Terry Groves's Blog

Living on a military base gave lots of opportunities for interesting places to explore. I won't go into them all, it would make a very lengthy blog entry, but you can expect more of them to come out in future musings.In the 60s, Clinton had two dumps. One was where they had deposited the remains of old roofing materials, piles of shingles and tar paper in a lot beside the mobile home park. It offered wonderful opportunities for building forts and such but stunk pretty bad of tar in the summer heat and, you would get in trouble if you came home with said tar on your clothes, so we didn't play there much. It was fun to ride our bikes through as the haphazard piles of shingles offered humps and bumps that we found thrilling. However, there was also the ever-present threat of a punctured tire as the area was also littered with roofing nails.The other dump was behind the ice skate arena. We didn't go there too often because it was on the base proper, not part of the PMQ area where we were free to roam as we liked. We were allowed to go to lots of places on the base proper, there was the library, movie theater, CANEX store, swimming pool, bowling alley, cub and scout halls. Sometimes we would sneak into the enlisted men's club, I don't recall its name, and buy french fries and sodas.However, the dump was likely out-of-bounds. We never asked, didn't want to show any interest because that might result in us being told not to go there. We (me) probably would have ignored the instruction anyway, after all, I was a brat.I recall one day I went there. I don't know why I went, I was by myself. Sometimes I would do things alone, just to experience the activity without any outside influences. And I liked just looking around, seeing things, and a dump was a great place to do this. I don't recall that the place smelled, don't really recall much about it. I don't know if household refuse was deposited there or if it was more of a nuisance ground for discards from the base proper. What I do recall is walking into it and stepping on a nail.It was a long nail. In my memory it came right through my foot but in reality, likely only penetrated an inch or so. I was about ten, still in that stage when I would cry over things that hurt. However, this time I didn't. I remember that distinctly. Perhaps it was because, at first, I didn't feel it. I recall noticing a strange numbness in my foot and then, when I tried to take my next step, there was resistance. Then I felt something as I pulled my foot off the nail. It was probably shock that shielded me from feeling the injury immediately. I remember keeping a strange calmness about myself, I wasn't prone to that. In a family with five brothers, you needed to be vocal to be noticed. But this time I remained calm. There wasn't anyone around to hear me caterwauling anyway.I remember thinking that the nail was probably rusty and I knew that that meant I might contract lockjaw. We had talked about that a bunch, always warning each other about the dangers of lockjaw, relating stories of kids who got it an then died because they couldn't breath because they couldn't open their mouths; like they couldn't breath through their noses. Or ones who survived, never to utter another word again. I know now those stories were all crap but that day, they resounded in my head and the volume was on high.I limped back to my bike and rode home. I kept working my mouth, reassuring myself that my jaw wasn't seizing up yet. YET! During that trip I also wondered what story I could concoct that would sound believable since I didn't want my parents to know I had been in the dump. I was also worried about amputation. Surely stepping on a rusty nail might require amputation to prevent the poisons from the rust from getting to the rest of my body. I certainly couldn't cut an X on the wound and suck out the poison, like for a rattlesnake bite, and I was pretty sure none of my friends would be willing to do it either. I didn't have a knife with me that day anyway.I walked in the house and announced that I was injured. When I told Mom what I had done she said something like "Well I hope you're not getting blood on the floor." I was shocked, a rusty nail in the foot and maybe about to have that food cut off, and she was worried about a little blood on the floor! Parents are sure weird.And then the inevitable question came, "Where did you do that?" I am pretty sure I told the truth. As I had thought about it on the way home, I thought about other things that might have been on that nail. Like rat juice. Rats lived in dumps and rats had caused the bubonic plague. I felt it would be preferable to suffer the punishment for being in the dump rather than risk someone missing out on that diagnosis.Mom took me to the doctor. The doctor just happened to live a couple of houses away from us. Thinking back, I am not certain if it was an actual doctor, perhaps it was a Med A since he lived close. We were in the enlisted men's part of the PMQs. Officer's row was a ways away from us and that is where I would expect the doctor to live. Regardless, this person had an actual medical examination room in their house. It even had one of those examination beds. He sat me on that bed and examined my foot.He concluded it didn't look too bad and asked if I had had my tetanus shot. How was I supposed to know? We got shots all the time at school but I had no idea what was in them or what they were for. And we got more shots as we prepared for cub camps each year. The tetanus shot was for lockjaw so I was pretty certain that I better have one. He said he would give me one because extra couldn't hurt. Except when he stuck that needle in the bottom of my foot, it proved he was a liar. It hurt, A LOT! Then I cried.I kept wanting to say something about the bubonic plague but I kept picturing his eyes growing wide and then him reaching into one of those white, sterile drawers and extracting a nasty looking saw. I could hear him saying something like "We'll just take care of that plague problem right now. Mrs. Groves will you help hold him down?" So I kept my mouth shut, telling myself that the tetanus would take care of everything bad, maybe even my math grades.My silence seemed to work...but not for my grades. My mouth didn't suddenly lock shut, my foot didn't swell up and explode and it is still on the end of my leg. The shot and the cleaning were all that was necessary.How many civi kids can claim they were treated in the home of their doctor, after hours and at no cost? Yes, being a military brat had its advantages.

