted and proclaimed, “Just watch me.”

Partway through the movie, my wallet fell from my pocket, landing between our seats. I was trying to watch the action scene and fish it out at the same time. I felt Gerald’s hand brush mine. I pulled back, shocked. Did he do that to help find the wallet or for another reason? My mind was racing. My heart threatened to jump from my chest. There was an awkward silence.

Now I might find out if we could be more than friends. This was my Rubicon, where fear was to meet possibility. I lowered my hand and felt my wallet while his hand slid beside mine again. I left it there briefly to show I was okay with his touch. Slowly, I lifted the wallet out, placing it securely in my pocket.

I followed this by doing something I had not allowed myself to imagine. I wrapped my little finger around his. He gently squeezed it. There we sat, two thrilled fifteen-year-old boys on the cusp of their first love.

Neither of us noticed the traditional grisly ending to Clint’s movie. We left the theatre awash in new emotions. I could have floated down the snow-covered street to the restaurant. Our conversation was awkwardly focused on the action in the movie. We found a quiet booth in the back. We ordered burgers and cokes. 

For a few moments, a tentative silence followed. Gerald was the first to break it. “We moved here in June from Alberta.”

He spoke deliberately as he described growing up. He had a younger brother and sister.

“We move every five years or so. I’ve lived on two continents and in three countries since birth.”

He learned three languages during that time. He was fascinated with different cultures. His beautiful blue eyes were alive as he shared his experiences. I listened, hanging on his every word and wanting more.

Abruptly, Gerald stopped talking and gazed at the light snow falling on the street. I didn’t feel a need to fill the silence. I was content to be with him. He continued, mindful of other persons around, and his voice fell to a whisper. However, the area was now largely empty.

“Some parts of my life I like. I have learned so much from living with different people. But I never get to make real friends. Weirdly, I know more about you than most others I have lived around for years. You are different, you listen, and I feel comfortable around you.

“The other thing is that I can’t share something about myself, making settling into a new place challenging.

“Doug, I am gay. I like guys, and I really like you,” he said, looking directly at me. His sparkling blue eyes had clouded over as a tear slid down his face. “I guess you already knew that.”

He looked down shyly. I reached across the table, holding his hand, not caring who saw it.

“I feel the same about you, Gerald. I didn’t think I could get to say this out loud. I am gay, too.” I could feel myself blushing, and my heart was racing once again. “It makes me so happy you are the first to hear it,” I said, gazing at him. “I haven’t had the life you have or travelled anywhere and know I am poorer for it. 

The people in Miramichi are good, decent folks. But they don’t do ‘different’ very well.

“I will leave after High School and get to where I am accepted for who I am. Who knows, maybe we will make that trip together,” I said, wiping away his tears. We sat in comfortable silence.

A car horn and the realization that it was dark outside brought us out of our reverie. We quickly paid our bill and went out to his father’s car. This time, Gerald sat close to me in the back seat. If his dad noticed, he said nothing. Instead, we picked up our comfortable chatter about cars. All the time, Gerald and I quietly held hands, exchanging occasional affectionate looks.

After that afternoon, we were inseparable, spending most days at his place but occasionally at my raucous home. On one of those days, Gerald called me early.

“Doug, let’s go skating.” I froze at the word and the memory of my friends laughing at me. Gerald continued before I could manufacture an excuse.

“I saw you with your friends, and I don’t think it’s fair for you to keep making excuses. Mom taught me to figure skate when I was three, and I played hockey when we were in Germany. I want to share the skill with you. I promise we will take it slow and no fancy stuff. You can trust me.”

I wasn’t used to hearing those words, but I did trust him. “Okay,” I said. “And no fancy spins or trying to throw me in the air.”

“I will throw you in the snow bank if you get too lippy,” Gerald said, laughing.

There had been a few days without snow, and the ice was bare near Beaubear’s Island.

An hour later, we were lacing our skates up. Gerald stood up and held his hand out to help me up. I exhaled deeply, not sure if this would work. In two hours, I went from being rigid as a statue holding on to him to starting, skating and stopping quickly by myself.

