Memories of Ottawa Family Christmases Long Past

I am in Caya Coco, Cuba as I write this on December 24, 2011 while self-exiled in my air conditioned hotel room by the heat and humidity of the Cuban mid-afternoon.  But the strangeness of being in such a sunny and warm place on this Christmas Eve makes me recall the Christmases past of my childhood.

When I was a child in Ottawa in the 60s we had a large family based on the descendants of my great-grandfather, the Ven. Archdeacon, J.M. Snowdon: my grandmother, Mary Greaves (1899-1962), my great-aunt Kay to whom I was very close (Kathleen Baker; 1892-1981) and her very amiable husband, Massy Baker, and  my great-uncle Allen (1894-1956) and his wife Edwina Higginson (1894-1984 ) to whom I also felt very close.  

The party was hosted by my grandmother's cousin, John Magee (1920-2011), grandson of my great-great grandfather, Charles Magee (1840-1917) and his wife, Aunt Margie (Margaret Medland) at their house in Rockcliffe at the bottom of Maple Lane.  

Uncle John lived in Ottawa as he was the head of the Canadian Transport Commission.   He had a remarkable model railway in the basement and a lot of interest in trucks too.  

Among the children, aside from my brother and myself, present at this annual event were Uncle John's two daughters: Cynnie and Diana, grandchildren of Uncle Allen: Harry, Rozzie and Jenny Jones and their parents, my mother's cousin Aunt Andrea and her husband Ralph Jones (who suffered from cerebral palsy so in latter years attended in a wheel chair). And there were the children of Uncle Massy's nephew, Dennis Evans and his wife Joan: Massy, Pamela and Michael Evans. 

Uncle Dennis's soft-spoken and kindly mother, Aunt Irene also came. She had moved to Canada after the war, having been widowed when her husband Horace was killed horseback riding in the family estate in Ireland.  Other regulars were Lucy Grout, my brother’s Godmother, a niece of Plunket Bourchier Taylor (1863-1944) who was husband of my great-great Aunt Flo (1873-1956), my great-grandmother's sister. Marion Holden (b. 1897), my grandmother's companion in Barbados and who lived with her in Ottawa at 66 Lisgar Street and later at 8 Elmvale in Lindenlea always came too.  She was my godmother and my father's secretary.  Her family were all in Spain.  She died a miserable death of lung cancer in the fall of 1966 another great loss to me, second only to my grandmother's premature death in late-1962.

One year Uncle Fred Taylor (1906-1987), an artist, another grandson of Charles Magee and son of Auntie Flo, came to the party while visiting Canada from his home in San Miguel Allende, Mexico. He met his ex-wife and cousin, Uncle John's sister, Miriam, at the party for the first time in many years.   One can read all about Uncle Fred and his brother, the notably successful industrialist, Uncle Eddy, in the book Fred Taylor: brother in the shadows by John Virtue (McGill-Queen's Press, 2008).  
In 1973, Florence Magee (b. 1886; this is not my great-grandmother's sister of the same name) was introduced to me at the party as "Cousin Florence."  She was a niece of my great-great grandfather, Charles Magee. She and her sister had evidently continued to occupy the original Magee farm house on the Richmond Road for many years after the land was divided up in a suburban subdivision.  Aunt Kay used to mock the “Ottawa Valley twang” of our poorer rural cousins in South March (where Aunt Margie tells me there are family graves) but I had never met Cousin Florence even though by that time she lived on Metcalfe Street just a  few blocks down from my father's office in the Medical Arts Building at 180 Metcalfe Street.  Evidently there was some family rift evidently based on resentment of Charles Magee's success after leaving Nepean and going into successful businesses in real estate (developing the Sparks estate in Sandy Hill) and beer (Brading Breweries) and banking (he was President of the Bank of Ottawa on Sparks Street).  About a week after the party there was an item in the Ottawa Journal to the effect that Florence Magee had been found dead in her apartment by police after the neighbours reported a bad smell coming from under her door.  I did feel very badly having just met this "cousin."

The children played in the basement while the adults smoked cigarettes and drank mixed drinks upstairs (I don't think anyone had beer or wine, rye and water or rye and ginger were favourites).  Then what was to me the highlight of the event,  Uncle John Magee playing the piano with enormous talent and flair while we all sang Christmas Carols.   This went on a good long time.  The feast was always turkey with stuffing and cranberry sauce, and roast ham. The men took turns to carve it.   Afterward there Christmas pudding with hard sauce, Aunt Edwina's lemon snow, Christmas fruitcake, mince tarts, etc., traditional family fare.

