Chapter Two - Home Before Midnight

Because people have asked, a note on how this story - and others - were collected.  About 12 years ago, I began carrying a notebook whenever I would go to visit my folks.  Most times I'd forget to pull it out, but there were times when I was after specific details (say, the village in Scotland where Helen Paris Brown, later to be Helen Houtton, my maternal grandmother, hailed from), when it was handy to be able to jot down a note or two.  (Portobello, near Edinburgh, by the way). 

Incidently, I recommend doing this with your parents, whatever age you are.  Your parents have a story to tell, and they're the only source of their story.  Go get it before it's lost.

My interest in collecting family stories was lent some urgency by the sad but inevitable effects of aging.  Mom has always been the one with the razor-sharp recollections, but these past few years she's fading in and out like a gorgeous old tube radio - sometimes everything is crystal clear; other times ...

But if you catch her on a good day, or a good hour, she can tell you exactly what she was wearing on the morning of her sixteenth birthday.  She'll tell you how she was in the kitchen helping her Mom bake a cake for the party that afternoon and an announcer broke into the radio program with the news that Pearl Harbour had been bombed and America was now in the war.  And she can describe her anger and resentment that something like the attack on Pearl Harbour had to happen on her Sweet Sixteenth birthday, and chuckle about how self-involved a teenager would have to be, to consider the real tragedy of that day to be a ruined party.  (But she's still mad at those bastards.  How dare they?)

Last October at their 60th Anniversary celebrations (oh, damn, I should have issued a spoiler alert!) (oh, hell, you knew anyway), I spent as much time as I could gathering this specific story. My sister had had the pictures scanned, and I was struck - as many of you have been - by my mother's sheer, drop-dead, Hollywood beauty, which you never see as a kid growing up, of course.

I've always been told I'm the spitting image of my Dad (and when I shaved my beard off for a few days last November I was dumfounded by the resemblance)  (And everyone else around here?  TOTALLY creeped out). So I had to accept that here was this guy who looked something like me, walking along a street with this incredibly gorgeous woman.  And he's going to ask her to marry him and she'll say yes and how in the name of God does that happen?

So I asked.  For the first time, I asked for the whole story - beginning, middle, end, moment by moment.  I was prepared to listen to uncomfortable details if there were any (there weren't).  But I just wanted the whole story in one piece.  And I think I got it.

Mom was sharp that day - it was fun to hear her catch up Dad on details. And it was wonderful to listen to them work together to squeeze the story out in its entirety.  Now, in fairness, it's been 60 years, so I'm willing to allow for some fading of precise recollection.  And it's a personal story, so I've also taken into account the fact that we all try to dress things up nice when we remember what we did years ago. But I think we're close to the truth.

That said, obviously some of the conversations are created by me out of whole cloth.  Where I didn't have accurate information, I'd surmise what people might say or how they might react based on knowing them my whole life.  It'd be close enough for me, but if you want to call it "fiction", go ahead.  I'm not reporting here - I'm telling a story. 

And sometimes, the truth does not improve a good story.

                                                                ***********************

August, 1943 - Late Saturday Night

There was a chill in the air as the three of them left the dance. Mary pulled her sweater closer on her shoulders and crossed her arms against the bite of the late summer evening.  They caught a streetcar on the corner and rode home, Justin and Mary chattering away, lost in one another, Vera glumly sitting across from them, very much feeling like a third wheel.

As they walked up to the green two-story house with the giant verandah, they could see though to the inside where Hugh Henry Houtton sat in his chair in the parlour.  As always, he was reading a book (or pretending to), no doubt listening to the latest news from Europe delivered by Canada's "Voice of Doom", Lorne Greene.  (An entire generation of Canadians would always remember Lorne Greene not as Pa Cartwright - and certainly not for Battlestar Galactica - but as the deep, resonant voice delivering the news of the war into their living rooms and kitchens every night.)

As he always did, Hugh Henry Houtton checked his railwayman's watch when the first footfalls landed on the porch.  He looked up as the girls walked in.  It was Vera who introduced her father to this Justin fellow.

"Ling ..." said Hugh Henry.  "You don't look like a chinaman to me. Anyways, thank you for bringing the girls home."  Said with finality; the underlying "... now, off with you." left to be taken from the tone.

Mary would have none of it.  She offered Justin some lemonade, smiling sweetly at her father.  She was home at the appointed hour, and this young man had gotten her home, so surely Hugh Henry wouldn't mind if they sat on the porch for a while and talked?  After all, Justin was shipping out the very next night.

