Dave's random mumblings…

Growing up birthdays were never a particularly big deal in the Kean household, it’s just how it was. Anniversaries of pretty much any kind tended to be discrete affairs. A card, a couple of small presents and that was typically it. There would be a small birthday party as I was growing up, but I think my parents discretely stopped kids birthday parties altogether as early as was reasonable. Certainly before I hit my teens the idea of a birthday party after that was just never put out there, it’s just how it was.

My Aunts, Joan and Janice along with Mum (L-R)

I remember a birthday party at my uncles for Granddads 65th, but even that was sold as a retirement party rather than a birthday celebration.

The biggest get together and celebrations were always about family. The biggie was always Christmas, we’d all gather at Granddads, eat our fill, drink, open presents, make pass-the-parcel into a full-contact sport and give up watching the Bond film because there was too much going on.

Other big get togethers were New Year and every summer there would be a Sunday or two where we’d all get together, barbeque, mum and at least one of her sisters would get falling over drunk and dad would have to help her into the back of the car.

Granddad at the BBQ in the summer.

As I think about these times the one constant in them is that I picture my parents being about the same age I am now, in their 40’s. Dad was in his early 30’s when he became a father, older than many in his generation and almost 10 years older them mum when I was born.

A friend of mine thinks my father was rather dashing as a younger man, broad shouldered, fit and dark haired. She also said he sounds “like Sean Connery, only sexier”; his Scottish accent has been tempered by living south of the border for the last 50 years.

There were a few years when I was first living in the US where I could not afford to travel back to London and see my parents as often as I’d have liked. While I’d talk to them a couple of times a week on the phone, it was always startling to see them suddenly age a year or 18 months when they would come to meet me at Heathrow.

Dad’s hair would be a little thinner with more grey. Mum would be slightly shorter than I remember, less stable on her feet and get tired a little sooner. Why it was always a surprise I’m not sure, but it was.

As I said in my mind dad is about the same age I am now and I’d be met at Heathrow by this man who looked about 20 years older with grey hair and now a bit of a stoop. Even now I visit 3 or 4 times a year it takes me by surprise every time.

If he tried to lift me up onto his shoulders as he used to when I was 6 it would probably kill him now. Heck even at his fittest, joints would have been put out at the very least had he tried to shift today’s bulk.

It’s the same with mum, I always imagine her as she was 20 years ago. Which considering how she was last time I saw her is for the better.

Even though we are both middle aged one of the last conversations I had with mum was how I was the sensible one and gave them little worry as a teenager (I saved that for my 20’s and onwards), while Stephen was the younger one and always doing something that they were worried about (and he calmed down somewhat about the same time I started to push my personal envelope).

Part of it is that when I’d visit my parents (OK, it was Mum) treated both of us like we were still in our early teens, a little nagging about rather unimportant stuff, worried about where we were going that evening, not to go out with wet hair as we’d catch a cold and so on. I think in some respect this reverting back to type gave my brother and I permission and freedom to act the age we were being treated. Which would have been about 10 and 12.

Quite a few years ago mum gave me an album of photos of me growing up, my parents growing up, family outings, weddings and so on, with my grandparents featuring rather strongly in it. As cool as an X-box, bike or remote controlled dalek is, its’ the best present I’ve ever been given.

In this picture dad is about the same age as I am now. I’ll leave you to work out who the rather handsome young man sitting on his knee is.

It’s July 4^th 2008, it was a Friday and I’ve been invited to a barbeque at the friends house, I am looking forward to relaxing and being around a group of fun people. It’s just before lunch and I’m finishing off a little work e-mail. I even remember the email I was replying too, it was about having people available to receive and inspect some parts going onto an aircraft I was responsible for.

It’s strange which details stay with you.

My cell goes off, the number is my parent’s home phone in England. I remember speaking to them the day before about my plans for the holiday weekend, having fun and perhaps staying overnight with friends.

It’s dad, in typical style he comes straight out with it, Granddad’s ill and I need to be there. This comes totally out of the blue, he was in his mid 80’s, had bad knees, had trouble getting around for a few years now, but no one had mentioned him being ill before now.

I never got much of an explanation over the phone other than it’s serious. I knew that, I’d not be getting the call if it were not.

Henry Darrah, 1942

I briefly spoke to dad once more that afternoon just to let him know I was that evening’s British Airways flight to London. Dad picked me up at Heathrow and it’s now Saturday afternoon in London.

