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For some time I have been struggling with the reading of books. If you read my last poem here on Chapter and Verse you will see how I feel about it. I am pleased to say that I think I have broken the spell. That is to say, I, along with the help of someone else among you, have broken it.

When I began this blog, it was in many ways to break free of my older archived material, and to begin a new voyage of poetic discovery. I entitled the blog Chapter and Verse because I was worried that the poems wouldn’t come, but the book-reading would. Funnily enough, it has been the other way around.

I am a very big fan of the writing of the very enigmatic “Oglach” on the Na Triobloidi blog. His words captivate me at every turn, and through some lengthy exchanges back and forth in the Comments sections of our blogs, we have learned something of each other. Not the least of which is, although we grew up on different sides of the Atlantic, and I believe there is an age gap of about 14 years (I’m the older one), we have grown up with quite similar experiences – his being a born and bred Irishman, and mine, being the daughter of a born and bred Irishman who landed himself in Canada back in the 1950s.

I have come to trust “Oglach” (though I wish he trusted me enough to let me know his real name) and when he wrote about the book pictured above in his memorial tales, “Across the Room and Into the Fire”, I was determined to track the book down and crack it open. We even chatted about this, with his being certain if I could not find it at my local small-town library, surely it would be available through an inter-library loan?

Well! Not only was it available through my own library system, but when I picked it up at the circulation desk this morning, it was a brand new paperback copy! Talk about a coincidence.

One thing Oglach does not know about me, is that I was virtually raised on War movies. My father was a fanatic for them, having been in the British Army himself for 11 years, not seeing direct action (he was only 15 when he signed on), but being sent to Singapore and the Far East after the war had ended. He was a part of the Royal Corps of Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (though to be honest, I never saw much evidence of this in his later life) and though a Roman Catholic, he got along with just about anyone and seems to have thoroughly enjoyed his time as a soldier in the British Army.

As for me, one of the first movies I was ever taken to see as a child was, “The Battle of Britain”, and now I have my own collection of War Movies and a few books. I read “Black Hawk Down” by Mark Bowden a few years ago, which is definitely not for the squeamish, and surely not a big favourite with women who enjoy chick flicks (can’t say that I do). I grappled with the book, but was determined to get through it, and am very glad that I did.

I do not expect to have any trouble reading Oglach’s recommendation of this Dalton Trumbo classic. I am familiar with Trumbo’s screenplays, having seen “Spartacus”, “Exodus” and “Papillon”.

Tho’ yesterday, my book-drought was broken by a breezy whip-through of the gentle epistolary delight, “84 Charing Cross Road” by Helene Hanff, I am itching to find out what happens when, “Johnny”gets his gun.

Thanks, Oglach (whoever you really are). I am indebted to you.

Kathleen

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Sepia Saturday #13: The Road to Singapore

(“Aboard the USS St. Paul (a cruiser) in Singapore harbour with my US Navy host.”)

On October 7, 1942, at the age of 15 1/2, my father William Henry (Harry) Davison, who was born in the Whiterock area of Belfast in Ireland, enlisted in the British Army to escape what he called “a dead-end job” at the linen mill back home.
He was assigned for the first 3 years to the Southernmost part of England in Berkshire, Hampshire and Kent.
Many years later, in a letter to a family member, he wrote, “In Hampshire, I saw all the goings-on for D-Day, but was not involved in that, as I was too young.  I spent the years from 1947 to 1949 in Germany, from 1949 to 1952 in Malaya, Singapore and Hong Kong and the final year of my Army service, in Hampshire until discharge from the Army in May 1953.

(As written on back: Port of Singapore waterfront.  November 1949.)
“Discharged on 4th May, I didn’t even go back to Belfast, but did visit my Mother, who lived then with an invalid brother, Patrick, in Portsmouth.  The 16th May was the day on which I departed by ship for Canada.”
My father often talked of Hong Kong, Singapore and Malaya with great fondness.  He was the sort of man who, if he saw someone who even looked remotely Asian, would make his way up to them and strike up a conversation.  It gave him great pleasure to spout a few (albeit broken) words of Chinese or talk of particular districts in the cities he remembered so well.  My dad loved to interact with people of all kinds—he was a man who would literally give you the shirt off his back. 
My mother tells me of a cold day when he came home from work  in the downtown core of Toronto without the big wool sweater his own mother had knitted for him and sent overseas. When my Mom asked him where the sweater was, he responded, “I saw this fella who looked really cold…”
I think his Army days and experience with people from all walks of life all over Europe and Asia gave him a real feel for his fell0w-man.  He loved everybody.

