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A chair, a box and acouple of canes

Ruth Scoullar treasures the memorabilia her father saved from both world wars

As a maintenance man rolled dad’s big recliner chair on a dolly down the corridor to just outside mother’s door, the impact of my father’s death finally hit me. He spent so much of his time in this chair in later years in a large nursing home in Regina as his fight with Parkinson’s disease progressed. Now the chair was empty and I had an empty feeling too.

Motherwas also in the same nursing home, but they were unable to share a room because they required different levels of care. The chair would not fit in mother’s room.

We’d considered donating the chair to the nursing home which had provided such fine care for dad for the past 10 years. The sheepskin could certainly be used to make one of the patients more comfortable in a wheelchair but I just couldn’t leave the chair. It was so much a part of dad.

But how do you transport one large, reclining chair back home to British Columbia on a small car? We lifted the chair carefully onto the roof rack, making the car appear even smaller, and drove through Regina to my cousin’s house. We were grateful she had room and would take care of the chair until we could return with more satisfactory hauling arrangements.

In the meantime, we noticed with increasing alarm how mother’s handwriting had changed. It became more and more difficult for her to write or even speak on the phone – her mind affected by Alzheimer’s disease. Eventually, she too, was moved to the third floor for more extensive care. Many of her belongings were put into storage since space was limited in the room she shared with another woman.

On a subsequent visit to the nursing home my aunt and I, with a nursing supervisor, followed a maintenance man to the storage room in the basement. On shelves were boxes, trunks, pieces of luggage and furniture all plainly labelled with owner’s names. As we found my parents possessions, the nursing supervisor pointed out the importance of seniors to designate their possessions to a relative or friend in the event of an emergency.

“So often there is confusion added to bereavement when someone dies. Sometimes there is no next of kin known to the residents,” she added.

I looked into a large cardboard box and spotted a black metal box that had always been guarded even when I was a small child. I realized the importance of passing on treasures to someone who cares and share the importance of these possessions.

“If there is ever a fire in the house grab this black box and get out as quickly as possible,” I could hear my father saying. It was a rare occasion my brother or I were allowed to view its contents.

At one time the box contained the title to three-quarters of a section of land in Saskatchewan that was being homesteaded. Among other things there were papers and ribbons my father attained in WWI. Later his Veteran’s Guard memorabilia was tucked away carefully in the black box.

Now there was a pile of letters, neatly tied, written by dad to mother while he was away in the army – very private and very precious.

Suddenly it brought back very vivid memories of what I regarded as one of the saddest day in my life, July 12, 1939.

When I was 10 years old my life came to an abrupt halt on July 12, 1939. It was the day our dad left to enlist in the Veteran’s Guard and be shipped ‘down east’. From our sparsely populated farming community in Saskatchewan even the trip to Regina with Uncle Jim was a big affair. I can’t remember where he was going but I remember what I wore. I was allowed to wear my good pink dress with ruffles. Mother had made this for going to church.

Dad had been the centre of my universe because he always had time to listen to our problems even while he was repairing canvass for the binder before crops could be cut.

Mom was good to us and saw to it that our basic needs were met. Her nurse’s training often came in handy, but I don’t remember her hugging us to give us comfort if we fell.

When he was in the army again my dad, Newton Anderson, was an avid letter writer and a vital connection continued between us. We knew he was one of the veterans guarding German prisoners first in Ontario and later in Alberta. Through him we gained insight into the lives of these prisoners. For them they had no choice on what they had to do. They weren’t the monsters I imagined them to be while listening to the news.

It was then I decided something had to be done about the war. I composed a letter to Hitler in bold printing. After all I was 10 years old. I could read and write and knew the importance of getting an urgent message to where it mattered most. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote but I think it was something like this:

HITLER: (I printed the word dear then crossed it out).

PLEASE STOP RIGHT NOW FROM TAKING OVER OTHER PEOPLE’S LAND. IT’S NOT RIGHT. HAVE YOUR MEN WITHDRAW.

RUTH ANDERSON

I found an envelope and folded the letter, written on a page from my scribbler, and tucked inside and sealed. The only address I knew was Adolf Hitler, Germany, but I figured he was so well known the mail service would have no problem delivering it. Only one problem. I had no money for a stamp and I didn’t want mother to know what I was doing. I knew I could be in a lot of trouble tampering with mail service but I had to get it off my chest. There was a possibility the letter would just go into the garbage. I do remember I did have a bit of a guilty conscience using our mail service this way but I had to do something. Mother and my brother knew nothing about my criminal action and for a time I wondered if there would be repercussions.

The war continued and Hitler and his advisors were oblivious to the plight of so many innocent people. So many lives lost. So much needless destruction, all for greed.

On subsequent trips through Germany and France to the beaches of Normandy the sight of row upon row of crosses marking graves of those who had lost their lives made a real impact on us. Even in the Balkan states evidence of oppression still appears everywhere. Have we learned anything? Surely in this age of enlightenment we might be able to put down brutal oppressors and be able to make fair and equable decisions. We should try to understand one another’s culture and needs, make compromise and communicate each other’s needs.

The black box I now have in my possession with treasures from my parent’s past – dad‘s service ribbons from the army in WW1 and WW2, a small New Testament, a shiny metal mirror and a thick pile of letters secured by a rubber band from dad to mother, my brother and me.

A worn old scribbler was found with notes made by mother in doing research to improve conditions for native Indians and an address book with people‘s names of every nationality. If I could only continue their work, I thought.

The boxes from the long term care facility were carefully loaded into a U-haul trailer and we made our way back to British Columbia.

The chair is just what was needed in our living room, its plaid upholstery and brown vinyl arms blending perfectly with our beige rug and homespun drapes. Also precious are the two canes which are there to give us the support we need through our walk through life.

The black box rests on a shelf in a closet providing us with inspiration and incentive to help others as they did when they were able.

I like to think dad left an unwritten message that perhaps we can start in our own community and country for a better future.

-submitted by Ruth Scoullar