Several weeks ago I wrote about a devastating episode in Andy’s life. Only 11 at the time, his foster father told him he couldn’t be on a family photo, because he wasn’t part of the family. Feeling totally rejected and emotionally crushed, he walked down the driveway and onto the road. Fortunately Uncle Ben, a former hippie and still Black Sheep of the family, left the gathering and picked up the young boy in his rusty Volkswagen van. He suggested Andy come and live with him in his small rented house on two acres. Still a hippie at heart, he tended a large garden and kept a goat for milk and chickens for eggs.

I met Andy and Uncle Ben in Tina’s Cafe, not far from their home. We became friends and I wasn’t entirely surprised some three years ago when Uncle Ben invited me to join them for coffee at Tina’s. His serious tone suggested concern. Possibly he needed moral support. Although we were almost the same age, I addressed him as Uncle Ben when Andy was present. Uncle Ben had attended UBC two years, then decided he’d rather drive a logging truck and escape the noise and pace of city life. Almost a dozen years ago an accident had forced him into retirement.

The cafe was almost empty and Tina gave us a few minutes to settle in, then she brought us the usual, coffee for Uncle Ben and me, a root beer for Andy. After a few minutes of light chit chat, Uncle Ben said, “Andy, you’ve been quiet all week. Are you unhappy with what I’m feeding you? ”

I sensed Andy had been expecting the question. “Ever since my father wouldn’t let me be on the family picture,” he began, “I’ve hoped he would change his mind. It’s not that I want to go back. I want to stay with you. But I’d like to know I have a family. I have always felt rejected.” He looked at Uncle Ben, took a slow sip of his root beer, then said, “I know you won’t shut me out, but something in me keeps saying it could happen again. I try not to show it but I’m always scared l’ll be alone.”

He looked at Uncle Ben and myself, as though wondering if we understood. “Dave let me use the phone at the store last Monday,” he continued. “I called my parents’ home. My Dad answered. When I told him I was his son Andy, he said ‘I don’t have a son named Andy’. Then I heard a click. It’s been seven years Uncle Ben, I still really miss my family. Except for you, I have no one.”

“I wondered what was troubling you,” Uncle Ben said, stroking his flowing grey beard. “My brother is a hard man. Before he and Emily got married, I urged her to break off the relationship. I told her Howie is as unbending as our father was. Since Howie told you to get out of the family picture, she has many times pleaded with him to let you come back, but he’s as stubborn as an old farm mule.” Andy swiped at a tear rolling down his cheek.

Tina approached with a second root beer for Andy and topped up the coffee cups. As she walked away Uncle Ben said, “I’ve been considering something.” He stroked the beard again, searching for the right words. “Seven years ago when I picked you up along the road, you needed a home. I was living by myself and feeling lonely. Like you, I don’t have my own family.” He paused, brought the coffee cup to his lips, then set it down again. “Here is what I hope you will think about.” He pulled a pipe from his shirt pocket but made no move to light it. “What I have in mind is pretty unusual, maybe even crazy. I would very much like to adopt you. It would make us a family.”

Seemingly stunned, for a long moment Andy said nothing. He drained the entire contents of his second root beer,then very quietly asked, “Could I still call you Uncle Ben? I’ve kind of gotten used to that.”

“Of course you can Andy,” Uncle Ben said, obviously pleased. “So then we have a deal?” For the first time Andy smiled. “Yes,” he said. “We have an awesome deal!”

I have long been reluctant to write Andy’s story because even now, many years later, I still find aspects of it disquieting. When he was an infant, Andy ‘s mother asked a friend to look after him a few hours while she went to a medical appointment. She never returned. The woman in whose home he had been left was willing to keep him, but her husband resisted strenuously, until he learned the government would be generous financially. The family’s young twins, Timmy and Jimmy, were ecstatic.

Andy came to think of the twins as his brothers, and called the parents Mom and Dad. He had a family. After a few years though, he became aware that his father’s voice acquired an impatient edge when he spoke to him. Sometimes after a difficult day at the mill where he worked, his dad locked him in a closet for hours. Andy often hid under his bed when his father returned from work. He began feeling anxious about his place in the family.