The sharp, sizzling sound of my skates on the ice boosted my confidence. As I raced with Gerald, the cold wind on my face was exhilarating. In another hour, he showed me some slick moves he learned in hockey. Walking back from the island, I wanted to shout out to anybody: I could skate! I could hardly wait for the next free skate day at the rink.

On some days, we returned to the island across the frozen windswept river. It was my refuge, and now I gladly shared it with him. We spent hours walking the trails and often just sat and experienced the solitude it offered. On one of those days, we were sitting on a large piece of driftwood looking across the river to my Nelson.

“This, the island, your village. It’s so beautiful. It hasn’t been destroyed by industry like so many of the places I have lived.” He turned to look at me now with a sense of earnestness. “Doug, why can’t we live here? We could go to university, get jobs and settle here.”

Now, it was me who became quiet. 

“Gerald, you see the beauty, and there is. But to live here, we could not be who we are. I couldn’t kiss you like I want to so much, so often.

 We couldn’t hold hands, and when people found out we were gay, some would make our lives miserable. I’ve seen this happen. No, this can’t be our home.” His eyes grew moist as the realization sank in. We fell silent. 

On other days, we would snowshoe in the acres of woodland behind his home for hours. We would meet some people setting rabbit traps, but neither of us could imagine hurting another creature. After our woods walk, we would go back to Gerald’s home.

His mother welcomed me warmly when we first met. While my mom was quiet and cautious, Barbara was lively and open. She never assumed to judge Gerald or me and delighted in listening as we recounted our daily experiences. Other times, we would have lively discussions over political happenings. She heard and respected our opinions; however naïve they may have sounded. She insisted I use her first name when we talked. It made me feel special.

On the occasional days she was not home, Gerald and I listened to music in his large bright bedroom. I contrasted it with the humble quarters I shared with my brother Bill. 

Gerald had a big record collection and a great stereo system. We had the same interest in music, preferring artists with a message rather than the latest bang, crash, boom band sweeping the nation.

While chilling one afternoon, listening to a James Taylor album, Gerald leaned across the bed and kissed me. Like at the theatre, I pulled back but quickly recovered and returned his gentle kiss. It was beautiful, and I wanted more. He felt the same.

We spent the next half hour curiously discovering each other. Afterward, we just lay on his bed with me cradled in his arms, in no hurry to move. I felt safe.

As we left his bedroom, I heard his mother downstairs in the kitchen. Gerald told me he was out to his parents, who had talked openly about having safe sex. I must have looked stunned because he hugged me and said we were okay. I agreed.

Later, on my walk back home, I tried to sort through the events of the past few hours. I had experienced my first kiss from a boy. After our sexual experience, we had laid comfortably together with no urgency or desire to leave. 

My boyfriend told me he was out to his parents, who wanted him to be safe and enjoy sex. The remorse and guilt that had been ground into my Catholic conscience were being replaced by a feeling of freedom and joy I could never have imagined.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Gerald’s mom had invited me for supper. I was uncertain whether Barbara wanted me to come or was just being polite. When I hesitated, she insisted that she and Reg wanted me to be there. I readily said yes. I checked with Mom, and she said it was okay, and I would need to be back by the eight o’clock Christmas Eve Mass. I was scheduled to be an altar server.

At five o’clock, I knocked on their door. Gerald answered. He wore a dark blue cashmere sweater highlighting his eyes and a killer pair of slim black jeans. I wanted to kiss him badly, but his folks and the younger kids stood behind him. 

The ranch-style house was wonderfully decorated everywhere I looked. It must have taken them hours. Gerald laughingly said they worked as a team under Barbara’s direction. Their Christmas tree was to the right of the stone fireplace. I was amazed, looking at the beautiful decorations and the subtle lights that covered what appeared to be every square inch of space.

I smiled and thought of our family’s tree. As usual, Dad had drilled holes and stuck in branches to cover the bare spots. After that, he tied it in the corner to keep it from falling. It developed a chronic droop to the left. Our generation’s old decorations and bulbs were placed haphazardly on the sad facsimile of a tree. I pushed that image away. I was where I wanted to be, with the guy I loved.

