My Brother

 This narrative is an episode from my very young life where I began understanding trust. It was a period when I relied on another person for my well-being and security, and he did not waver in his support.  It was also a time when he needed me.

In November 1964, I was eleven years old, and my brother William was twelve. I admired and saw him as my protector. He seldom lost wrestling matches with our two older brothers or friends. But he also had mental toughness I didn’t have, allowing him to endure situations others could not. And he never complained. When we put the winter wood supply in the basement, he was the first to start and the last of us to finish, seldom talking. At night before going to sleep, we had discussions about our day or sometimes about what kids would view as more significant issues. His views were often more adult than most adults we knew. He reasoned things out.

 

The boys in our family were expected to do a man's work; maintaining the property, cutting, splitting, storing the winter wood, and tending to the family garden. We were strapping kids known for our ruggedness.

While I could often be found amid the household roughhousing, I generally preferred the company of a good book away from the mayhem. Over the past year, what had been periodic sexual curiosity was threatening to consume my thoughts, and they generally involved other boys. I hadn't acted on my impulses, which increased my angst and guilt as a child of strong Catholic parents. My small library now included a series where I could use my imagination to create fantasies.

 This was supplemented by a couple of pages from the boy's underwear section of Eaton's catalogue. I kept my "collection" under my bottom bunk in the bedroom William and I shared.

One quiet Sunday morning, I came to change my church clothes. William was already there. "Doug, what are you doing with the catalogue pages stuck in a book? And why are the pictures of guys in their underwear?" I had gotten sloppy in hiding them. I must have been red-faced and couldn't think of anything to say. "Holy geez, Doug, are you queer?" William asked, holding them up. The word seared its way across my brain. Nobody had ever accused me before. I had worked so hard to hide it; now it was there for everybody to know. I was on him in a second, with fists flying, screaming and cursing. I was no match for William. He fought back, and the racket soon got Mom's attention. She flew into the room and tore us apart. He got in a punch on my nose. Blood was over my face and on my good clothes. "What is wrong with you two? Douglas come with me to the bathroom. William, pick up those books and paper." she ordered.

Mom got the bleeding stopped in a few minutes. We were both relieved my nose wasn't broken. The cold compress on my face and neck was slowing my hyperventilation. I kept pushing her away as she tried to help. She had a firm grip and sat me down on the side of the bathtub. I gulped for air and cried. She released her grip and rubbed my back gently. I was spent and went limp.

"I don't know what started that fight; you and William are good friends. Did he say something to make you that angry? I know he doesn't have sense sometimes." Mom hadn't seen the catalogue page. I was relieved, but at the same time, I just wanted to throw off my burden and shout out that I was gay. I was silent. "It was my fault. I thought he had worn my dress shoes to church. I just got worked up for nothing. They were by my bed.

" Ok, take off that shirt; I will soak it in Javex and hope the stain comes out." She hesitated before getting up. "Douglas, is there something else bothering you that you want to talk about? Reading is good, but it might be putting things in your mind that aren't good." I responded quietly. " I am ok, Mom, don't worry about me. I will take care of the shirt and patch it up with William." "You are a good boy, Douglas; I can depend on you. I will put the shirt beside the washer," she said as she left the bathroom.

 

My thoughts turned to William as I wiped away the crusty blood beneath my nose. I was sick with fear; being outed had been my worst fear since realizing I might be gay. He held my life as I knew it in his hands. I shakily re-entered our room. William was lying in his bunk looking at a comic book. He put it away as I came in and jumped down to sit beside me. " How's your nose? he asked. I'm sorry I hit you there. It’s a big target and hard to miss," he joked as he jostled me.

"I'm sorry, I started it," I said as I felt the tears run down my cheeks again. " Doug, listen to me. You are my brother, and we have always been best friends. Nothing is changed. You know lots of shit about me. You didn't ask to be gay, and I had no idea you were. But I know now, and if anybody in this hillbilly redneck village ever says anything to hurt you, they will answer to me. It will be a hell of a lot worse than a bloody nose."