When Andy was 8, his father kept him busy with cutting grass, washing the car and much more. Andy loved Timmy and Jimmy and his mother and, although he didn’t feel safe around his father, he
desperately sought to retain his place in the family. He had no one else.

A major crises changed his life during a gathering of the extended family at their home. Andy and his brothers had cleaned their shared room, brushed Molly the family’s collie, and waited excitedly for guests to arrive. When everyone was there, a neighbour came to take family photos. The three boys knelt on the grass in the front row, Molly wedged between them. There had already been several clicks of the camera when the boys’ father demanded very sternly, “Andy, get out of the picture! You’re not part of the family!” Startled and frightened, Andy looked to his father. His father again said very loudly, “Andy, I told you to get out of the picture!” Andy looked at his mother for support, but she turned away, wiping tears. The twins were sobbing. Only Uncle Ben, black sheep of the family, objected. Andy’s father said, “Be quiet, Ben. You’re on my turf.”

Andy rose slowly, looked helplessly back at his family, then shuffled disconsolately down the driveway, not knowing where he was going. On the street he continued walking, feeling rejected and crying bitterly, quite certain he’d never be permitted to return.

After about ten minutes a rusty Volkswagen van pulled up alongside him and the passenger door opened. “Want a ride Andy?” Uncle Ben asked. “I’m done with that family thing.” Andy had met this uncle only once. The man was unpopular with the family because in his twenties he had been a hippie with long hair, scraggly beard, and a liking for marijuana. Even now, although at least 60, his hair still hung down to his shoulders and the beard had seen few razors. Andy wiped away the tears and gratefully got into the van. After a few questions, Uncle Ben said, “Why don’t you come live with me? I rent an old house on a couple of acres. I could use some company and a little help around the place.”

Uncle Ben taught Andy to ride a horse and catch fish in the river. He also instructed him in basic meal preparation. Often they hiked in the mountains.

Late in the afternoon on Fridays they went to a local Cafe. Uncle Ben drank black coffee and Andy ordered a root beer. If a long distance trucker was having dinner, they sometimes asked if they could join him. Usually the trucker welcomed company and sometimes asked Andy about his life. If Andy talked about his father ordering him to get out of the picture, almost without exception the trucker would be touched emotionally.

Andy was grateful to Uncle Ben, but sorely missed his brothers and mother. On his seventeenth birthday Uncle Ben said, “It’s a special day. I’ll buy you dinner in the cafe today.” Later that afternoon they were about to give the waitress their order when two young men entered the cafe, smiling broadly. “Hello Andy,” one said. “I’m Jim and this is Tim. Uncle Ben invited us to your birthday.” Stunned, Andy rose and was warmly embraced by each brother. He looked at Uncle Ben and said, “if you hadn’t rescued me that day, this would never have happened.”

“I’d lost all sense of purpose until you came into my life,” Uncle Ben said. “I’d call it a big win-win.”

Most of us at some time will encounter a disruptive force or event that changes the course of our lives. I’ve watched individuals lose courage and falter under the battering of adverse circumstances. I’ve seen others get up, dust themselves off and look around to find solutions or new opportunities. When an onslaught comes, often it’s the thoughts we entertain that determine whether we go down for the count, or rise and fight another round.

Some years ago I lost a challenging, invigorating job to an individual with a more prestigious degree. After floundering a few months, I realized I needed to re-invent myself to avoid sinking into an emotional abyss. I’d have to develop new thinking and new skills. Dealing with a significant health issue at the same time wasn’t going to make this easy.

I began contemplating joining a Toastmasters club. It was a chilling thought and I wrestled with the fear for several months. Like a lot of people, I was more afraid of public speaking than of dying. Eventually, with great trepidation, I attended a meeting of Langley Township Toastmasters and signed up. They were a sophisticated bunch, including several department heads. I was unemployed, and not feeling successful. Fortunately they were gracious and welcoming.