In the car I got my parents version of the story. Granddad was diagnosed with leukaemia a couple of months previously, and in typical Henry Darrah fashion kept it quiet. As I’ve said before he was a powerful man, who was determined to live his life with ethics, determinations and grace, and on his terms.

My parents had known for about a week, he’d underplayed the seriousness and did not want me jumping on the next airplane to be there. He’s never liked people making a fuss of him.

I’d last seen him three months earlier when I’d gone over for what was in reality not much more than a long weekend. His house was usually the first stop after leaving the airport, typically on the way to the old peoples house.

This time we by passed his house and went straight to the Royal Surrey County Hospital. No one has told him I’m on my way; dad lets me know about this particular nugget as we are waiting for the lift to take us up to his ward.

We walk in and he’s in bed on his side as he’s got bedsores. The hospital had been giving him a series of blood transfusions over the previous couple of days and his arm has a number of big bruises. He’s obviously surprised to see me, and immediately asks what I’m doing there, I mumble something about a planned trip and dad decides he needs a cup of tea and leaves us alone.

As we always do I shake his hand, only this time I’m met by a wince of pain and the usually strong handshake is not there. That’s when I understand it’s more serious than anyone is letting on. He’s always had such a strong grip and this time there is nothing there, he’s ill, and he’s not told at least my parents how ill he is.

After a while Geraldine and my aunt show up, first thing he asks his wife was did she know I was coming. Geraldine says yes she did, gave him a look and it was left at that, at least while I was still in the room.

Geraldine and my grandfather married the year I moved to the Seattle. They had been living together for a few years before that. I saw from the start that Geraldine made my grandfather very happy, and his happiness was what I cared about. It took mum a few years to accept her, but she saw that her dad was happy and ultimately that’s what mattered.

Mum had commented a few times that one of the strangest things she had done was watch her dad get married. I think it was uncomfortable for her that he was making it so clear that he had moved on from my grandmother’s death 16 years earlier. Mum came round, like the rest of us we saw granddad was happy and that what we all, including mum, wanted.

My Grandparents 1977 or 78

That evening I visited granddad again, for an hour or so it’s just the two of us. He spent a lot of time talking about the past, telling stories, not something he does very often. My brother joined us after a while. Granddad spent almost three hours that evening sharing with Stephen and I. He reminisced about growing up in Canada, learning to drive as a 12 year old, going to Montreal, watching La Habs play at the Forum, moving to England, what mum did as a child and so on.

We talked about growing up; rides in his cars, given candy over my parent’s objections and all the wonderful things grandparents do for grandkids.

I saw him every day for the next five days. I said good-bye to granddad on my way to the airport; I was going to be back in a couple of weeks and said I’d see him then.

He passed before I could make it back to see him.

There is a lot more to this story, how mum did not want to worry me, how Geraldine threatened to call me herself if mum did not do it, how my grandfathers family came together to celebrate the man. How his ashes are in a vault next to my grandmother.

Two years on my aunt and his wife Geraldine still live in the same house, and it still does not feel right to walk into that house and not see Henry struggling to get out of his chair to greet me. I’ve only been in the living room a couple of times since he passed, it feels so strange after so many years of granddad always being in his chair when I arrived.

Yesterday I saw the A-Team movie (and admitting to it). It’s not exactly an intellectual challenge, but taken for what it is was a decent way to distract me for a couple of hours. The body count was not huge by Hollywood standards, but a couple of the bad guys met with some spectacularly violent ends.

I know in real life people die every day, go to any date in wikipedia and you’ll see a list of people that died in that year or on that day. It’s not personal,  it’s just a name and date. We can click on a link, perhaps dive a little deeper and find out a little more, but quickly we turn the page.

Occasionally it’s personal; maybe it’s a parent, a close friend, acquaintance or lover. It’s surreal, it’s an unchangeable fact and the ripples will be felt through the years on both special occasions and random days. Birthdays, anniversaries, mother’s day and days that mean something to only you.

Many years ago a very close friend Steve was killed in a car accident. Steve and I shared an office, we shared a room when traveling, competed again each other and were incredibly close. Over a couple of year period we spent a lot of time on the road for work and I spent more nights sharing a room with Steve than his wife did (which is an awful lot less George Michael than it sounds).

Steve’s death was as sudden as it was tragic. His wife was three months pregnant with their first child and I lost my closest friend and colleague. Every year at the end of May I spend a few minutes thinking about Steve, it’s the anniversary of his death and I remember.