 

The relief on my face must have been undeniable. He said nothing but just held me. That moment over fifty years ago remains a frozen scene. My brother's love for me far exceeded anything he may have heard or thought about homosexuality. In those few moments, I learned a most valuable lesson about trust. I realized its value when given and especially when received.

Five years is a lifetime in your teen years. William and I now had separate bedrooms with our older brothers at university and working away. For me, whatever improvement in privacy was offset by not having our nightly chats. I missed his presence. But things had altered with William. His self-assured, focused character had become moody and cynical.

He was hanging out with guys I knew to be troublemakers in the village. And weekends almost always involved him coming home drunk, followed by loud arguments with our parents. The mood in our home now was always tense. I never discovered the reason why he changed so much. But his transformation included cutting me out of his life. With my mentor gone, I gradually lost myself in my reading.

The day after William's high school graduation, I heard the telephone ring downstairs in the kitchen. I looked at the alarm clock on my bureau. It was 4:30 am. I went downstairs to see what was happening. Dad answered the phone. The anxiety in his voice matched the worried look on his face. When he hung up, he sat heavily on a nearby chair, shaking his head. I knew it was about William. I tried to prepare for the worst.

" That was your uncle Earl. He saw somebody floating down the river on some raft. He thinks it might be William. He used binoculars but couldn't see any movement."

Earl worked as a forest ranger and was coming off a night shift. "He called the RCMP, but getting a boat out there will take time. He says the raft is coming apart."

I sat on the step leading to the porch and pulled on my sneakers. " What are you doing?" asked Dad. You can't go out there by yourself." "I have no choice," I responded, pulling on a light jacket. It was late June, and the wind would be chilled. " The doctor said you can't lift anything for a month." Dad had injured his shoulder, cutting firewood. " Another person in the rowboat is a weight that will slow me down. I responded. " Douglas, you don't know what condition he is in. He might already be......" His words trailed off. "Dad, I can't leave him out there alone. He would never abandon me." I looked into my father's eyes for approval. He nodded and turned his head away.

A few minutes later, I was in my small rowboat, headed in the direction Earl had indicated. It was a cloudy morning, so the sun would not be in my eyes as I rowed from shore.

I tossed my jacket to the bottom of the boat as I was sweating, partly from the effort but also from fear of what I might find. I heard the wails of a police car and ambulance as they made their way up our street. The wind was light, and the tide was coming up the river, making the rowing easier.

It took me less than fifteen minutes to get to the area. I swung the boat around and spotted the raft about a hundred metres away. I recognized William's jacket. I couldn't see if he was conscious as his head was turned away. I started to row slowly backward, calling out quietly but then yelling to wake him or assure myself he was alive. There was no response. I filled my bailing can and threw the water on his face. He sputtered and lifted his head as I pulled alongside. He was talking incoherently.

 I was determined to keep him awake and kept up a chatter. He was in no shape to transfer him to my boat. Neither of us was a good swimmer, so I couldn't risk us going into the water. The raft was just three pieces of pulpwood held together by a light rope. A square of plywood sat loosely on top. Using the strong nylon rope in my boat, I tied the pulp logs firmly together, then tied the raft to my line. I looked across to the opposite shore. The tide that was in my favour earlier was now working against me. Added to the wood's weight and my brother's, it would be rough going. The wind had not come up, so that was a break. I set out.

I kept up my banter to keep him awake. His sporadic responses kept my spirits up while putting every effort into rowing. I was very comfortable on the river in all types of weather. I’m sure my adrenalin level was in full gear, but every muscle in my arms, back and legs ached like never before.

It took over thirty minutes to reach our shore. When I hit the beach, Dad helped William off the raft together with the police officer. The ambulance attendant evaluated William and said he was still very drunk but didn't appear hurt. They wanted to take him to the hospital to be sure. Dad agreed, and William said nothing. Dad and the officer talked for a few minutes, then came over to me. " Where did you learn to row like that?" the policeman asked. It was like you had a motor." "I had lots of motivation," I replied sheepishly. " You know you saved your brother's life." his tone becoming serious. "That thing he was on wouldn't have held together if he got into open water. Mr. Dolan, you must be very proud of this young man." " Yes, I have always been proud of Douglas.