I find it curious that what constitutes a weather disaster now, I viewed as an exceptional experience opportunity as a teen. I don't recall the exact year, but it was around 1973-74. We were stationed in Kingston, living on Lundy's Lane, right beside the Protestant Chapel, across from Batoche school. I think it was January of February. What I do remember is the ice storm we had. Everything was coated in ice. The trees, streets, sidewalks, parking lots, lawns, everything was a sheet of ice over the snow. And it was hard, no breaking through just by walking on it. In fact, I recall lacing on my skates and skating down the street, across the gravel parking lot by the gully beside Batoche school. Across lawns. I was able to skate everywhere. It felt like I could go anywhere. At least until the sanding trucks came out. There were few cars on the roads because there was no traction. People mostly stayed home but i was out there, enjoying this rare treat from mother nature. When we were in Winnipeg, it was about 1964 or so, we were living in a two story house on the corner of Leicester Square. There was so much snow. We used to say that we were trapped in our house, having to climb out a second story window because the snow was so deep but I believe that was just adolescent exaggeration borne of a need to outdo everyone else's worst winter stories. In one story, a hapless family became stuck in the snow in their car. They couldn't get out and the snow eventually buried their car. Another car, driving along the same road, became stuck on top of the first car, it too becoming buried with he occupants still inside. Such was the exaggerations that occupied our minds and stories, making the whole incident a lot more dramatic (and fun) for having survived it. We did end up with fantastic piles of snow to play on. Living on the base was great because snow removal equipment was owned by the base and those guys did a wonderful job. Plows, snow blowers, sanding trucks; we didn't care too much for the sanding trucks but the plows and snow blowers were equipment of infamy. Many stories, all likely only real in the imagination of young brats, spoke of hiding under the snow at the side of the road and being plowed into the snowbank. Or being scooped up by the snow blower and flung through the air. Of course, that was a load of crap and we all knew it but we all oohhed and aahhed at the teller of the story out of some sort of respect for their ability to make it seem like it could happen. Perhaps it was some of those stories that inspired me to write my fiction. What I do know is real is some of us, I no longer remember who was with me but at least one of my brothers, it was seldom I was alone of them, and maybe some friends too, waiting for the snowblower to come by and dump snow on us. We thought it would be great fun, the driver of the machinery didn't and stopped and yelled at us to get out of there. In hindsight, he was the smart one. Chunks of ice and packed snow could cause real damage to a tiny body, but we only saw that we had got caught and missed out on something. And then there was the tale of the kid who was walking along the top of a snow bank when the snowblower went by, falling in front of it and getting chopped into a million pieces and spewed in a red mess. When we were told of this, we ran to the site of the incident, eager to witness the blood and gore. What we found was what the teller claimed was the remains of the kid (always nameless as the story was retold) but what looked suspiciously like just some sand-laden, brown snow, the same as you would see pretty much anywhere the plow or snowblower dug a little deeper into the hard pack and tossed up some of the sand and salt. We all oohhed and aahhed, as was tradition but I wasn't fooled. Even at my young age, about 6 or so then, I knew it was crap but something inside me wanted it to be true. Poor kid of my imagination, having to endure such a gruesome fate because of my active mind. In those massive snow banks we whiled away hours building forts, tunnels, climbing, falling, throwing snow chunks, making angels; hours of play aided by the vision of our imagination. How innocent and adventuresome we were then, now it is just something that needs to be shoveled.