I was given the introductory manual and began preparing to deliver my Icebreaker speech. I learned that speeches, and all other roles, were timed and evaluated. Speech evaluators were encouraged to employ the “sandwich technique.” This consisted of positive observations, then a suggestion for improvement, followed by one or more positives. The Grammarian reported on use of crutch words like “you know,” “uhm.” “ahh,” and “I mean.” At no time were all my deficiencies mentioned, for which I was enormously grateful.

Toastmasters takes members through a series of manuals, each designed to develop skills such as organizing a speech, using vocal variety, and working with props. I learned about the value of humour, anecdotes, startling facts and inspirational quotes.

Over time, with the helpful advice of evaluators, counsel from my mentor and performing various club roles, my knees quaked less frequently. Like many novice Toastmasters, I began by memorizing my speeches. I knew this could be hazardous because I might lose my way. This did happen about three sentences into my tenth speech, “Inspire your Audience.” Mortified, I said, “If no one objects, I’ll start over.” They had all experienced embarrassment while speaking and no one objected.

Even before my tenth speech I had felt a desire to step farther into the vast, frightening unknown of public speaking. To this end I entered two contests, and lost in both. Then, after completing the first manual, I entered the annual Toastmasters speech contest at the club level. I surprised myself and the club by winning. This qualified me for the area contest. My mentor, a successful engineer and a Distinqished Toastmaster (DTM) told me, “With that speech you might win the area contest.” I wondered if he meant “if you win it will be because you’ve written a strong speech, not because of your speaking ability.”

My speech enabled me to win at the area level and the division level. In the province wide District Contest, I didn’t even place. This was a disappointment, but also a reminder that I still had a lot to learn if I wanted to speak at that level. It was my writing, not my speaking skills, that had taken me this far.

Looking back now, I realize that the Toastmasters teaching and experience provided a much needed boost in confidence. I began participating in community issues. If no one was willing to lead, I volunteered. And if no one was willing to speak to the media, I did. One day an Abbotsford councillor asked if I’d deliver the morning commentary on CBC radio. She had approached a respected community leader but he had declined. I felt it was a great opportunity to present a much needed environmental message to a wide audience. CBC sent me a cheque for one hundred dollars for delivering a message I considered important.

At this time when Canada is under threat from COVID 19, many of us are wondering what the future holds. No one can answer this question, but when onslaughts come we can view them as opportunities to broaden the horizons of our thinking, be more adventurous and even take a few risks.

Although I was a mere kid at the time, the Penticton Vees resounding defeat of the Soviets in the 1955 World Hockey Championship remains indelibly imprinted deep in my psyche. I didn’t know at that time where Penticton was located but I understood this was our home team. Having many times sat on the bottom stair in our home eavesdropping on my parents political conversations with friends, I was aware that the Russians were our adversary. Mostly, I was enthralled by the knowledge that our little known team had thrashed the Soviets vaunted Big Red Machine.

One former Vee has almost single handedly kept the team’s story alive. Linda and I first met Ivan McClelland 4 years ago and since then I’ve been privileged to write some, but not all, of the most memorable events that occurred before and after the victory. Today I will add an installment I’m quite certain very few readers are aware of.

When we met Ivan in the K Cafe in Keremeos last Friday, it was exactly 65 years since he stood on the blue line in Germany, waiting to receive his medal. He began our conversation with a brief sketch of his early years. “I pretty much grew up in South Porcupine, a small town in Ontario,” he said. “My father worked away a lot and mother struggled to raise the 14 children. I endured a great deal of abuse, some of it physical, from my father. He worked hard but he had a violent temper. I got in trouble and I wasn’t doing well in school. In grade 10 the principal advised me to drop out of school and find a job.”

He found employment with the local mine and joined the mine’s hockey team, the Dome Porkies. Hockey, and several mentors, played key roles in setting him on a productive path. They could not, however, mellow his father. That unhappy relationship remained on the rocks.