At the time I acted as though nothing strange was happening, after all, the world was still turning. I busied myself in the office, stopped sharing a room while on the road for a while and pretended everything was normal. All this was done in a pointless attempt to blunt the pain. Even though that was 17 years ago now, I find it sad that I’m never going to get another Christmas card or his daughter Amy will ever know her father.

Grief is a strange thing. I find that it makes an appearance at odd times, little reminders cause it’s to catch me by surprise. I’ve said before when I call my parents house and dad answers he phone rather than mum. There are many others and while the immediacy of the grief goes away over time, it still makes it’s presence felt occasionally.

I remember the cards and flowers arriving at my parent’s house when mum passed, dad would spend a few minutes every day examining the cards. He liked, actually we all liked, being reminded that mum was missed by others and how we were in peoples thoughts.

Parents and grandmother, 1990ish

We were continuously asked if we were OK, this rhetorical question typically follows the “I’m so sorry” statement. Sometimes it was asked all by itself. I’ve never had any idea how to answer, Yes, No or Maybe? I typically tried for quiet dignity, some kind of affirmative I’m doing OK, and a thank you. Reality was “I am not okay, but I’d rather you did not ask”.

I’m not sure if it’s just part of being British and actually living the stiff-upper-lip stereotype, but it seems to be very difficult to admit admitting we are not doing well. I am not okay, but I’d rather you did not ask.

So when does it all start getting better, when does it all end? In my experience it doesn’t ever get better. It slowly gets more bearable and incrementally the bizarre feelings become somewhat normal. It’s never really over, but we learn to deal.

Everyone goes through it at some time and everyone deals with it differently. Afterwards life is never quite the same, but the world is still turning.

I have found that some gestures were incredibly meaningful on a personal level, it was less about how I felt, more about what I need or most importantly providing a distraction, that hopefully involved great beer or good wine. Here are some things that people have said to me that actually did help:

What do you need?
What can I do?
Here is food.
Here is wine.
Forget that, it’s taken care of.
We should go to the bookstore
The 3P’s has some good beer on nitro, lets go.
Wanna watch Star Wars
Come by the office; we’ll go for lunch.
Here is candy.
Why don’t you write about it?

The Old People

Dear mum, it’s been a while and I miss you. The world has changed very much with out you in it, but I guess that goes without saying. Not just bad changes, some are good as the dark clouds part. I’d trade them all to spend another afternoon with you.

I know you’d be so proud of dad and the way he’s handled the transition. He misses you so much, but that’s not a surprise to anyone is it? A 43-year-old marriage died along with you, I did not understand that at the time, I don’t think any of us did. We are trying to look after dad as best we can, but the stubborn and independent streak that was passed down from grandparents, to parents to my brother and I, runs deep in all of us.

I still expect you to answer the phone when I call, it was one of those things that showed me the world was right. Rain on May bank holidays and you answering the phone. If it helps I know exactly what you’d say had I called today with the World Cup is on. “Do you want to speak to your father? I’ll get your father, he’s watching that bloody football, he’s always watching football. How much longer is this cup thing going on for?”

Thank you for the letters, it took me a long time to take them from Dad, eventually he just handed them to me and said take them. They sat tucked into the cover of a notebook for a while before I opened them. Not so much because I was scared that you were gone, but more because it made everything seem so final and I was not ready for that.

There are moments when something happens and it’s really hard knowing I’ll not get to share the stories about unicycles, dinners  and so on with you. More than occasionally I catch myself thinking “mum will love this…” and then it comes upon me that I can’t.

One other person you’d be so proud of is Steve, he has done such an amazing job with guiding Nimah and helping her through out this. Exposing her to the reality and transition but keeping her away from the center of things. I’m really impressed, he is a great father, but we had good role models.

You know we are so alike and I think that’s been at the root of the ups and downs in our relationship over the last 20 years. There have been times we have not got on as well as we maybe should have done, but I’ve always known I’m loved no matter what. I’m glad over the last couple of years we got back to where we should have been.

One of the strangest things was staying in the house . It’s been well over 20 years since I spent a night in your house alone, it felt really strange and something was missing. Even though I had Dora the Explorer to keep me company in the spare bedroom, it did not feel right. Dad’s not been keeping the house to your standard, the dust is pretty thick in places and he’s not vacuuming every couple of days the way you did, but he is doing OK.

