Al and Me

  

Al and I met when I was 43. He was 38; I think. Truth in gay men online encounters is subjective. That’s where the story begins.

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

Early on, 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 about her life. Marion was bright and often challenged his conservative middle-class views 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 was already showing aspects of what would become his defiant and challenging personality.  

Al’s wife, Darlene, was a senior administrator in the private sector. Their relationship and mine was nearly 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.

My job required travel outside the province. Following a month of online conversations, we met. A port city always attracted me. It was at what had become my favourite watering hole over the years, a rowdy downtown Irish bar called 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 feet ten inches tall, and his light brown hair was greying at the temples. Moving from the bright summer afternoon sun into the cool dark interior of the bar caused him to walk cautiously. We exchanged greetings, friends. He wiped the sweat from his brow, clearly yearning for a more tranquil setting. After a couple of drinks, he relaxed a bit. We talked about the city and its historic harbour. 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. I watched as he scanned the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

A popular local band wound up the crowd for the evening performance. Groups of young men enjoyed a midsummer outing. We surveyed them with a practiced gay man’s eye and jokingly shared a few lurid comments. Had I been solo, I would have chatted up someone who caught my eye and returned the look. I had discovered an aspect of my gay character I was unaware of. I was a bit of a lone wolf, not interested in banter. Seeing an attractive man, I observed his group comfort level. In my insecurity, I limited myself to masculine-looking and acting men. I’d approach intriguing individuals, start a conversation, and gauge their reaction.

Al’s strategy tended toward passive, preferring observation over approach. At the end of the evening, however, we both agreed, at our age, we were late to the party and not too skilled in modern dalliances.

That warm summer night came to define our activities during my visits, peppered with occasional sojourns to the local gay bars. We interspersed these jaunts with walking tours of the city and many enjoyable restaurant meals I wouldn’t ordinarily visit. This was Al’s world, and he was gracious in sharing it. 

We continued with our regular emails and occasional phone chats, updating each other about ongoing life 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 finding a trusted friend. When Gary, my future husband, entered my life a few years later, it felt like Al had made space for him. He tried to introduce Gary to new culinary experiences with little success. Undeterred, Al made extra efforts to befriend my young partner, and we three enjoyed lots of laughs and conversations. 

In 2004, Al was granted extended sick leave because of his growing depression. It was a tremendous relief. He talked about the places he and Darlene would visit when Marion went to university the following year. It was the most outwardly happy I had ever seen him. I still have a picture of Al shovelling his driveway after that year’s massive blizzard. He has this crazy grin and a mound of snow twice his height behind him. He told me it took three days to clear the snow as he met neighbours he had never spoken to before. It was a snowy block party. 

About a 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. I assumed he didn’t want Darlene to hear. He had tested positive for HIV. He spoke in a cracked and weak voice. Al’s doctor was optimistic about controlling his condition, but Al hadn’t told Darlene. We talked about how she might handle the news, and he agreed it was best to share the news with her. The following week, he called, sounding more optimistic. His treatment had started and the early blood results were promising. But weakness consumed him, sapping his strength. They agreed not to tell Marion, as it would distract her from focusing on end-of-year exams and university applications.

I visited 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 was shocking. 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 shuffled with 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 my shocked look, he didn’t show the isolation he must have felt.

He asked about Gary and how our relationship was developing. Al being Al, he couldn’t avoid requesting any salacious details I could offer. Satisfied that we were doing well, he leaned in to share his own news. He had full-blown AIDS. Two days before, a scan had 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 reality that my friend and I were about to embark on a dark path.

I let him take the lead in conversation. He talked about Marion; she had completed her exams and would graduate with honours. His face lit up when he reported her acceptance into the prestigious university’s science program. She hoped to go into medicine. His unabashed pride as a father was palpable. He had shared the news of his sickness and prognosis with her. Since his initial diagnosis, he dreaded the moment, anticipating she would respond with vitriol and bitterness. Instead, she gathered him in her arms and held him, saying nothing. Life offered him unprecedented solace. We talked a bit more, but it was apparent he was tiring. He promised to be up for a more extended conversation during my next visit.