In 1951, at age 19, Ivan was signed by the Vancouver Canucks and was sent to play in goal for the Vees. The Vees, a newly assembled team surprised everyone by winning the Allen Cup in 1954. This qualified them to represent Canada in the World Hockey Championship the next year. Canada’s hockey moguls discounted Ivan, then only 23, as too young and inexperienced to be successful at this level. His coach stuck with him though and Ivan amazed everyone, allowing the world’s top teams a meager 6 goals in the series. It’s still a record today.

When the Vees returned to Canada, they were greeted at the Dorval Airport by excited fans, including several Montreal Canadiens hockey players. Three of Ivan’s sisters and his father were also waiting. Ivan had not seen his father in five years and wasn’t eager to see him now.

Aware of his reluctance, one sister said, “Ivan, Daddy would really like to talk with you.” Then she added, “you know he’s been a Canadiens fan most of his life. It would mean the world to him if one or two talked with him. Is that possible?”

The memories of abuse at the hands of his father were still fresh and it would be understandable if he had brushed off the request, but he didn’t. He approached Dick Irvin the Montreal coach and said, “Dick, my father is here. He’s been a Canadiens fan for years. He’s had a stroke and his speech is limited, but he’d be thrilled if one of your players talked with him.”

The coach immediately asked several players to speak with Ivan’s father. That day the old man was honoured by Jean Beliveau, Rocket Richard, Boom Boom Geoffrion and Dickie Moore, at the time 4 of Canada’s most revered hockey players.

Ivan spent 3 days in his parents’ home. On the second day his mother asked if she could invite a few friends over to meet Ivan. She wanted to show off her famous son. Ivan agreed and 30 ladies arrived.

Ivan later learned that every time his father went to have a few drinks with friends at the local pub, he talked about his famous son, and about meeting the 4 Canadiens. It was a major highlight in his old age. Now about to turn 89, Ivan McLelland still clearly recalls the decision to give his father a gift he’d treasure to the end of his days. “I’m glad I did it,” he said.

I was puzzled when my cross town neighbour Gary LeComte posthumously treated the people of Hedley to a free hot buffet luncheon this past February. He was battling cancer and had not circulated much in the community for some time. When he made arrangements with the Seniors’ Centre to cater the meal, he likely knew he wouldn’t be there. The doctor’s prognoses had been pessimistic. Realizing he’d soon cross the line into the End Zone, why feed people, many of whom he barely knew, or didn’t know at all? It occurred to me that pondering this question might lead to a fuller understanding of how we can attain a more satisfying and fulfilling life.

I recalled Richard Paul Evans’ words in “The Walk”. It is his belief that “in all of us there is something that, for better or worse, wants the world to know we existed.” Knowing that I too hope to be remembered, especially by my family, I can readily agree.

An account in “The Wind in my Hair”, by Iranian born journalist Masih Alinejad, delves a little deeper. About to be released from prison, Alinejad was approached by a mother who had been arrested for protesting against the Iranian regime’s brutality. “Make sure the world knows about me,” she pleaded desperately. “Don’t forget about me!” She wanted to be remembered for what she had done.

Austrian psychiatrist Viktor Frankl builds on this thought with the statement that “life is not made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose.” This is a truth many of us apparently do not understand well, and we don’t embrace it. Instead, we grasp for personal gratification.

I feel I gained an insight regarding this subject while working with young offenders. When they became discouraged and uncooperative, often one question profoundly altered their negative mindset. I first understood the power of the question when Howie didn’t want to do his shift in our organization’s kitchen. I said, “Howie, do you want to do something important with your life?” He had never considered this question before and it surprised him. As he thought about his reply, the obstinate expression mellowed and I sensed an inner shift. Finally he said, “yeah, I do.” He turned and entered the kitchen. I subsequently asked the question many times and, with only one exception, the response was always affirmative.

Over many years I’ve become convinced that individuals who selflessly serve others are more likely to have a sense of meaning and purpose, and are more likely to be remembered. My friend Dan, an elderly chicken farmer, visited Paul in Oakalla Prison weekly for almost two years. Upon Paul’s release Dan invited him to live in his home and helped him find work. In time Paul got married, had three children and developed a trucking business. Dan believed in Paul and gave him hope. Now, 30 years later, Paul still cherishes the memory of this relationship. He will never forget what Dan did for him.