In the early 60s, we were stationed in Winnipeg, on the air base where we lived in PMQs. We lived in two different houses there. One on Jameswood Drive and then in a larger house on Leicester (we pronounced it 'Lester') Square, sometime after my two youngest brothers, Tony and Dale, were born.While we were still in the Jameswood house, I think I was 5, my mother asked me to go to one of the neighbors for something, or i was going to a neighbor's to play with their kid, or something, it was a long time ago and I was young and my memory is dim...at least some parts of it are. What came to transpire is still vividly clear. I was going to a neighbor's who was a couple of houses away.Now, a couple of houses isn't far but, when you are a kid, a little kid, and you've been taught not to cut across people's lawns without permission, you have to take the road. When the house is down the road, around two bends, and then a bit along another road, it can be a long ways for two short legs. I remember it taking a long time to get to the house but the whole distance was probably a block.I was almost to the door, I recall being able to see inside the house because the inside door was open, the outside screen door was closed but you could see through it, it was a screen. For some reason I looked over my shoulder and I saw a huge black cloud billowing up into the sky. It wasn't a rain cloud black, it was nasty, angry, could be holding dragons, black.I'm not sure why I was so scared by that cloud, this was not too long after the sputnik launch and general anxiety about that, Bay of Pigs, Kennedy assassination (I think this came later), Cuban Missile Crisis, maybe it was that we were on an air base with the ever present threat of plane crash. For whatever reason, I felt my world was coming to an end and I was scared.As a normal kid, what did I do? I wanted my mom. Mom's have such a great way of making everything seem ok, even when it's not. Trouble was, my mom was all that distance home AND, to get there, I had to head toward that big black cloud. I next did what kids tend to do when they're scared. I cried.So, here I was, a little kid, crying, running. There was no way I was going to walk to my doom, but I would run to it. I can't remember if Mom heard my cries and came to find me or if I made it home but all of a sudden she was there and all became ok with my world again. She was calm and full of hugs. That's my mom.It turned out that the black cloud wasn't the end of my world, it was firefighters practicing to prevent the end of my world. The memory has stayed with me about 55 years, the day I was so scared.

Winter was magical when I was a kid. Being outside, even during a bitter cold Winnipeg winter was where we, my brothers and I, wanted to be.We were still living in our Jameswood Drive house so it was before 1965.Even though the playground was full of snow, we went there. The teeter-totters didn't teeter or totter very well but the swings still swung although you had to keep your feet stuck out in front since the snow was so high under the seats, if you tried to tuck your feet under, they would hit the ground and you would be pulled out of the seat and you would do a face plant...believe me I know. The sandbox was a snowbox and that didn't hold much appeal since the snow was everywhere. But then there was the monkey bars. In the playground in the centre of Liester Square, the monkey bars rose like a skeleton. Its round bones were red bars that curved inward at the top, meeting in the centre with a red metal ball, like a big cherry. I've always loved cherries."Race you to the top!" I don't recall who issued the challenge, me or one of my brothers, Mark and Robin, my younger brother Paul would have been too young yet to be out playing in the snow. It might have been one of our friends, I only remember Mark and Robin being there. Doesn't matter, the gauntlet had been dropped and we rushed to the challenge.I don't know if you have ever tried to run in a snowsuit and gollashes, the boots that you pull over your shoes, but it isn't easy. Climbing with thick mittens isn't any less challenging. I was first to the top and, while I waited for the rest to catch up and declare me the king of the castle, I savoured that big red cherry.I couldn't resist sticking out my tongue to get that taste of victory. Do you know what happens when something moist touches something that is more than double digests cold? Right, it freezes.By the time the dirty rascals reached me, my tongue was firmly attached to the red ball and I was no longer a happy winner.It hurt. A thousand tiny knives were jabbing my tongue and I couldn't hardly speak: just try talking with your tongue sticking out. My solution was for someone to run home and get a glass of hot water. Being so young, it never occurred to me that the water would be cold by the time they got back. It also never occurred to me to just cup my hands around my mouth and breath. This would have resulted in the tongue thawing.No one seemed to understand my predicament, in fact they seemed to find it quite amusing. Such is how brothers tend to treat each other, gaining enjoyment from the other's misery.Well, I wasn't going to stand there all day so I just pulled until it pealed away. That hurt too but at least now I wasn't attached to the monkey bars and I could talk enough to lambaste my brothers for not coming to my rescue.They responded, "If you weren't so stupid, that wouldn't have happened. Everyone knows you don't stick your tongue on cold metal."What liars! Until that moment I hadn't known that. Why hadn't someone told me? What kind of brother doesn't tell their siblings about things like that. At least I learned it that day and it only cost me a layer or two of skin.Being a better brother than my two older ones, I recall letting my younger brother Paul know about the perils of sticking your tongue onto something cold. It went something like this on another blistering cold day."Paul, stick your tongue on this."