I haven't told him enough; if things had gone differently out there, I would never have been able to say it. Thank you, Douglas." The policeman and Dad spoke briefly. I heard him say there would be no follow-up needed. And he was gone.

I landed a few hundred feet up from home and was pushing my boat out to bring it back. I didn't see Dad, but suddenly he was helping me push off. "Your mother and I are lucky to have you as our son Douglas. You never give us trouble like that fool brother of yours." I was in the boat and rowing back when tears broke through. It may have been the release of tension or exhaustion. It may also have been me realizing I could never live up to their view of me.

Later that day, William was back home. I was reading when he came quietly to my room for the first time in months. He sat on the side of the bed as I swung my legs over to join him. "I guess you are the hero now, Doug." There was no sarcasm or bitterness in his voice. He spoke so low that I strained to hear him. The scene mirrored the one we were in five years ago. I wasn't going to let him go without saying what I felt. " William, you stood by me when you learned I am gay. You didn't break the trust we had. I was so afraid of losing you then and today. I don't know how I could go on without knowing you would be there. I am your brother, I trust you with my life, and you must know you can trust me with yours. I don't know what happened to change you when you were fifteen. But if you ever want to talk like we used to, I am here for you.

I want to say that my brother William came back to me. But that is the stuff of television and movies. After graduation, he broke our mother's string of having all the children with university degrees.

He did go to college and worked as he wanted. He got married and had excellent and accomplished kids in various professional fields. But he never returned to me, and I am the lesser person for it.

The Greatest Of These is Love

 

This is a love story, a real love story, with all of life's challenges and successes.It features my grandparents who shaped the lives and values of their children and grandchildren

 

This is a brief memoir of my Acadian grandparents, Ben and Clara Ramsay. It followed their lives as young adults when they struggled independently to survive, and then as parents, where the challenges were different but no less difficult. Despite the obstacles, they provided a powerful legacy and a safe and loving environment for their large family.

I knew her as Momma Ramsay. Some remembered her as a grandmère, others as a great-grandmother, and even fewer remembered her as a mother. A vivid image I have is of her sitting on the big wooden rocker in the kitchen. Her left hand drumming on the arm of the chair, worn from her wedding band, tapping out animated conversations for decades. At 5 feet 4 inches, the tiny feet didn't quite reach the floor. Her impact on her immediate and extended family of some 300 members contrasted sharply with her petit stature. 

As a child, visiting my mother's parents on a Sunday afternoon, I curiously watched as Momma adjusted her glasses with a practiced hand, brushing stray hairs while ensuring the mock hair bun remained in place. She wore comfortable dresses, loose fitting with bright floral designs. And, of course, the outfits were only complete with a pocket apron.

Papa Ramsay was less known to some of the grandchildren. His commitment and constant love ensured that his children would continue to improve the lot of his family. He could usually be found sitting in his worn red recliner. 

It was beside a window, providing a vista of passing freight and passenger trains and occasionally mischievous children, waving as they passed through the yard. The chair's side was stained from striking matches for his pipe that he was rarely without. Even into his latter years, his grey hair remained thick on the sides with a tuft fighting for survival topside. Momma kept it in check with a soft comb. This was in the event company appeared unexpectedly.

His frame was medium, but somehow, he looked smaller in the chair. She ensured his shirt, with glasses in the pocket, was kept clean and tidy. It was neatly tucked into the heavy dark trousers. Bulky wool socks were snuggled against Stanfield underwear, whatever the season. Thick insulated slippers completed his cozy wardrobe.

Momma Ramsay reminded me of a small bird, moving with a swiftness and agility that defied her age. She had an outgoing, engaging personality, receiving everyone equally. Many a grandchild sought out her warm, generous hugs, providing reassurance that they were loved.

Papa was content to have his wife steal the show. He was always a quiet, gentle man, content to watch folks and events as they passed his way.