If we become overly immersed in our personal pursuits, we may miss opportunities to make a positive, important difference. Then, when we come to the end of our days on this earth, we may unhappily comprehend that we’ve lived a shallow, selfish, unsatisfying life. Gary didn’t want to exit the world with these thoughts. In addition to the hot luncheon, he offered free helicopter rides last summer. When I asked why he was paying approximately $2100 per hour to provide free rides, he said, “this community has been good to me. I want to give something back.”

At some time in life, all of us come to a fork in our path, even if we are not conscious of it. At this fork we are confronted with a destiny shaping decision. Will we live positively, sharing our abundance with neighbours and community? Or will we live fearfully, hoarding our reserves, not daring to share? The first fork leads to a life of meaning and purpose. The second leads to what George Wills describes as “a meaningless event in a meaningless world.”

I’ve concluded that Gary LeComte’s most significant gift to the people of Hedley is not the hot luncheon, helicopter rides, or other important acts of service to the community. It’s his spirit of giving. For me, at least, this is what will continue to warm my heart for many years.

The “fire” on my mother-in-law’s television place burned almost continuously, day and night, during the recent Christmas season. When Linda and I stayed in her home I experienced a real dose of insomnia. Sometime during the night I sleepily wandered into the den where she has the tv. The fire seemed so genuine, I was moved to touch the screen. In my sleep deprived state I actually thought it might be warm. It wasn’t, of course, but the image of the fire burning so lustily conjured up camp fire memories from expeditions on the Bowron Lakes circuit near Barkerville.

I was working at that time with young offenders at the One Way Adventure Foundation, situated on the periphery of Hedley. The five youths in my group had experienced mostly failure and were considered unwelcome in their own communities. By taking them into the wilderness we wanted to give them a success experience, and also hoped to develop relationships of trust with them.

One expedition provided particularly vivid memories. There were two groups. Toby, our no nonsense Expedition guide was paddling with the other crew because their worker had little outdoors experience. On our second night, setting up camp at Wolverine Creek on Isaac Lake, we saw several bears observing us with great interest. They had learned that campers carried food.

I was becoming aware of a feud simmering between two boys in my group. Clem, a kid with a street fighter reputation, had taken a strong dislike to Jerry. With his long unkempt black hair, a faint, scrawny moustache and several front teeth missing, Clem’s appearance tended to intimidate. He seemed to need an adversary and had selected Jerry. Jerry was Clem’s equal in height, but lacked even a hint of ferocity. He was clever though, and let it slip he had a brown belt in karate. Clem understood instinctively he might be at a disadvantage against a trained practitioner of martial arts. No one was certain Jerry actually had a brown belt.

As we were about to depart from Wolverine Creek on Wednesday, the third morning, another camper offered me a trout he had just caught. I tied it behind my canoe and my paddling partner and I towed it all day. That evening our two groups camped at the end of Isaac Lake. Toby built a large, hot fire as usual. Clem furiously chopped wood, consuming some of his pent up inner frustration. Carl, Jim, Jerry and Howie joined me in setting up tents and hanging a tarp over the fire in case of rain. A couple and their son had stayed near our party on the lake and we invited them to our camp after dinner.

Sitting on blocks of wood around Toby’s roaring fire, we basked in the warmth. Everyone, including our 3 visitors, received a piece of perfectly done fish. I prepared cups of hot chocolate and handed out chunks of semi-sweet chocolate. Then Toby read a chapter from Jack London’s Call of the Wild. By 9 o’clock the sun had slipped to the other side of the mountain and we retired to our tents.

Thursday we broke camp early and paddled and portaged to McLeary Lake, where we had a rest day on Friday. The only excitement came when Carl caught a fish on his line. When he pulled it close, the fish darted under the canoe. Exasperated, Carl jumped into the water and followed the fish. He emerged spluttering, empty handed.

Saturday morning we encountered a stiff headwind on Lanezi Lake and drew close to the rocky shore. When the wind eased, the black flies descended on us. That spurred us on and we entered Sandy Lake. Here Toby surprised us by singing “Bobby McGee.”