As I walked back to my hotel, I considered Al richly blessed amongst those who suffered. He had a wife and daughter whose love was steadfast and a person who he could call his friend.

My last visit with Al was in the late summer. Reviewing work emails, I noticed an unfamiliar 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 wife of a gay friend. Her message was direct but sincere. Al’s condition had deteriorated over the past week. Her silence notwithstanding, his physician delivered grim news: his life was over. Then the most extraordinary thing happened: 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. I was astonished.

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

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

Gary and I whispered so as not to startle him, but Al slowly opened his eyes and smiled his welcoming smile. We began with our usual banter, which dissipated as the moment weighed on all of us. Then, I did something that still surprises me today. I reached over, took my friend’s hands, and held them in my own. The warmth seemed to bring 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 few moments. Words were superfluous. He thanked us for the visit and wondered what brought us down his way. I invented a nearby meeting, yet I believe he detected my falsehood.

We talked about how we met and embarrassed Gary by describing some late nights at the gay club. The visit 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 go to a fancy restaurant where Gary could not find hamburgers or fries. I embraced him, 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.

Gary came to the funeral with me. It was an early October day, sunny and mild. This marked 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 during these 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 our best intentions, life throws us off balance. The choir’s hymn marked that moment for me. A tidal bore came rushing against the wall I had built to protect myself from feeling my emotions. The wall disintegrated. The overwhelming emotion left me gasping for air. I struggled against drowning in grief. It was the loss of my friend, combined with the reality I could not hide how I was feeling. I felt exposed and alone. Gary’s hand on mine was like a hot knife. I recoiled, leaving him startled. The emotional cascade slowed as the choir took their seats. I heaved myself into the pew, spent. While the minister continued the service, I tried to shore up my defences against another emotional tsunami. But as the service concluded with a familiar hymn, I was once again caught in roiling emotions. 

I attempted to pay my respects to Darlene, but the result was a jumble of words which did nothing but put her in an awkward position. I left the church as people stared at this person, probably thinking he was one of Al’s sex partners. It was a mixture of sympathy and scorn. The embarrassing event left me struggling to understand what had happened to my defence shield, which had kept me fortified for decades. I don’t think I had the resources to pursue an answer. I was unprepared.

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

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

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

A Question of Faith

       Illustration by Terry Matthews

October 07, 1825 7:30am

The dawn cracked like a scar on the cloudless sky. Dew lay miserly on the few remaining plants. It had been four months since rain had fallen. John Jackson tended to his duties as Sexton of St. Paul's Anglican Church in Bushville. The small but dedicated congregation had erected the building in the Spring and Summer of 1825. It sat prominently on a knoll close to the river. John was honoured when he was asked to oversee its maintenance and operation. He and his wife Ann had lived in the Miramichi Valley for a decade. They had made the dangerous journey from their native Scotland with two sons, William and Charles. The boys,

now fifteen and thirteen, were joined by three brothers and a sister (Margaret). The period leading to and a year after the voyage from Edenborough had been unseasonably cold with constant rain. The crops failed, forcing the Jacksons and thousands of other Europeans to escape famine. A volcanic eruption on Mount Tambora, Indonesia, the previous year had spread a layer of ash across the globe, blocking out the sun for months. The memory of that uncertain period had dissolved with the promise of a brighter future for the young couple and their children.

11:00am

John answered a loud rapping on the vestry door. A terror-stricken resident grabbed John’s coat and pulled him outside, pointing wordlessly to the western horizon. The azure blue sky was erased by a coal black cloud thirty kilometres wide and towering kilometres high. His first thoughts were the safety of Ann and the children. He raced to their home and directed William and Charles to gather the bedding and soak it in the 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 fire jumped across the one-quarter-mile river, they would be secure in the earthen crawlway.

2:00 p.m.

Word had come from Nelson that Malcom's Chapel, the Catholic Church, had been destroyed. In a miraculous turn of events, the rest of the community was spared. Several ships loaded with masts bound for England had been caught in a rain of flame and were charred to their water lines. Like most Miramichi residents, John Jackson had no experience with forest infernos. But he had studied the historical documents brought from congregants' homes to make a church library.