Their shared space was the kitchen. It was a welcoming place, especially on cold winter days. The clock ticked in rhythm with the woodstove's crackle. Momma kept the stove well-fired with a few large pieces of hardwood she carried from the adjoining shed. The warmth spread gently to all corners of the room. Her family often encouraged her to get a new and much safer electric range. Still, she resisted despite the occasional scorched arm.

The stove, like everything in the house, was spotless. The white enamel sides and the upper warming tray gleamed. She cleaned and polished it once a week, applying a "stove black polish" coating to the cooking surface. Her vantage point on the rocker beside the stove allowed her to see visitors coming to the back door, and there were many, even after several generations. 

One or more of her daughters would often drop by while they were "in town." Ovilda, who lived steps away, regularly joined her parents for tea and a chat while ensuring everything was safe and comfortable for them.

As devout Catholics, an occasional visit from Father McGrath, the parish priest, was a welcomed event for Momma and Papa. He would call beforehand, giving her time to have a fresh batch of his favourite treat (molasses cookies) ready with hot tea (King Cole, black).

In their eighties, when they could no longer get to Sunday Mass, his visit would include a quick Confession followed by Communion. 

For the caring and gentle priest, it was a call to which he looked forward.

Over the many years in this predominantly English-speaking parish, he came to know and respect these two humble Acadian parishioners and their families. "Mrs. Ramsay," and he would catch up on current events in the community. At the same time, Ben sat quietly in his chair, occasionally joining in the conversation.

He found time passed too quickly in the company of the kind couple. Before leaving, he always blessed them, which they accepted gratefully.

 

The description of my grandparents could be of many older couples fortunate to remain in their home well into their eighties. There was, however, something distinctive about this pair for me. As a child and eventually a young man, they always personified love. To proceed, we need to disavow ourselves of today's media-based definition, which tends toward the frivolous and superficial. The love of these two persons was deep, built on commitment and trust, patience and kindness, particularly in the challenging times which defined much of their lives.

Over thirty years after Momma and Papa passed, I wanted to get a mature understanding of them and their relationship. Maybe I had created some youthful romantic image which would not stand up to the scrutiny of impartial observation.

I arranged to meet with two of the couple's remaining three children.

Gerald (Tinker) Ramsay is the son of Ben and Marie-Claire (Clara) Ramsay. At the time of this writing, Tinker was ninety-two years old. Appearance and character gave little indication of his age. The frame was slight but solid, with a fresh face and clear eyes. He inherited Papa's calm and quiet personality, not comfortable drawing attention to himself.

Iona (Noonie) was born on May 24, 1938. She is the youngest of the Ramsay children, seventeen years apart from her oldest family member. Noonie's effervescent personality and enthusiasm are her hallmarks. At 85, she seemed ready to leap up and dance at the slightest provocation.

 

Tinker begins with a bit of history about his parents. "Momma and Papa were born 'downriver,' near the small Acadian community of Neguac. Poverty and hard physical labour were their shared experiences growing up. It was common for families struggling to keep everybody fed to have a child live with a relative or someone who could provide lodging in return for employment. 

So it was that Clara, at age 13, found herself indentured to Miss Francis Fish, the first female graduate of Dalhousie University Law School and a prominent Miramichi lawyer.

"She didn't mention it much to us growing up except to say she was treated well, and Miss Fish helped her learn to read. She also helped sharpen Momma's inquiring mind. Being so far away from her family at that age must have been frightening.

"Later, she was a housekeeper for a prominent family in Newcastle. Their kids especially loved her, and for many years after, they would come to visit. They spoke of her kindness and gentle manner while she guided their young lives.

"When life at home improved slightly, and she was a bit older, Momma returned to live with her family. Millie, our oldest sister, often told the story that Momma was invited to a community dance by an aspiring suitor. She enjoyed the outing. On leaving the hall, she spotted a second suitor, young Ben Ramsay. He had been too shy to ask her to the dance. Now, he sat waiting with his old horse and buggy. Clara thanked her escort and climbed in beside Ben. 

Asked about that years later, she replied, 'Now, would I want to marry some fool who will dance all night or someone like Papa?' She and Ben were married on November 27, 1917. She was 24, and Ben was 23."