One of the vivid memories of my childhood was coming out the Magee's house  following prolonged goodbyes and heading to my father's large Chevrolet car (he had Impalas and then Caprices).  It was a bitterly cold night and there was a lot of well packed snow banked up high. The night was very clear with a high round moon and the stars bright in the sky.  

I felt ineffably happy.  

2010 CCARN Chinese New Year Party

2012 CCARN Chinese New Year Celebration

My 9/11

On the morning of September 11, 2001 I was driven plenty early to the Logan Airport in Boston to catch a U.S. Airways flight back to Toronto.  My first lecture of the new Brock University term, my first year course, "Canada and the Global Community," was scheduled for that evening from 7 - 9.

I never made that class or any of the others that week.

The Logan Airport was teeming with bustling people that September morning.  The secure area was crowded with well-wishers and I had to push my way to boarding gate.  September 11, 2001 was the last day that anyone could simply walk through to the boarding gate at a U.S. airport with no boarding pass or ID check.  Family and friends were waving good bye to passengers as they walked down the ramp onto the airplane.  It was all very cheerful.

My airplane taxied out onto the runway and we were all set to go, but then we stopped dead and the plane sat on the tarmac for a good long time and then we eventually circled back to the gate.  After sitting on in the 'plane by the gate for a while, we were told that the flight was cancelled due to "flight control issues" so we should return to the ticket counter and process another boarding card for a flight  that would be going at 2:20pm.

While standing in line at the ticket counter I could see the televisions in the bar to the left of the departure lounge.  I saw video of the first 'plane crashing into the World Trade Center in a ball of fire just as I reached the ticket agent.  I said "My God!  Did you see that?  Thousands and thousands of people must work in that enormous building!"  The agent simply said "I wouldn't know. I am just working here, Sir."  At the time I thought that it must have been some sort of horrendous accident, perhaps connected to the "flight control issues."  I imagined the loss of life would be at least 10,000 people.  It appeared to be a terrible, shocking accident.  'Plane flying too low hits a very tall building with massively tragic consequences.

Not long after I settled in with my book to wait for 4 hours 'til I would be boarding the second time, an announcement was made that my flight was further delayed until 6:10pm and that we should line up for new boarding passes yet again.  I realized that I would not be making the 7pm class.  I tried to 'phone St. Catharines to ask my Department Admin Assistant to have a class cancelled note put on the door of the lecture hall, but the mobile 'phone network was overloaded and I could not call out.

While lining up again for a third boarding pass, before I reached the counter, an announcement went out to say that the Airport was being evacuated immediately and listing the luggage carousels where we could recover our checked-in bags.  I had quite a lot of luggage.  There was no possibility of a taxi.  Cell 'phones were still not working.  I humped my bags to the subway and returned to Cambridge.

By this time I realized that something momentous had happened.  I heaved my bags across Harvard Yard.  The day was sunny and cool, the students full of anticipation for the new term were clearly unaware that anything was amiss as they played frisbee and chattered happily to one another as they walked past me.  I was thinking that probably at that very moment there were famous sites all over the USA being destroyed by hi-jacked airplanes and maybe bombs being set off too.

I returned to the large house on Francis Avenue where I had been lodging.  Nobody was home but the front door was unlocked.  I sat down on the sofa to catch my breath and turned on the TV and saw footage of the first tower collapsing and then the second tower collapsing and then news of the other two 'planes.  I called Brock from the land line in the house to cancel the class.  Not long after Don Newman of CBC Newsworld interviewed me live by telephone.  After learning that two of the 'planes had originated at Logan Airport, I began to have intense vivid flashbacks of my morning there.  Which of the people that I had seen rushing to their flights had died in the 'planes that had been crashed?  Had the hi-jackers themselves brushed by me as I drank my Starbucks after checking in?  The Airport had seemed so bustling and normal --- I had felt so happy and relaxed and blissfully unaware of anything amiss.  My mind kept playing the memory of walking through Airport and the faces of the people I had been with there over and over like a video on continuous loop.

I tried calling the Red Cross to find out about donating blood but could not get through. I walked out to a blood donor clinic.  On the way I saw lines at gas stations and people in shops buying up water and food to hoard, but it was not really a situation of general panic.  The Red Cross had more blood than they could manage so I was turned away and walked home.