Webster-Mirriam definition of brat. (Entry 1 of 2) 1a disparaging : child specifically : an ill-mannered annoying child a spoiled brat.According to Wilipedia, the origin of the term "military brat" is unknown. There is some evidence that it dates back hundreds of years into the British Empire, and originally stood for "British Regiment Attached Traveler".Facebook groups of children of Canadian miltary members refer to themselves as brats, Born, Raised, and Transferred Somewhere.I first heard the term in about 1965 in Clinton, Ontario, a small town near CFB Clinton, Adastral Park. We were living on a farm outside of town, waiting for a PMQ to come available on base.This was my first experience living 'off base', 'on the economy', 'on civi street'. Not that I had had much experience, I was only about seven years old. All three definitions apply to me, however, as definitions go, Merriam-Webster had me pegged pretty good.When I first heard the term it was definately derogatory but I didn't make the connection that it was also referring to me. Of course, some kids on base were brats but certainly not me. I was a little deluded. I've come to grips with my reality and now embrace the term in all its meanings.That time I heard the term, we were visiting some friends of my parents who lived in PMQs. For those familiar with military live and the plethora (many) of acronyms that pepper the language of military culture, PMQ means Private Married Quarters, housing available to families on base.My two older brothers, (Mark and Robin) and I were sent outside to play. "Go make some friends." A short while later I had learned the phrase 'military brats' and was engaged in a rock fight with some of them.Don't worry, no one died and, a few months later, after we had moved into our own PMQ, some of those brats became our friends. Such is the culture of Military brat life.I invite you to follow this blog line as I share my experiences and memories growing up a brat. I guarantee it will be entertaining. Sometimes funny, sometimes sad, but always interesting.If you recognize yourself in any of my stories please let me know. My friends and acquaintances are sprinkled all over the world.Share it with your friends, especially those who have no idea what is like being raised in a military community.

I have been riding the Duncan Commuter bus for more than ten years, almost since its inception. This experience has allowed me a daily view of Portage Inlet, a picturesque finger of tidal water that juts deep into Victoria, and all that my imagination can embellish that with.Thoughts of kayaking the misty, calm inlet have given my imagination ample adventures. If only I could get my kayak on the bus...This morning, I see they are installing sound barriers along the highway at this location as part of the MacKenzie Overpass Project. I may have had my last glimpse of that piece of paradise from the highway. I am going to be happy once the construction is finished because it is going to shorten my commute by a few minutes and relieve a lot of driver frustration in this area, but I am going to miss the view of this beautiful part of Victoria. Ah, the price of progress.

Weather is a constant threat for anyone venturing out on the water. Regardless if you are swimming, floating on a raft, paddling, sailing, or zooming around with a power boat, you need to keep an eye on the weather.Despite every effort to forecast, the elusive manifestations of mother nature can be unpredictable and sometimes downright cruel.This was reminded to me when an unexpected wind storm blew (pun intended) into Maple Bay where the boat I live on is moored. We went from calm to screeching mad in just a few minutes. I was notified by the flailing of my winter tarps as they whipped against their tie-downs, and ultimately tore free.While trying to deal with that minor catastrophe, with the ever increasing wind tearing the loose tarp flap out of my hand, I looked up and saw a float home floating (what else) past.It took a moment to realise that that structure was supposed to be tied to a warf, at all times. It was not meant to be free as a whale in the middle of the bay. And then my brain noticed there were people on board. It felt like a scene out of The Wizard of OZ. The one where Dorothy's house goes spinning up into the funnel cloud...it just ain't supposed to be doing that.Then the Atrevida, a large, converted wooden car ferry sailed past. Although the Atrevida is a boat, and boats sail past my home all the time, it had been on a constant mooring for about five years and it was moving backwards. Again, I knew this just ain't supposed to be happening.Both structures had been blown off their moorings. This wind was pretty serious.This was a harsh reminder that, with all things nautical, we are at the mercy of the weather. Even the really big ships that ply the oceans are tiny vessels in the face of what mother nature can wave in their direction. Don't believe me? Just search for 'big waves' in YouTube.So, if you don't want to be sailing your float home, watch the weather and keep some spare mooring lines handy.