Noonie offered her perspective. "Momma and Papa never experienced a real childhood, which probably affected how they raised us. Their parenting styles differed. His was the authority that was seldom questioned. She respected his wishes."

"From spring to late fall, we didn't see much of our father," adds Tinker. "He worked on a dredge around the mouth of the bay (Miramichi) until 'Freeze Up' in November. Then he would be home till spring. Being a bit distant with the older children, Papa had more patience with Noonie as she was the youngest."

Noonie readily agreed. "I would wait until Papa was in his chair, reading the paper after supper. I would climb up on his lap and snuggle into him. I can almost smell his pipe tobacco now".

After several years on the dredge, Ben was hired at CN (Canadian National Railway). It meant more financial security for his family.

"He was on a crew that carried the creosoted rail ties where the line was being built or repaired," Tinker recalls. "He was probably in his late forties. I remember him coming home with his shoulders, arms and hands raw from creosote burns. Momma would put some ointment and strands of gauze on him to help with the pain. He would never complain.

His last job with CN was as a Fireman. The locomotives were coal-fired. At the end of the shift, they would come into the yard. The clinkers (burnt coal pieces) would be dumped into a pit. His job was to keep it shovelled out. The space was tiny, with choking fumes and heat.

"One day, when I was about five or six, somebody came to the door to tell Momma that Papa had been injured and taken to the hospital. While he was in the pit, a locomotive pulled in and accidentally dumped a load of clinkers, nearly burying him. They got him out fast, but he was badly hurt. He stayed in the hospital for about a week and returned to work. There was some sick leave, but he was proud and wanted to keep his family fed and safe. He was independent as well as tough."

Despite the many challenges of raising a family of twelve children (one child, Ramona, died in infancy), Clara and Ben seldom exchanged a cross word. This was confirmed in conversations with many of their adult children. Doubtless, they were preoccupied with surviving, but something more substantial was holding them together. Tinker and Noonie agreed.

"Where our father was the provider, Momma was the heart of our family," Noonie said. "She maintained the order that he set. There weren't many times any of us would challenge her."

"I don't recall being physically punished," Tinker said. "I think it was because she was also the person, we all went to when we had a problem or needed someone to talk with. I never felt alone as a kid. We were busy with our chores, from feeding and caring for the pig, hens and chickens to helping with the housework. One of my jobs as a small lad was to keep the kindling bin filled beside the stove. I can still smell the cedar and the snap it made when split."

There was a comforting routine to the Ramsay family household machine, and their mother was the refined oil that kept it working smoothly.

 

Clara (Robichaud) Ramsay was of Acadian descent, coming from a long line of resilient peace-seeking people. Her parents' history dates back to the earliest Acadian settlement in the 1600s.

It was then the French territory of Acadie.

One of her ancestors was Prudent Robichaud.

Prudent was an accomplished individual. He taught himself to read and write French and English and spoke Micmac fluently. He also learned to calculate and could conduct trade in all three languages.

Over time, Prudent would become a leader within the community, which thrived through his efforts. For years, he skillfully navigated a way for the Acadians through the treacherous divide involving three players: the Mig'maw, the authorities representing the British Crown and the French representatives.

With the three parties' conflicting interests, the thin line of trust Prudent and others had established could not be sustained. 

The Acadian Expulsion (Le Grand Dérangement) of 1755 was brutal, and the motivations were no less than actual genocide. The intention was to wipe out the Acadian people.

While being transported from his home, Prudent led a revolt that resulted in the ship carrying them being burnt.

He later died, leading his family and others to freedom on a mid-winter trek from Fredericton to Quebec. 

Eventually, the Acadians were allowed to return to their homeland.

Some of Prudent's children and descendants finally settled in Neguac, including his son Otho. He was appointed local Justice and proved himself a strong community leader. His residence has been restored and remains a historic site today. Clara (Robichaud) Ramsay was a descendant of Otho.

While her ancestors' survival characteristics and pride were intrinsic to Clara's personality, she attempted unsuccessfully to pass along the love of her language and culture to all of her children.