One of the papers described previous incidents which occurred in the region. He recalled 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 at extended intervals often giving the perception that a structure has combusted spontaneously. Jackson prayed fervently that this phenomenon would spare him and his family. John looked across to Rosebank and Douglastown. He wept as he witnessed a single sheet of flame nearing forty metres in height and kilometres in length bearing down on the area. Across the half-kilometre distance, he heard the shrieks of terror from man and beast as they sought a common refuge in the water.

John began to realize that the Bushville side was not experiencing the worst effects.

His thoughts turned to how he might save his church. He ran the short distance to the church, where earlier he had placed buckets of water around and sheets provided by neighbours. He had placed a ladder high enough to gain access to the peak. Jackson spent the remainder of the night laying the wet materials across the roof. The valiant effort worked, and as the grey smoke filled, dawn broke, he felt a moment of joy and triumph. As the black curtain diminished, John recognized a fellow parishioner half stumbling up the wagon path from the direction of John's home. His clothing was burnt, and his face blackened. His voice was strangled from acrid smoke as he told Jackson the unimaginable news that Ann and three of their beautiful children were dead.

 

October 08, 1825, 8:00am

John Jackson looked over the site of his massive defeat. His lovely Ann and three of their children were gone forever. Trapped in their stone house, they suffocated as the waves of flame stole any oxygen in the area. The remaining children had been taken to a temporary hospital. The sound of the painful screams calling for their mother reverberated in his head. Mercifully, they later died from their injuries.

Conversations with 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 and her children are buried in the cemetery of St. Paul's Anglican Church, which stands intact today, a conflicted symbol of religious devotion and the recognition of the price one person had paid for it.

 

 

Conclusion

Statistics help 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 approximately 150 km (90 miles) northeast of Fredericton. The track of the fire moved to Newcastle, Douglastown, Bartibogue on the west and Nelson, Bushville, Chatham and Napan to the east. One hundred and sixty people died. Nine hundred homes and structures were destroyed.

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

 In addition, there was a common belief that the maelstrom had consumed all the lands. That also was overstated. Crowning and spot fires leave sections of the forest untouched. A survey five years after the fire concluded that a large portion of marketable timber remained intact.

These notations do not diminish the courage and determination of the Miramichi people. Many immigrants decided to remain and rebuild their independent communities and eventually their commitment to a united city over a century later. As time went on, the population of the Miramichi Valley did not match the growth of neighbouring counties, but it gradually recovered. The export of solid white pine masts to the British Navy dropped. That was a result of negative press more than a reduction in fibre availability. The vacuum was taken up as Britain expanded its colonial possessions, needing more ships and supplies. And so, the lapse in exports was short-term.

The Miramichi region eventually assumed its place in the province of New Brunswick and the Confederation of Canada. The fire of October 7, 1825, has become a footnote of our history. The strength and determination of the people continue to grow.

 

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

He Came From Away

 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.

SOLO

 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.

Father and Son

 

"Life is neither good or bad, it simply is; how we respond to events shows the richness or poverty of our existence."

On Wednesday, November 17, 2010, the weather was chilly and cloudy, typical for late fall in Miramichi. Historical websites reported that no notable events occurred on this date. But at 4:20 p.m., my oldest brother, Norman and I were present as history unfolded for our family. We sat on either side of our father's bedside while Norman comforted him with quiet reassurances as I held his hand. His breathing became ragged, eventually, the only sound in the room was the clicking of the clock.

I looked at the body that once was our dad, John Dolan. His bear paw hands were still rough as sandpaper. I thought of him tossing me effortlessly as a young child into the air. His face and arms held a tan from the previous summer sitting on the veranda overlooking his beloved Miramichi River. We were in the living room, which was renovated for a sleeping area. In its last role, it held many warm memories. Dad's "modified" Christmas trees had stood, tied to the wall to prevent them from falling. As youngsters, we held no notice of the crooked tree and the fading decorations. Our imaginations conjured images of extravagant gifts, including GI Joes and talking dolls. The reality of simple presents on Christmas morning did not lessen our joy. As kids, we knew nothing of Dad's sacrifices to buy even basic gifts. Seven children and his mother had to be fed and clothed. Our house was over a century old and showing its age. With few tools and less ability, Dad struggled to keep it together. We may have complained about some of our clothes but knew we were loved. As a small boy, I would sneak past my brothers and sisters after supper to join Dad on the couch. I would snuggle into him as he read his paper, and if I were lucky, we would fall asleep, me safe and secure in his arms. 