The family and I sat in the living room. Gerald was beside me. The scent of his cologne was seductive. Fortunately, I was distracted by his dad, who had recently been at a company meeting in Texas. He had been on a tour of the Ford Motor plant in Houston, where they produced the 1969 version of the Mustang Fastback convertible. He showed me the catalogue with pictures and detailed specifications. We enthusiastically talked about the new design and powerplant. Gerald was content to look on and occasionally touched my back, sending currents of pleasure through me.

We were called to the supper table, where an elaborate meal had been prepared. After a short prayer of thanks, Barbara said to dive in. I followed Gerald’s lead on what silverware to use. I was hungry after the mile walk to his home. At the end of the meal, I emerged unscathed, not having spilled anything on my Church sweater. I offered to help with the dishes, but Barbara said she and Reg had it covered.

Gerald’s younger brother and sister went to watch their favourite Christmas movie, leaving us alone beside the tree. I excused myself to go to the closet where I got my gift for him, Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits.

“Wow, this album is what I have been looking for. Where did you find it?”

“I was hoping you would like it,” I replied. “I ordered it from the record catalogue my older brothers have.”

“Thanks a lot, Doug.” He kissed me gently. “I got you something.”

He reached into his pocket and passed me a small, carefully wrapped gift with a gold bow. I unwrapped the colourful paper. It was a small red velvet-covered box. It held a silver ring. I had no idea how he knew, but it fit my baby finger beautifully. He engraved it: “Doug & Gerald. Dec 24, 1968”.

I was overwhelmed and teared up a bit. Gerald took me in his arms, and we lay there till his father called out for anybody to play a game of Monopoly.

Later, Gerald came with me to the evening mass, joining my parents and some siblings in the congregation. As a regular altar server, I knew my job well. In idle moments, I stole glances at Gerald. Each time he smiled in return. I struggled to maintain my usual stolid composure.

My life had changed so much in the three weeks since I met Gerald. To this point in my young life, I had walked on eggshells, not allowing myself to express who I was. Now, I was walking on a bank of big fluffy clouds without fear of my future.

A week after that Christmas Eve experience, Gerald called me. It was almost 10 p.m. I was in bed when my brother shouted downstairs to say Gerald was on the phone. His voice was breaking as he began.

“Doug, we are leaving; Dad’s been assigned to some fucking place in Australia. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you!”

He sobbed uncontrollably. I got him to calm down and talk slowly.

The news was worse than I could imagine. Gerald’s dad had just told the family he was being transferred to a plant in Perth, Australia. He was to be there the following week because of a site accident that caused massive damage. Arrangements would be made for his family to be moved the second week of January. I slumped against the kitchen wall, almost dropping the receiver. After I recovered from the shock, we talked a bit more, agreeing we would meet the next day.

Mom and Dad in the adjoining room heard enough to know something terrible was occurring in my life. When I hung up, it was Mom who spoke first.

“Douglas, has something happened with Gerald?”

I broke down crying as I told them. To this point, my parents did not understand the intensity of my relationship with Gerald. How could they? I had deliberately shut them out, fearing they would not understand and try to separate us. Mom tried to console me. Dad put down his paper and reached awkwardly for words of support to help his son.

“I’m sorry to hear your friend is going.”

I went upstairs to my bedroom. Fortunately, my brother Bill was sleeping over at a friend’s house. I threw myself onto my bed and sobbed into my pillow.

I spent the rest of the night like that, finally drifting into a fitful sleep. 

Gerald and I had agreed to meet at his place around nine the following day. When I got there, I looked like I felt exhausted. He appeared at the door looking the same. Instead of going to his room, we walked outside. I saw his mom looking anxiously out the living room window. I managed a wave. I put my arm around him. We walked a while, saying nothing. He was the first to speak.

“I am so sorry, Doug. I hate this life where I get a hint of happiness, and then it gets blown away because of his stupid work.” His voice was hoarse from crying.

“You can’t apologize for something neither of us caused or can control,” I said. “I want you to write me every week, and I will do the same if you can read my hen scratch.”

“Yeah, it does look like a hen or something walked across the page.”

He managed a weak laugh.