“Taken in Singapore on the US cruiser St. Paul in the year of 1950 if my memory serves me properly.”

Oops! Almost forgot, if you’d like to see more great photographs, visit the Sepia Saturday blog where you’ll find links to everyone who’s playing along.  Feel free to join in!

Sepia Saturday #2: Dad’s Army

Army Life c.1945 (my father is on the right)

My dad was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He was the seventh child in a family of twelve children. At the age of 15 1/2, he joined the British Army as a Boy Soldier. That was in 1942. He never saw active duty in World War II, but he was a sergeant for 11 years and was a member of the Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers.

Strangely, my father did not pursue a career in mechanics when he arrived in Canada in 1953. Instead, he got his high school qualifications and went on to become a Chartered Accountant with Revenue Canada. Yes! My dad was THE TAXMAN! We used to joke with him whenever Matthew, the Tax Collector was mentioned in the readings at Sunday Mass. Matthew had “a bad rap”, he used to say in his own defense.

My father loved numbers, but he also loved the outdoors and nature. You can see by this picture that he had the opportunity to relax with his fell0w-soldiers. I love this picture because it captures a sense of contentment that I quite often saw in my father’s face when he was out working in the yard at our house on Pyramid Crescent. I wonder what he was thinking at the time the photo was taken?

The badge on his cap is the official R.E.M.E. badge. I am pleased to be in possession of a patch with this insignia woven into it as well as 2 metal badges that he once wore. We also have a number of photos from his army days and his original red-paper dog-tag.

capbadge

Please visit Alan Burnett at the News From Nowhere blog to see another Sepia Saturday post. Watch the comments to see who else is playing along or perhaps tell us if you’re going to play too!
Kat Mortensen©2009 Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape

Where I’m From – in poetry

My Great-aunt, “Big Clara” (the tall one),as opposed to “Little Clara” (the shorter).

Colleen, of Loose Leaf Notes left a comment on my blog yesterday and I found myself at her blog, thanking her and having a nose around to see what she is all about. She is a brilliant writer, who writes from the heart and writes in such a way as to immediately draw you into her world. I have added her to my links in the sidebar.

At Colleen’s blog, I read a poem entitled “Where I’m From”. Upon reading it I began to wonder if she would think it too bold of me if I should attempt a similar type of poem since it was such a wonderful expression of who she is. I was pleased to notice that she actually attributed this poem to another person’s blog and that there is in fact a template for anyone who wants to write one like it. I can see Michelle Hix of Sont les mots… taking this on, or perhaps Fenny . Here is the link to the template and a bit of the history of the origin of the piece. You can read Colleen’s memorable poem here.

Here’s my version of “Where I’m From”


Scraps of Me

I’m from sixties’ suburbia,
pb & j and cheese-spread
in the canteloupe kitchen
of the brick bungalow
on Pyramid Crescent.

I‘m from blown dandelions
plucked daisies, and the buttercup test,
from pixie stix, pop rocks,
Dickie Dee bells
and candy cigarettes.

I’m from best-suit Sundays,
candle-lit Masses
and my father’s tenor tones
carrying each hymn
from memory.

I’m from the seventh one
of the twelve bastard-spawned
Catholics of Rodney Drive, Belfast —
the son who crossed
the Atlantic.

I’m from corned beef and cabbage,
Feis Eirann and the Clancy Bros,
Murphy-jokes and miracles,
clay pipes and pots of gold
at the end of the rainbow.

I’m from the middle daughter
of the shunned ex-Baptist–
the Dominion Coal Company clerk
of Glace Bay, Cape Breton
Nova Scotia.

I’m from bloodsuckers, seaweed,
and salt-water… “out East Bay”,
the house on Cottage Street
with the “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
sweet pea-beds, and tiger-lilies.

I’m from, “Who’s like you
since Leatherarse died?”
and frequently:
“What do you think this is,
your Father’s yacht?”

I’m from the roll of the sea
and the rise of the hills,
from blueberry pie,
“Big Clara’s” strawberry jam
and outdoor lobster feasts.

I’m from the nun-chase
across the Santana schoolyard
and the tear-stained
train-station farewell
at the age of 15.

I’m from acid-free albums
of corner-pointed pictures
and pinked photographs
of British army days
and “the old country”
in the footed tin box.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2008

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