Hugh Henry nodded assent, not completely happy but knowing it would be unseemly to be inhospitable to this young man, off to do his duty.  And what harm in a chat on the porch, especially with the ever-vigilant Vera as chaperone?

"And I've asked him to dinner tomorrow," Mary said.  "He's got no family here and it didn't seem right to let him go off to the war without a home cooked meal." 

Vera marvelled at her baby sister's brass.  For her part, Mary just smiled, daring her father to be so mean as to deny this young man a proper meal, knowing full well he wouldn't.  Wasn't she just as cool as the other side of the pillow, that one?

The three sat on the porch for an hour, talking about anything and everything.  Justin was from Kitsilano, a suburb of Vancouver.  He was a baker's son who joined the RCAF a day after high school and signed up to be a pilot.  Not only did he pass flight school - he excelled, and by the time he was 20 he was an Instructor, teaching other young men how to fly Chipmunks and Harvards and Spitfires. 

Now, as more and more planes were falling out of the sky over Britain, and as it was becoming more and more clear that this would be a war where air power could be a decisive edge, he was shipping out to teach at a fighter pilot school in England.

The girls sat enthralled, mouths agape as he told his tales of near misses and crash landings and soaring above the Rockies and chasing mountain goats along ridges.  Time seemed to flicker by, and sure enough it felt like they were just beginning to know one another when Hugh Henry gave three raps on the window.  It was time to come in.

"But you'll be back tomorrow ..." said Mary.  "Promise?"

"I guess that depends," said Justin.  "What did you say was for dinner ...?"  He grinned as she punched his arm.

Mary watched from the porch as he crossed to the streetcar and hopped on.  She returned his wave, then gathered her sweater around her arms to ward off the goosebumps.  Vera slipped her arm around her kid sister.

"He'll be back," said Vera. 

With that, the two girls filed into the house and went up to bed.  A few minutes later, Hugh Henry Houtton snapped off the light in the parlour, then the porch light, and followed behind.

Comments

[kalki]

Ahhh, I love this.

[Becky]

Yeah, what Kalki said.

[marybishop]

This story gives me that same feeling I get about my Grandma stories...a sense of the past with a hint to the future and I know your family will all love reading this, but so do I.

[Nils]

Well, I have to say that the idea of pulling these very personal stories together and putting them up here was daunting, Mary ... and wouldn't have happened if not inspired by your wonderful stories of your Grandma.

[candace]

Amazing. Your gift for writing, Nils, is absolutely stunning.

[Wrin]

Do you know how cool it is to read stories like this and recognize place names?

Oh my god, internet people are from Edmonton too!

[wordgirl]

Maybe everyone DOES have a story, but you just tell yours (and that of your parents) better. I'm on the edge of my seat. You may look like your father, but I see a bit of your mother in you as well.

[Jim Fogg]

It's very cool to be able to pass on stories from generation to generation. Sadly it's often too late and lots of great stories and anecdotes are lost. This is a reminder that its never too early to start recording family tales. Tall or not

[ToadyJoe]

Scrumptious stuff, Nilbo! Thank you!!!

[Laura]

I'll be back for dinner tomorrow to hear more about Justin, Vera and Mary. Set an extra plate!

[Gora_Kagaz]

i love this story :)

[Sara Sue]

More!! More!!!! More!!!

[Bucky Four-Eyes]

I have to admit that I never knew Lorne Greene was a newscaster. And the fact that your mother was all in a snit because Pearl Harbor was attacked on her 16th birthday makes me grin. I wouldn't forgive 'em either, dammit!

[MrsDoF]

The Pearl Harbor attack happened on my husband's grandmother's 21st birthday.
She's never quite gotten over it, either.

Seems like we've got a day's layover here. Either that, or I've got the time zones mixed up.

This is better than the romance paperbacks I usually read.
I'm on the edge of my chair and have sent several friends the link. Way to keep you counter whirling.

[MrsDoF]

The word before counter in the above post should be --your--.

Wait a minute, I must have hit the calculator buttons wrong. G-mother will be 98 in December, so that's 2006 minus her age which goes back to 1908. Then 1941 minus 1908 = 33 years.

I wish I could describe the way her nose twitches whenever the subject is brought up.
I've learned to simply send a card or flowers or a little crocet item and not mentions years or other events.

[CircusKelli]

Nilbo! This is great! Yes, we may know how it all ultimately turns out, but that's why I continue reading! For the 'in between' parts! :)

**Waiting for the next installment.**