We spoke anxiously about our future and one of us visiting the other. It was obviously not going to be me. But even as we discussed a relationship, we both knew it would be impossible to sustain what we had. The cold reality we faced consumed us like a deep winter storm.

The day before the family moved, Barbara called my mother, asking if I could come to supper with them. 

Mom readily agreed, hoping it would bring me out of a deepening depression I had been in since hearing the news. My oldest brother drove me to their house. He felt terrible for me, but much like our dad, the right words were beyond his grasp. I promised to be ready by 8 p.m.

The near-empty house I entered bore little resemblance to the welcoming, cozy place of Christmas Eve. Our voices echoed as we tentatively greeted each other. Gerald’s brother hugged me and then ran away in tears. He and I had become good friends. 

The movers had emptied most of the house, with the rest ready to go the next day. Three large pizza boxes announced the menu for our final meal together. Barbara tried to lighten the mood by telling stories of previous wrong moves. We managed to eat only a portion of the meal.

Gerald and I retreated to his room, which now held only his bed. The closet was empty, and the walls were bare. We sat in near silence.

But the silence was not uncomfortable. 

We had met at precisely the time we needed each other the most. Emotionally, we matured by leaps and bounds like some secret force was driving us. I spoke, my voice breaking.

“I didn’t know I could dare to allow you into my life. I had built up some big walls. And suddenly, there you were, proudly beside me. I learned I could be happy with who I was and love you, and the sky wouldn’t fall.”

I looked over at the tears streaming freely down his handsome face. We stood beside the bed, knowing it would be our last private moment together. Our kiss was warm, and neither wanted to break it. We went downstairs at eight.

My brother drove into the driveway as I pulled on my winter jacket. Gerald’s mother gave me a big hug. She then surprised me by thanking me for the joy and love I had given to her son. 

Gerald stepped outside with me. He gathered me in his strong arms and kissed me gently in full view of my brother. I did not resist. We said goodbye, and as I got into the car, there were no tears, only a feeling of my good fortune.

As we drove out of the lane, my brother said quietly, “I think you are a lucky guy to have known Gerald.” I agreed.

The week after Gerald had left, I called Michael and asked if he wanted to go to the free skating party that afternoon. He seemed surprised I was calling and even more shocked that I wanted to repeat last month’s embarrassment. We agreed to meet at the rink. 

He arrived with other guys, expecting to watch the Cow on Ice show. I already had my skates on and was practicing some speed racing before the others came on. I impressed myself with how fast I could go as I skated up to the group, covering them with a liberal snow shower. 

I grinned, shot out to the center of the ice, and did a wicked twirl and jump. When I joined, the guys banged the boards and whooped with approval.

“Holy frig, Doug, that is some wicked skating. How did you learn that so fast?” Kevin asked.

“Oh, a friend of mine that I trusted showed me some stuff.”

“Well, you should try out for the school hockey team,” David said. “With that speed and size, you are a shoo-in.”

“We haven’t seen ya for a while,” Paddy said, slyly glancing at the others for support.

“Yeah, I met a new guy at school. We have been hanging out a lot. His name is Gerald, and he taught me to skate,” I replied.

“He not here now?” Paddy asked, looking for a new angle of attack.

“No, he moved to Australia with his folks.”

“So, your boyfriend is gone, eh!” Paddy fired the shot that would have hurt me deeply a short time ago.

“Yeah, he is, but hey, Paddy, if a good-looking guy fell for me, then there is still a possibility some dog could fall for you!”

There was a brief pause; then, the group exploded with laughter. I had come back with a burden lifted from my shoulders.

As a post-script to this story, I want to say I kept moving forward with my sexuality and newfound self-confidence or that Gerald and I reconnected and began our life together. Neither of those scenarios happened. I returned to my previous life for over two decades, even to the point of marriage to a woman. 

Eventually, I found the courage to tell her I was gay and ended the relationship. We remained good friends, agreeing that was all we should have been from the start. 

As for Gerald, we have lost contact. But I am blessed with the love of a man who is now my husband. I am experiencing a much deeper joy I could not know in my youth.