I know you believed in an afterlife of some description, I hope you were right and the rest of us totally missed the mark on that one. It gve you comfort, and I think dad got something out of it too.

We all miss you and I just wish I knew what to say next.

Mum “David, why are you reading a motorbike magazine”

Me “Because I’m thinking about… err getting… a motorbike… Maybe…”

I now know exactly where this conversation is going next, and all of a sudden I’m 14 again and it’s not going to go well.

My mother is in bed with cancer and can hardly move. Yet somehow she draws deep and finds the energy to roll back the clock 26 years to give her 40 year old son a scolding… This is why I fly 5500 miles and deal with changing airplanes in the outer ring of hell known as Atlanta. Awesome…

Mum “Da Vid…”

Yep, my name is pronounced as two separate words, this confirms what’s coming…

Mum “Why would you want to buy one of those?”

Dad is sitting across the other side of the hospital bed, he sits back to watch and starts smiling at what he knows is coming.

Mum “You’re 40… Why would you want a motorbike? Tommy tell him to stop being stupid…”

The grin disappears from dads face with a start, he’s now involved, he decides (wisely) not to say anything, knowing that 2 or 3 seconds of silence is all that’s required before…

Mum “David I worry about you so much already, you are not getting a motorbike…”

Ooooh, well played dad. He’s out the game and did not even need to open his mouth. If only I had that skill…

Me “Mum, I’m 40, if I want a bike I’ll get a bike. I’m just looking, I’ve not decided I will actually get one…”

Mum “I worry so much, if there is anything dangerous to be done, you’ll do it. Won’t you?”

Me “Biking is not dangerous”

Oh shit, all that’s missing is the “but muuummmm…” whine to start the sentence. I’ve lost, but how do I get out of this with any semblance of dignity?

Mum “Yes it is, Caroline’s son… You remember Natalie? And her daughter Caroline? Natalie was at Marks wedding. Anyway… He fell off his motorbike and hurt himself! It is dan-ger-ous and you are not to do it! Is that clear?”

Mum hardly pauses for breath and continues  “I worry about you enough now that you live in America and do that racing thing, you are not getting a motorbike! Is that clear? And you are too old for that racing thing you do, you’rs not supposed to be doing that at your age.”

I’ve done that “racing thing” for the last 24 years, it’s not the first time I’ve heard this part of the argument. I remind myself to stay away from the “I’m here now aren’t I, I’ve not died?” logic. History shows reasoned arguments do not do well.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and that’s my dignity making its exit with out me… Well fuck…

Mum “I just want you to be safe and happy…”

Me “OK, I’m not getting a bike, you are right it’s dangerous.”

Mum changes track “No need to be sarcastic, you are old enough to do what you want. I just want you to be happy.”

Me “But Muu-umm, I was not being sarcastic”

Mum “David” said rapid fire now. “But are you happy?”

Me “No, I don’t have a motorbike.”

Mum left me a series of mostly short notes, I left them in England after the funeral and have conspicuously ignored them since. Not 100% sure why, I think it’s mostly just the emotions around them.

I read a couple and put the rest in my bag to read once I get home, perhaps accompanied by a nice bottle of wine. Though, as it’s mum, maybe whiskey would be more appropriate.

It’s taken me a while to get there, but I’ve read a few and there have been a few consistent themes. First is the love she has for dad, my brother, her granddaughter and myself. Secondly she is proud of how I’ve made my way in world. Most importantly she wants me to be happy too.

Family around mums bed in the RSCH

This is a story about Henry, my grandfather. He was born in New Brunswick and grew up in the beautiful St John river valley close to the border with Maine. Aside from a couple of trips to Montreal and occasional trips across the border he never strayed too far from home.

Just a few weeks after the invasion of Poland by Germany Henry took a trip to Woodstock and joined the recently mobilized Carleton and York Regiment, this was before conscription started. A couple of weeks later he was ordered to Sussex New Brunswick for six weeks of basic training, this was followed by a week of leave then and then to Halifax, Nova Scotia.

On December 9^th 1939 he boarded a ship in Halifax, along with the rest of the Carleton and York Regiment, and sailed for Britain.

He disembarked in Greenock on the 20^th of December.

As an interesting aside, my paternal grandparents lived in Greenock, my grandfather worked in the extensive shipyards and my father was 4 years old when Henry landed in his hometown.

They boarded a series of trains in Greenock Central destined for an army transit camp in Aldershot Hampshire, before finally making the short journey to Quebec Barracks in Bordon Camp in Hampshire in early March 1940.