We camped on the lake’s sandy shore and were again joined by the couple, their young son, and a family of 5. Toby was asked for an encore performance. We sat around the fire until late, telling stories and singing. For the boys it was a novel social experience and even Clem laughed occasionally.

After two more days of paddling, we reached the far shore of Bowron Lake. When we had dragged our canoes onto land, the boys spontaneously formed a circle, locked arms and did a victory dance. Then Clem approached Jerry and I heard him say, “You’re ok man.” Jerry reached out a hand and said, “You too Clem.” Maybe it was the magic of the campfires.

I have come to regard the flagrant squandering of credibility as foolishness at its best. When it is gone, it’s virtually impossible to regain. We were provided with a very public example of this recently when the Iranian government adamantly denied having shot down the Ukrainian airliner carrying 176 passengers, many of them Canadians of Iranian origin. Any observer of the international scene is aware that the Islamic Republic controls the media and routinely shapes news to suit its own purposes. The people are often uncertain as to where the truth lies. When the government reversed its version of the downing of the plane and admitted its role, Iranian citizens were enraged by the attempted deception. Many lost faith in government statements.

The numerous instances of prominent individuals and government leaders engaging in deception to gain unfair advantage have fostered within me a fascination with credibility. One of the most extreme examples, exposed in 2008, is the Ponzi scheme of former NASDAQ Chairman Bernard Madoff. He kept his hedge fund losses hidden by paying early investors with funds from those who bought in later. He admitted to his sons, and subsequently to investigators, “it’s one big lie.” The scheme has been cited as the largest fraud in U.S. history. His untrustworthiness cost many investors their life savings.

It’s disappointing when those living and working at lofty levels choose to flaunt their disregard for integrity. They seem not to understand that their example confuses and distresses people struggling to feed a family, buy shoes for their children, pay the mortgage or rent, and hope the bank will loan them the funds to replace an ailing vehicle. They seem unconcerned that their example undermines the values that hold our society in place.

Most of us have witnessed attempts at deception on a personal level. A few years ago a friend, Virginia, wanted to borrow twenty dollars from me. “I need to buy groceries,” she said. “I’m getting some money tomorrow and I’ll pay you then.” About age 30, she still retained an attractive figure and pretty face, but her reputation was somewhat shaky. I knew she was deeply addicted to tobacco and realized the money was likely intended for cigarettes. Wanting to show trust, I gave it to her anyway. The next evening I attended the Hedley Street Dance and noticed her across the street. Seeing me look in her direction, she quickly disappeared into the crowd and has avoided me since then. I still regret that for a mere twenty dollars, she sacrificed the trust I had placed in her.

True credibility comes when there is a sound foundation of integrity. When parents give their children an example of speaking the truth and being honest, their offspring are more likely to pass this on with their own lives. Virginia didn’t live this way and her 3 children struggled socially and academically. Unable to cope with an unstable home scene, they turned to pharmaceutical and illicit drugs to calm their anxieties. They had no dependable scaffolding for the building of their lives. Seeing this, Virginia became distraught, but floundering herself, she could not help them.

For the most part, my generation grew up in homes where there was at least a measure of integrity. I never caught my parents lying or cheating. I was surrounded by strong, authentic role models. When my Uncle Cornie’s chicken flock was decimated by disease, he didn’t have insurance and could have declared bankruptcy to avoid paying the feed company and bank. It would have been the easy option. Instead he went on the road with his tractor and rototilled gardens until he had paid his debts.

I’ m deeply grateful I had role models I could trust. The example of upright individuals built into me and many of my generation, a solid foundation of values. Even if we didn’t listen to the words of parents, uncles and aunts, teachers, and others, their trustworthiness was indelibly imprinted on our hearts and minds.

Unlike my generation when distractions weren’t as plentiful, the thinking, attitudes and character of many children, adolescents and also adults today are being shaped by social media. This is not likely to change. If we want young people to develop a constructive direction for their lives, we will need to show them an example of unimpeachable credibility.