 One of my lasting boyhood memories occurred in 1965 when I was twelve. I lived in the small village of Nelson, located on the banks of the Miramichi River in North East New Brunswick. I was shovelling the walkway to my parents' house near the end of a massive winter storm. The unmistakable whine of jet engines decelerating got my attention. The sound was not uncommon as our house was on the glide path for aircraft landing at the nearby Canadian Forces Base Chatham. I was used to the reverberation of planes overhead night and day, but not in a snowstorm. The unusual whistling continued to build as I peered into a wall of snow. A powerful light suddenly sliced the darkness, followed briefly by the sight of a colossal form finding its way steadily into the squall. It was my first look at the CF101 Voodoo. It was massive compared to the other planes I had seen at the base. I had read they were bought from the American armed forces and were being stationed in Chatham. 

The next school day, I went to the library and found what I could about these powerful behemoths. They were almost 70 feet long and had a wingspan of 39 feet. The Voodoo operated at a 35,000ft level, driven by two engines with a combined force of over 15,000 hp. Voodoos were an all-weather jet interceptors. For years following, they repeatedly proved it as they flew in any conditions. They would be scrambled (quick mobilization) to intercept Russian aircraft flying down from Greenland. Capable of flying over 1,000mph, they often took off late at night, occasionally hitting their afterburners and lighting the night sky. The memory of that lone jet finding its way home has stayed with me for sixty years.

In October 1986, I was thirty – three years old and working in educational management. Things were good. During this period of relative calm in my life, I began to think of learning to fly. This was not a sudden urge but one that grew slowly and steadily over the years. The curiosity and enjoyment I felt watching any aircraft had to be satisfied. 

First, a bit of background. I am one of those people who try to control as many parts of my environment as possible to avoid "complications." I won't bore the reader with my attempts to find a source of the neurosis. It is enough to say that while its effects on me today are not as crippling, the scars remain, and the dark horse never entirely disappeared. The first experience of this "condition" came in the form of claustrophobia. When I was about ten, Tim, the meat manager at the local Co-op, on a lark, locked me in the store freezer. He was probably having a slow day and looking for some harmless entertainment. What emerged when he opened the door was me, like a scalded cat, plowing through customers and upsetting display cases. That set the stage for more events, some with equally dramatic effects over my developmental years. 

Strangely, against this phobic backdrop, the seed of flying began germinating. By the time I was thirty, I had flown enough as a passenger to know how uncomfortable and, at times, terrified I was in a plane. But when my mind was set, there was no going back. I wanted to understand flight theory and practice so that, at some point, I could learn to enjoy rather than fear flying. One evening, I saw an ad for flight training while reading the weekly newspaper. Miramichi Air, a local flight training company, was holding an open house. I took a free introductory flight and talked with a few instructors. It was brief, but the spark was lit. 

Miramichi City is a community of fewer than 20,000 people. The flight training school was also small, with a few single-engine planes, including a Piper Arrow trainer and a Cessna Cherokee. The "school" was a room off the garage. 

The facility was tucked away in a far corner of the CFB Chatham base. In those days, the security regime at tactical air facilities focused more on the main runway and service areas. The instructors were active-duty pilots or navigators except for one individual (more details on him later). This made for a top-of-the-line learning experience. As it turned out, it also provided many hours of informal learning as these seasoned veterans recounted their countless experiences in various combat aircraft. For me, it was enjoyable to sit quietly in a corner and listen to them exchange stories, each sometimes competing for the stage. 

Let me briefly introduce you to some of these people. I have changed the names in the unlikely event that any still living should stumble upon their name in this amateur's story. Glenn English was the first person I met, and he eventually became my lead instructor. Glenn was about forty years old, slightly overweight, with a full head of black hair. He had that confident, easy-going manner of some professionals, past the age of having to prove his rank or status. Among the aircraft Glenn had flown was the B-52 bomber during the height of the Vietnam War. He was one of several American pilots stationed at the base. During dual flight training hours, Glenn would occasionally talk of that experience. He described it as doing "milk runs," not to diminish the intensity or havoc, but rather to accentuate the routine. Targets and support aircraft were pre-assigned. Enemy anti-aircraft fire was usually not a problem, as the advanced technology of the day could draw fire to drones and other devices. The workhorses were the F-4 Phantom jets used in air-to-air and ground support. He described the combination of defensive and offensive capacity as a blanket surrounding the bomber crew. 