My oldest brother was born arm first. Perhaps he wanted to get a sense of what was waiting for him and stuck that hand out for some form of forewarning. He did this in 1955 and the medical solution available at that time to deal with this sort of situation involved cold, metal instruments with hinges and grabby parts.The result was, as I am told, that the trauma of his extraction stopped my mother's heart (maybe my brother's too...my memory of what was told to me is a bit fuzzy). Fortunately, despite the need to rely on such crude medical instruments, the doctor was able to revive both. However, my parents were advised Mom had suffered such damage that she wouldn't be able to have any more kids.Me and my four other brothers made liars of that doctor.I take this history as an indication that God, or whatever force (spirit or natural) that watches over our world has a purpose for me.How am I doing?

I always knew that being a writer was a lonely choice. Long hours hunched over a keyboard, face awash in reflected light from the screen that is always hungry for more words. What I didn't expect though, was the indifference and lack of enthusiasm from my intended audience.I always knew that, once I had endured enough lonely hours, others would read my words and recognize my genius.Therein lies the crux, getting people to read my words. My short stories tend to get read, have even been read by editors willing to publish some (see my list of credits) but mostly they languish in my computer in obscurity. I have not had a single email from a fan.Having managed to actually finish a novel, The Summer of Grumps, after four stalled, part novel projects, I want to know how well I have done from someone else's perspective.Despite speaking with numerous people about it and being reassured that, if I sent them a copy of it, they would read it and provide some feedback, I have only recieved that from one person.Is the book so bad that if you gave me honest feedback you would hurt my feelings? Let me tell you, you wouldn't. What hurts more is not knowing if I should continue refining the book, rewrite it from a different perspective, abandon it and concentrate on my next project, or take up painting.Offering feedback doesn't have to be difficult. I want to know if the story makes sense to you, is the writing too juvenile, technical, complicated. Are the characters and their actions believable, do they seem real. Did the story make you want to continue reading it was it difficult to turn the next page?Feedback doesn't mean you need to correct my grammar spelling, so you don't need to identify dangling participle, or verb noun confusion. If you do notice these types of errors it is nice if you point them out.You won't hurt my feeling, that's the job of the editor. What does hurt my feelings is hearing nothing back. That makes me feel like I don't matter.Do I matter?

As I read about and listen to more governments apologize for attrocities of past generations I am left wondering what good is the effort, particularly when those who were subjected to the horrendous treatments are no longer with us. Even those who still live with the memories of what they were forced to endure won't be cured by the words of politicians. Healing of that type comes from within.When I think about the amount of anger that churns inside so many who are seeking some sort of retribution, I can only feel sad for them because they are allowing their past to contaminate their present and their future. Healing comes from within. It comes from letting go of the things that continue to harm us and focussing on the things that will allow us to deal with the Impacts of our past and influence our world to help prevent future attrocities.I am not suggesting that anyone forget what has happened, remembering should be one of the driving forces that permit us to see the wrong that is still going on in our world, wrongs that our actions can help address. A culture of being a victim will not help. We are all victims of some sort.And I am not suggesting the 'moving on' is easy. Like any grief, one must work to accept the new reality. No amount of wailing or rending of clothes is going to bring back a loved one. No amount of compensation or world leader words will fix what was broken. No amount of cooling will unbake a loaf of bread. The healing comes from within.Just as we all have been victimized, we have all contributed to actions that have victimized others. Whether our contribution is through direct action, passive action, or a failure to act against an aggressor, each of us bears a responsibility for the events going on in our world. Somewhere in each of our pasts, our ancestors did some horrible things to others. We cannot change that, but we can make every effort to help influence our descendants to better, more positive choices and to teach them that the healing must come from within.