The next day it seemed that anybody who owned an American flag had it displayed.  Red white and blue everywhere.  I called U.S. Airways to try and re-book my flight home.  But the border with Canada was closed and no flights were going out anywhere from Boston anyway.  It was a beautiful bright cool fall day in Cambridge.  I settled into a chair in the back garden and read a manuscript on Chinese student movements that I had been asked to review for publication.

The following few days were strangely contented ones for me.  I unexpectedly had no program and spent most of my days sitting outside reading in the sunny coolness of the Massachusetts fall.  I determined to my regret that I would have to recommend that the manuscript be rejected by the publisher.  Eventually I realized that the Logan Airport might be closed for some time.  I asked my host to drive me to the bus station the next day.

I arrived at the Greyhound Terminal a couple of hours before the bus to Buffalo was to depart and I joined a long and unruly line up.  The place was a state of relative bedlam.  By the time the bus arrived only about half of us were able to board.  People were angry and upset and there were even minor scuffles over people cutting into line.  The bus schedule was evidently in disarray.  We lurched off before I was still making my way to an empty seat.  The bus barrelled through with as little delay at the intervening stations as possible.  Passengers were not allowed to get out for a smoke or a snack.  We were told sternly that anyone who disembarked would not be let on again.

As a veteran of long distance bus travel, I had an ample supply of sandwiches and a thermos of sweet milky coffee in my rucksack.  But most of my fellow passengers long accustomed to air travel were evidently first time Greyhound passengers.  I got the impression a number of them were expecting a steward with wheeled cart to appear out of nowhere to come down the aisle handing out bags of nuts and taking drink orders preparatory to serving luncheon.  As the trip went on the passengers got more and more grumpy at the inconvenience and relatively crampt conditions.  After some 7 hours of continuous travel with no food a minor insurrection occurred and the bus driver, protesting vociferously and resentfully over the unscheduled stop, was made to turn into a MacDonald's outside Rochester, New York much against his better judgement.  The sweaty and chubby pasengers piled out to buy a hamburger.  I stayed on the bus afraid that the non-plussed driver might suddenly take off for Buffalo without them.  But he didn't.

That night I managed to buy a ticket for a bus to Toronto that made a stop in St. Catharines.  It left 90 minutes ahead of schedule which suited me fine.  U.S. Customs in bullet proof vests and carrying automatic rifles came on to the bus before we crossed the Peace Bridge and started to interrogate a Middle Eastern women sitting in the back row behind me very roughly.  I considered asking them to let her be, but was too spooked to speak up and just sat still, eyes forward.

At the border, the Canadian immigration people looked panicked and exhausted.  The confused and fragmentary questioning of me went on for about 10 long minutes.  I was asked if I had anything to declare 3 times over the course of it (three times I told them that I had some children's toys and that was about it).

The subsequent final Canadian leg of the trip up the QEW in the dark late in the night was peaceful and quiet.

I felt I had been away for a long time.  I felt happy to be finally home again.