I grew comfortable talking with Glenn. There was never an air of superiority about him. His instruction was always clear and professional and, above all, calm. On a quiet, sunny Sunday morning, I told him about my phobia and why I wanted to fly. Afterward, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. I thought I had crossed a line, and he would give me a condescending pep talk. His response shocked me.

 "Doug, on every one of my flights in Vietnam, I was terrified. It wasn't the fear of being shot down because we had a great cover. I just realized in my head that each flight would be my last. Every time I buckled myself in, I was sweating heavily. It was a phobia, and it took working with some good people I learned to trust to overcome. I understand what and how you feel, Doug." Glenn's honesty and willingness to share were a gift I still cherish.

Jim Seeling was a navigator on the Voodoo. He showed the professional confidence you would see in an Armed Forces recruiting video. He was about 6ft 1", 210 lbs. He had over twenty-five years of experience flying jets, and no doubt he could still fit into his first flight suit. Jim was probably in one of those voodoos movies I watched, flying over my parents' home when I was twelve. He and the CF101 were near the end of their careers. Our times in the cockpit were great experiences. Jim would show me maneuvers by the book and often add neat alternative actions in case something didn't go as planned. He was very safety conscious and drilled that constantly. 

We were doing "short field" take-offs and landings one bright September afternoon. He had selected a farmer's field with a line of trees at the end. He did a few setups and then handed control over to me. He talked me through the procedure in his uniquely laconic style. I began the maneuver, levelling nicely over the field, then started climbing. Jim's voice began to have an edge as we neared the trees at the end. It went up several decibels when we were not rising fast enough for him. Jim's feet lifted off the floor just as we cleared the grove. He looked ahead momentarily, took off his ball cap and exclaimed, "That was interesting, Doug." Flights with Glenn and Jim always followed the private pilot manual. My skill level and confidence increased with each one.

The third instructor in the group was King. I will use only his first name, as some older local readers may recall him. King was a colourful, outgoing businessman who owned his own Cessna. He had an instructor's rating and, from time to time, would help teach students. I heard stories of King as a pilot and tried to avoid having him in the left seat. 

One event that caused a sensation in the community involved him and two friends enjoying a leisurely Sunday afternoon flight in the Miramichi region. One of his buddies bet King he wouldn't fly under the bridge connecting Chatham to the north side of the Miramichi River. Anyone familiar with Ministry of Transport (MOT) regulations or common sense would understand the danger of such a maneuver. But neither of these was much concern to King, as he readily agreed to the wager and collected the one hundred dollars. A six-month suspension of his licence cooled King's flair for excitement just slightly. 

Our paths crossed at the training center a few months after his instructor permit was reinstated. I was scheduled to do "touch and goes" at the airfield with Glenn. These procedures train the pilot to safely take off and land at an airport. It was a beautiful, warm October afternoon when I strolled into the hangar with building self-confidence. King was behind the counter where Glenn should have been. He announced that Glenn had taken the afternoon off and that he, King, would be instructing that day. He probably detected my lack of enthusiasm, but King was not to be put off. He took my logbook and began looking through it. 

"Ok, no problem, Doug, let's do a few of the touch and goes, and we will see after that." I wanted an excuse to get away, but was coming up empty. We took off, and I performed the scheduled exercise without problems when King announced a program change. "Let's do some stalls and spins, Doug." "No, King, that's lesson eight; I'm only on lesson three." With my knuckles tightening on the yoke (control column), he replied, "Don't worry, Doug, it's easy. I will walk you through." Before I could say anything, King had the mike and told the control tower we would operate in an area south of the field (and south of my comfort level). I swung us over to the assigned area. King showed me the procedure. "Doug, there's nothing to this; you just watch me, and then you do one…. so, you reduce your power, then pull back on the yoke. Feel er shaking Doug? Ok, now you drop the nose. Let her drop a while; now, pull her up. There, see, Doug, nothin' to it!"