The Carleton and York were part of the newly formed Third Brigade of the First Canadian Infantry Division. Henry is assigned as a mechanic and driver to a field workshop tasked with repairing and recovering the battalions vehicles.

At this time rationing for basic foodstuffs had just been introduced in England and the 200,000 men of the British Expeditionary forces were deployed in France. Any hope for an early end to the fighting was destroyed with the invasion of the Low countries and the German sweep into France during the Spring of 1940 causing Chamberlain to resign and Churchill forms a coalition government.

In early May, while drilling on the parade ground at Quebec Barracks a lone German bomber appears over Bordon with no warning. It’s thought that the aircraft was lost and found a target of opportunity. The aircraft dropped a couple of bombs, killed 8 (10 by some reports) on the ground before departing at tree top height.

A small element took part in the ill-fated Dieppe raid in August 1942, but other than that the Carleton and York drilled and trained in Southern for the next couple of years. While in Bournmouth preparing for a training exercise on Salisbury Plain in March 1942 Henry was hit by a civilian car. He was taken to hospital in with a badly broken leg.

After a few days he was transferred to a military hospital in Aldershot, where he stayed for a couple of months before being sent back to Bordon and his home unit to continue his rehabilitation. The damage to his leg was severe and kept him on limited and light duties for over a year.

In June 1943 the Carleton and York along with the rest of the First Canadian Infantry Division embarked on transports from Plymouth and Falmouth to participate in Operation Husky, the invasion of Sicily.

Henry was still recovering from his broken leg and was kept in Bordon until late August or early September. He then deployed to Italy, landing in allied held Bari and joining the Carleton and York near Foggia.

The First Canadian Infantry Division was now part of the British 8^th Army and was tasked with breaking through the multiple defensive lines the Germans had set up running across Italy. The Carleton and York along with the rest of the division were tasked with supporting the crossing the river Sangro by New Zealand troops on November 28^th 1943, and moving towards Ortona on the Adriatic coast.

Fortunately the German 86^th Division that faced the New Zealand and Canadian troops were largely ill equipped replacements that allowed the allied troops to take all their objectives with little trouble. This was not the case along other parts of the offensive, where other parts of the 8^th Army went against battle tested units and did not advance.

With the weather deteriorating the lines stabilized over the winter and the Carleton and York were withdrawn for a few months and were later assigned to support the 8^th Army in the drive to Rome through the bloody battles at Monte Cassino and the Livi Valley through April and May 1944.

The Carleton and York continued north over the following months, through Rimini in September and holding at Lamone in November. At this point Henry and a majority of the First Canadian Infantry Division were withdrawn and sailed from Livorno to Portsmouth, arriving back in Bordon in just before Christmas 1944 to prepare for deployment to Holland to join the drive into the Rhineland in the Spring.

Some elements of the division arrived in Holland, but for the Carleton and York specifically the war moved too fast into Germany and they never joined the rest of the division in North West Europe.

Henry returned to Canada in early 1946, arriving in Fredericton with is new wife, Vera. In December1946 my mother was born and together they moved back to South East England in 1947.

In 1992 I visited New Brunswick, it seemed like I’m related to about half the St John River Valley. I was told quite a number of stories about Henry. A significant number of which of which he would deny (and in some cases has), and I’m fairly sure he would not want them published here.

This is the brief synopsis of six years of his life. How he came to Europe, made a difference, served his country and later returned to make Guildford his home. I had a tremendous grandfather that I loved. He taught me ethics, appreciating cats, not to be afraid of hard work, don’t get too attached to a car, never forget to have fun, let those around you know you love them, how to set the timing on a car, that you can never have too many tools and that my father should have been nominated for sainthood in 2002 (if you want to know more ask, I’m not going to expand on that here).

I’ve used a number of primary and secondary sources for the information, the dates, locations and operations are correct as far as I know. I’d like to thank the Canadian Department of Defence, specifically Paul McDonald in the Office of veteran’s affairs for his invaluable help and contacts that made the details possible, the 8th Hussars Museum in Sussex NB and the Canadian War Museum in Ottawa.

The Carleton and York have gone through a number of amalgamations and their history, and by extension the history of Henry and those that served with him, are now part of the Royal New Brunswick Regiment.

Incidentally, the Royal New Brunswick Regiment have recently returned from a six month deployment to Afghanistan.