All-Inclusive Beach Holiday and Mid-Life Happiness

Unexpected for some one of centuries-long Barbados heritage, my physical constitution suffers badly in the heat of the Canadian summer. In the Chinese coastal cities I have lived and worked in over the years I have been trapped by air conditioning from May to September moving from air conditioned staff quarters to air conditioned offices and meeting rooms able to get out into the relief of fresh air only early in the morning or late in the evening. People like me should summer in Beidaihe or preferably an Indian hill station. But my conclusion in general is that it was evidently not in God's plan that red faced sweaty white people like me should have colonized the East, Africa or South America. We should have just stayed in the damp grey cool of Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales that suits our physical makeup.
So my idea of the ideal holiday would be a walking holiday in the Hebrides or traipsing through the Devonshire moors for a week or two. Baking on a hot beach by a southern sea is just not the thing for the constitutionally heat-averse.
But as I am on leave this term and my daughter will be heading to university in just 16 months. It seemed like a good idea to make a family holiday in the school March break and build some happy memories while we can.
So I spent about 20 minutes on cheaptickets.com laid out $4,500 on my credit card and here we all are at an all-inclusive resort in Bayahibe, Dominican Republic. It was one of the cheaper March break tours on offer. Our flights all leave in the middle of the night. We are coming back leaving from Santo Domingo at 2:08am.
Just two days ago it was high winds, freezing rain and sleet at the Fast-Track long term parking lot across from the Buffalo Airport. And now it feels like June in March here by the tropical ocean.
This is our first ever winter holiday. I have been to Barbados but in the summer school vacation staying with an uncle and elderly aunts who sent me the British West Indian Airways air ticket (their kindness and generosity never to be forgotten but that is another story).  I realize that going south in the winter is very common for middle-class Canadians but the whole thing has been a revelation for me.
For one thing it really is all-inclusive --- meals at any of about 10 restaurants on-site including 3 buffets which resemble my notion of the groaning boards of feasts in the great halls of medieval castles --- sumptuous spreads of entire roast pigs, whole fowl of all descriptions, seafood and for afters dozens of pies, cakes and puddings all this accompanied by unlimited glasses of wine, very good beer and excellent local coffee. Help yourself or a smiling steward appears with a fresh glass even before you have drained the last one.
There are more than a dozen bars serving hors d'oeuvres and all the watered cocktails one could want all the day and late into the night. In evenings each has excellent live music --- Brazilian bossa nova dominates for some reason --- guitars, flutes, gentle melodies.
Surprisingly I have yet to encounter a staggering, slurring drunk or morbidly obese person here although one would have thought this would be just the venue for them --- unlimited quantities of everything to eat or drink free to be consumed to excess if desired.
So far I have yet to spend a single one of the $100 of pesos I exchanged with a elderly Taiwanese gentleman who farms here that I made friends with on the airplane flying from New York City.  Mr. Lin gave a much more favourable rate than the Arrival Hall exchange counter.
The room is tastefully appointed, and kept very clean. The whole property is amidst beautiful tropical gardens. The beach is fine white sand and the ocean, still, clear and blue and so salty that one floats in it without effort.
So I lounge here on the beach in the shade after an hour of late afternoon sea bathing. Amidst the cooling evening breeze I am waiting for the sunset with my glass of vino tinto while watching my 7 year-old engrossed in his elaborate sand castle.
I just cherish the moment and wonder at how is it that we are so blessed that our life has become so good?

(Photos at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/cburton001/sets/72157626303655362/)

J.M. Snowdon and the Span of Generations

I was reviewing the manuscript of a biography of A.R. Menzies yesterday and found that my great-grandfather, the Venerable Archdeacon J.M. Snowdon (1860-1956), had officiated at his marriage to Sheila Skelton in 1943.   My great-grandfather had been rector of St. George's Church on Metcalfe Street in Ottawa, but went to Montreal to do the wedding at Christ Church Cathedral there as he had been close to the Skelton family.

My immigrant parents and I had lived briefly with my great-grandfather at 66 Lisgar Street when I was still an infant.  He baptised me and many of  my cousins including Judy Blasutti and Diana Stinson when he was very old.  He had baptised thousands of infants of 3 generations by then.  At its peak the Sunday School at that Church had over 400 children in regular attendance.

In 1891 Rev. J.M. Snowdon had been one of the many officiants at the funeral of John A. MacDonald.  This had not been long after he had traveled from Trinity College in Toronto along a rutted muddy road into Ottawa paying the toll to cross at Billings Bridge.

It seems like very ancient history now, but actually just follows the span of only one lifetime.

University no longer a fun time

National Post · Tuesday, Jan. 25, 2011

Re: One In Four Students Are Depressed: Study, Jan. 24.

University days are not a happy and carefree time for a lot of my students. Many of them are working off campus to pay for the over-priced textbooks, fees raised high due to funding cutbacks and living expenses. They struggle to juggle their schedules to accommodate lectures and seminars in addition to the long hours of studying necessary to do well in my courses.

Very few have time for much social life. Being a university student is not as easy today as it was for me in the 1970s. And it is much harder to get a good job with a BA than it used to be.

Another factor that may contribute to mental stress among students is that a higher portion of young people attend university than ever before. Many are clearly unsuited to university life. For them, sitting through my 100-minute lectures on the intricacies of China's political system or international human rights institutions must be a subtle form of torture. Their too-often-befuddled exam answers and ungrammatical and confused term papers suggest to me that many would be happier working with their hands and learning a trade with good job prospects and good income.

Charles Burton, associate professor, Brock University, St. Catharines, Ont.

Read more: http://www.nationalpost.com/todays-paper/University+longer+time/4160421/story.html#ixzz1C32JgaP0

Chinese New Year Celebration in Niagara Falls

From Drop Box