Now, you may be reading this dialogue and thinking that maneuver sounds straightforward; what is my concern? There would be no problem, but for two variables that I could not control. The first is my fear of sudden airplane moves. The second is my lack of trust in the nut behind the wheel. Suddenly, I felt like the young boy being locked in the meat freezer. Hoping I could hurry through and return to the airfield, I agreed to do the maneuver. With King's annoyingly lilting voice playing in the background, I followed his directions. The plane performed precisely as he said and wasn't as terrifying as I feared. 

King encouraged me. "Ok, Doug, that was good. Now let's go on to spins! It's the same as doing a stall, except you bank the plane to one side by hitting the left rudder pedal and then the right to level er out. Ok, now, Doug, you watch me. Away we go!"

Where the first maneuver had a predictable smoothness, this one involved me feeling like I was being pitched out of the plane; simultaneously, we were headed toward the ground. It all happened within a few seconds; we returned to level flight. I was not liking this at all. King casually says, "See what I mean, Doug? Easy, eh? "No, King, it wasn't easy. It makes me feel like I'm going to puke." My tone-deaf instructor continued. "Don't worry about that, Doug. Ok, now let's try it together. You follow through on the yoke and pedals with me. "Ok, I'll set er up now, reduce power, pull the yoke back….". I stopped hearing his voice.

Most dictionaries describe the state of shock as having two categories. The first is "experiencing a sudden unpleasant or upsetting feeling because of something unexpected." I can check that box. The second is a person's hearing is compromised. King was going through motions he had been trained and conditioned to complete. This was my first experience. My mind, now reduced to a primordial function, determined we were about to crash. 

My brain directed my left foot to step hard and stay on the left rudder pedal. "DOUG, DOUG, HIT THE RIGHT PEDAL!" (I didn't include a few colourful adjectives King added).

Much to our mutual relief, King completed his instruction of Lesson Eight in the Private Pilot Guide by hitting my left leg several times and bringing me out of the stupor.

When I recovered my situational awareness, I was determined that one thing would happen: King and I would never again be within two feet of each other. Two weeks later, Glenn announced that King had surrendered his instructor rating, saying he no longer enjoyed the challenge. I smiled to myself with quiet satisfaction.

All airfields are configured in a similar pattern designed to allow an airplane to enter and depart safely and efficiently. The pattern a plane follows is called a circuit. The air traffic controllers in the tower are the police of the air. They rule the circuit. The reality and significance were made clear to me on a cold November morning. I was setting up for a landing at about 60mph. A call from the tower sharpened my focus. "LRC (the plane's call letters), turn right base now and clear the area. We have a Voodoo on emergency 10 miles out. ATC (Air Traffic Control) is not known for making small talk, for a good reason. I was being told to get the heck out of the way now! In the time it took me to exit the circuit, a gray blur shot past with smoke trailing from its right engine. The shoot deployed as it landed. Fire engines and an ambulance chased it down the runway. After things had calmed down, I finished my lesson and landed. Jim was tinkering with the Cessna (ZTN) when I came in to log my time. I asked what had happened. In Jim's terse style, he reached for a wrench and said the plane had an engine fire. "That's a big deal," I said. Jim responds without looking up, "Only if you don't have a second engine."

Later that same week, I had my chat with the control tower. Once again, I was practicing in the circuit at about 1,200 ft. The weather was partly sunny, with a few snow showers and light winds. 

My training program followed (VFR) Visual Flight Rules, unlike the more complex (IFR) Instrument Flight Rules. VFR requires that you always have visual awareness outside your airplane. IFR requires you to rely on flight instruments, allowing you to fly through and above clouds. 

By this point in my training, I had accumulated 30 solo hours. I was comfortable with the routine of take-offs, landings and some maneuvers. I even conquered stalls and spins despite the debacle a month earlier with King. 