"That failure was a real disappointment to Momma," Tinker said. "She tried teaching the older kids first. You need to remember our town was mainly English-speaking, and as teens, if you wanted to fit in, you wouldn't do it talking French. By the time it came to the younger kids, she had given up."

Early in their marriage, Momma Ramsay felt she was losing the connection with her Acadian family and culture. She and Ben often spoke French, but she wanted more. Her sisters occasionally visited, but that only increased her sense of isolation.

The story was told by their daughter Julia that early in Clara's life as wife and mother, the burden became too much.

She retreated to her parent's home, looking to her mother for solace. Still, Marie Evangeline Robichaud insisted her young daughter return to her own family and bear the consequences of her decision. 

Clara returned to Newcastle chastened but resolved to make the best of her situation. If she ever doubted Ben's love, that was erased as she shuffled up the street to their home; the man who struggled to express his emotions had spread a sheet across the door where he had painted in his cryptic handwriting, "Welcome Home Momma"!

 

The death of a family member is always a tragedy. It often shakes the foundation of the unit to its core.

Norman Joseph Ramsay was the first-born son of Clara and Ben. He came into the world on a bright, sunny June 1921. In February 1936, fourteen-year-old Norman marched to the local recruitment officer for the North Shore Regiment Militia (Reserves). The minimum age to join the Militia (Reserves) was 16. Norman listed his date of birth as June 16, 1919, whereas he was born June 16, 1921.

The assertive youngster impressed the officer, and he signed him up on the spot. He served as a reservist for four years. In 1939, when Canada declared war on Germany, Norman was ready and, at 18, was said to be one of the first men in uniform from the Miramichi region.

The handsome young Acadian soldier gained a reputation in the primarily English North Shore regiment (he would later be transferred to the Carleton and York) as a courageous, quick-witted fellow who made friends quickly. He wrote often to his parents and his older sister, Rita (my mom), with whom he was very close. In his final letter home, he could not tell his parents that he was part of a unit breaking through Nazi lines in Italy.

 

Clara was unable to sleep the night of May 22, 1944. Earlier, she had been thinking of her son overseas in Europe. Awake now, she turned to lie on her side. In doing so, she saw what appeared to be a figure at the foot of the bed. She put on her glasses and partially sat up. An image of her son was sitting beside her.

His tear-stained face was visible in the moonlight through the window. Speaking in a voice that she could barely hear, she was told of his death in battle. But she was not to worry. Now, he was at peace. The figure disappeared as his words drained away. Her shock at the apparition's appearance was total and left her unable to move until the morning light. 

She didn't wake Ben, fearing he would not believe her. In the morning, she shared the news. Try as he might, Ben could not convince her it was simply a bad dream. Three days later, the comfort of their home was shattered by a knock on the back door.

A young boy produced a telegram advising them that their son Norman Joseph died bravely in battle at Pontecorvo, Italy, on May 23, 1944. Her children shared this account over the decades. The factualness is not as significant as the love the parents felt for their child and the intense suffering it caused them and the rest of the family.

 

Post-war Canada saw rapid industrialization and economic growth. The ripple effect was felt even in the sleepy town of Newcastle. Plans for employment and families that had been put on hold now began in earnest.

The Ramsay clan saw several marriages in the following years and the beginning of new career paths. The large home, once a hive of activity, grew increasingly silent. But even when they left the nest, the children maintained close contact with their parents. 

Several of the daughters remained on the Miramichi to raise their families. They often gathered at their parents' home on weekends to catch up with current events and local activities.

 

One of the lasting and precious memories of my grandparents happened on a late Sunday afternoon visit. There had been the usual bustle as their children and grandchildren visited. My mother and I were the last of the company as Mom (forever the nurse) finished checking her father's blood pressure and recording it in her notebook.

Momma looked over to Papa. He was nodding off but sat upright at the sound of the train whistle. It was the "Ocean Limited," leaving the station bound for Montreal. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. Confident the train was on schedule, he looked over to Mama and smiled shyly. She returned the silent greeting by responding, "You are a good man Ben Ramsay, eh bien, eh bien, eh bien."

 

 

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always perseveres."

—Corinthians 13 vs. 4–7