 

Many of us view our parents through a narrow lens, seeing them mainly as caregivers and nurturers. We often overlook the individuals they were before we entered their lives. They may have set aside their dreams and goals to ensure that we, their children, could pursue ours. I occasionally asked Dad about his father and life as a youngster, but his brief responses were not much help. My father treated words like chocolates. He savoured and consumed them sparingly.

Dad's father died of sepsis when my father was fourteen. His mother carved out a living taking in boarders and raising a few farm animals. Despite the hardship, she insisted he stay in school beyond the usual Grade eight level. Dad went on to complete High School. In 1940 he joined the masses of young men and women who took up arms against the Nazi repression. After the war, he returned to Miramichi and met a young nurse. John struggled to overcome his shyness and eventually won Rita Ramsay's love. The two married and settled into the Dolan Homestead in Nelson. Dad spent most of his adult life working at the village lumber and plywood mills as a wood scaler and then as a company bookkeeper. We didn't own a car. I recall many evenings as a child sitting on our fence post, waiting impatiently for my dad to walk up the road from work. Sometimes, I would sneak away from Mom and run to meet him. This was our time together as I told him of the day's event.

Dad's own story to this point is not unique or exceptional. But it was meaningful to many, including the citizens of Nelson. Residents heard the new gospel of shared ownership and responsibility from Dad and other leaders. The results were astounding. They included the establishment of Beaubear Credit Union and Co-op as well as a Cooperative housing project. Dad's greatest gift to his community was leading the construction of a regional high school. He and the parish priest, Father Ryan, marshalled the required resources and support that made education possible for Nelson kids and the surrounding communities.

 

            Dad lived a quiet and humble life. One summer evening, we sat on his veranda watching a spectacular sunset perfectly mirrored on the great river. I asked him why he gave up so much of his free time, often at the expense of his family; his response was typically direct;

 "It was expected of anybody fortunate enough to be educated that they would give back to the community who supported them."

            I am immensely proud of and loved my father. But our story was, at times, a lonely and frustrating one for me. The little boy who fought for quiet times with his father struggled to find his place in a world he was not sure wanted him. Sexual identity does not suddenly appear. It is sewn into our genetic makeup and manifests from our first smile or tear. I could not express the alienation I felt as a child, but I needed to be comforted in my journey of self-discovery. I spent my youth and part of adulthood in a circle of self-doubt and fear. My father could not support me in my struggles. He wrestled with depression throughout his own life. The education that was supposed to bring him freedom resulted in his self–gondage to a community that never acknowledged his contribution. 

            I took up my father's leadership burden as a young man. One of the projects I worked on was in education. The result was a community college campus built in the Miramichi region. I was starting on Dad's well-worn path. Subconsciously, I was seeking his attention and approval. I got neither. A truism I learned helps explain my response to Dad's absence. "Those whose love we wanted but didn't get, we emulate them. What we know of manhood is through our fathers." 

Eventually, I got off the hamster wheel of seeking approval from others. Learning to accept and love me has taken a lifetime. Dad's lesson for me was, "Life is neither bad nor good. What a person does with their life defines the richness or poverty of our existence." He and I did our best with the tools we had in our lives. I have experienced richness beyond what I anticipated, and I owe Dad for much of that.

The night my father died there was a great wind. It came from the South West, unusual for November a relief from the cold. I stood on the deck and watched a full moon play hide and seek with big beautiful cumulus clouds. They flew by like musical notes in a silent symphony. I felt Dad’s presence and could imagine him dancing like a whirling dervish, throwing off all mortal trials and tribulations, truly alive.