I had just taken off and was over the Miramichi River when I spotted a line of clouds at flight level. I followed the band and came parallel to the airport runway. As I stated earlier, my training was strictly VFR. But my curiosity and overconfidence worked to draw me into a cloud. It was one of those giant, fluffy marshmallows you often see against the bright blue sky. I was in and out in the blink of an eye, "no harm, no foul" until I realized the snow was inside my plane! LRC (Lima Romeo Charlie) was a well-maintained but older aircraft. Like many older things, it had a few quirks. In this case, it was a door handle that sometimes didn't quite catch. It was rarely an issue until it became an issue, like now. A vacuum had been created with the door partially open, drawing moisture from the cloud into the cockpit as snow. My first reaction was more curiosity than concern. The warmth in the cabin was melting the snow almost as soon as it entered. However, the ever-alert folks in the tower noticed my plane's attitude (the plane is level or pitching up or down) change as I was momentarily occupied brushing snow off the instrument panel. The conversation ran like this: "LRC, are you having a problem with your aircraft?" Wiping the snow off my instrument panel, I responded casually, "No, I just have a bit of snow in the cockpit." "LRC, would you repeat, please?" "Yes, err, my passenger door was open a bit, and snow came in."

"RC, are you declaring an emergency?" Was it laughter I was hearing behind the voice? As students, Jim (the instructor and school owner) told us to call an emergency if we were sure it was an emergency. 

The incident and commotion with the Voodoo the week before had made a clear impression on me. And now, the thought of Jim looking to me for reimbursement on emergency equipment deployment made a bigger impression. I responded, "No, the situation is under control. Thank you." "Roger that LRC. When you land, please call me. The number is posted on the wall at your hanger."

Another thing we learned as students is that when ATC asks you to call them, it isn't to invite you for a coffee. When I landed and contacted the tower, the voice on the other end was straining to be serious as he told me the importance of airplane maintenance and flight safety. I agreed and thanked him for his time. At his request, I handed the sweat-coated receiver to Jim. They had a brief animated conversation. Jim sighed deeply, looked at me, and shook his head. The door was fixed the next time I went out.

The day of my solo "cross-country" check ride was one of those rare late November days that felt more like September. The conditions were VISCU (Visibility and Ceiling Unlimited). The night before, I had plotted my trip. It would take me from CFB Chatham (YCH) to Fredericton (YFC), a brief stop to check in, then it was over to Moncton (YQM), followed by a return home. That morning, I reviewed my plan with Glenn, adjusting for the current temperature and the light wind at the three locations. After a careful "walk around" the aircraft, including a fuel check, Glenn casually bid me a good flight. I taxied out to the runway and received clearance for takeoff. 

I was comfortable flying solo in the circuit and designated areas. I had completed the dual 'cross-country" check ride with Jim. He had signed off, declaring it a smooth flight. This was different. I was on my own, flying solo cross country. I got to cruising altitude, powered back and set the plane on course; there was little traffic. The view was incredible. Being able to look in any direction for twenty-five miles gives one a sense of solitude, yet feeling part of something much more significant. The flight went well, with a slight hiccup as I drifted slightly off course, but a quick check with Fredericton control set me back on track. 

As I was flying over the Kouchibouguac National Park on the final leg, I looked to my right at the Northumberland Strait. The effect of the sun on the water was to create a carpet of shimmering diamonds that extended to Prince Edward Island. I had come a long way from that boy in a storm looking at the plane landing. But in another sense, when I realized how small my plane and I were in this stunning scene, I appreciated how insignificant we all are. 

After I got my pilot's license, I flew very little, eventually letting it lapse. I did, however, meet and fly with a new friend. Bob Heath was doing a courier run around the province and asked me to join him. Bob personified the independent contract pilot who flew on demand. His laid-back view of life was a break from my perspective on the career-focused "hamster wheel." We spent many hours flying the night skies. Bob later moved to take on a job in Inuvik, NWT. On a bright sunny day in January 2013, I listened to a news broadcast detailing the death of Bob and two other pilots. They had been flying a medical mission in Antarctica when their plane, caught in a whiteout, crashed with no survivors. The following month, I read of a church service in his honour. The crowd heard many stories of this man's generous and genuine nature. 

I have been fortunate to meet some wonderful people whose paths I might not have otherwise crossed. Learning to fly was one of these occasions. I worked on my phobia and experienced some absolute joy in doing it.