My Memoirs: And I’m not even dead yet

Interlude

I haven’t forgotten about continuing my exciting (“Talk about exciting!”) memoirs.

I’ve just been so busy.

WTHeck. So so busy.

However, before I get my act together, allow me to pass along a comment about an earlier chapter ‘in the life of whozzits’ that comes from my oldest sister who lives in a cold, snow-covered land far far away.

About my early years she says the following:

“Being the oldest I can verify that you gave mom the "most" grey hairs..You have NO idea! But look how well you turned out...”

What she says is so very hard to believe (except for the part about how I turned out), especially as I look at a photo taken when I was in Grade 5.


["I'm pretty sure teachers fought about having me in their class": circa 1959]

I was just a sweet sweet kid, nothing more.

And look at this picture of my mother after she sent me off to school. Snoozing as peaceful as an angel she was.


Surely my sister got it all wrong.

***

The last entry of My Memoirs are here.

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My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

[Post 4]

Chapter ONE - The Early Days in Burgessville PT 2

I visit Burgessville, my first hometown, on my motorcycle once or two times yearly.

I like visiting my first school, now an under-funded museum, with one room unchanged from the 1950s. Last summer I was given the full tour by a kind-hearted university student who was inside preparing for a summer vacation program for young children.


["The two-room school in Burgessville is still standing": photo GH]

I also like visiting my first home and the current owners, Les Knotts (a prolific birdhouse builder) and his wife Betty.


["My first home is half a block from the school."]

The house and property are of goodly size but seem absolutely huge in my earliest memories.


["It took hours to crawl to the edge of the property."]

When I think about my first six years of life in the tiny village, a limited number of memories surface, most of them as warm and fuzzy as a pair of Dr. Denton’s sleepers.

The memories are fairly clear ones and include each of my parents as well as three siblings (out of four) that also spent their early years in Burgessville. I have a few that feature neighbours, an irritated car driver and a scary guy in a peaked cap who chased me around the local Co-op for some unknown reason.

The stupid ass. If it weren’t for him my time in Burgessville would have been completely untroubled.

Well, almost.

My earliest memory that includes my mother doesn’t end well.

She wanted me to eat my crusts at breakfast and I refused.

“There are children in India who would love to have your crusts,” she said.

Stop the movie right there.

I’m in pajamas, I’m about three years old, and my mother, who is tight with a missionary family that attends the Burgessville Baptist Church (the McKenzies - you wouldn’t know them), wants me to stay at the table and eat dried crusts of bread, or else she’ll send them off to India, wherever the heck that is.

As a kid, I felt I had only play one card to play.

I said, “If you want to send them to India, go ahead. I’m not going to eat them.”


["Kim and I sit at the kitchen table. No crusts allowed!"]

Knowing me the way I do, I’m pretty sure my mother had zero chance of forcing me to stay at the table to eat the crusts.


["My mom and I clown around with a paper bag."]

Fortunately, our relationship improved, and one day she complimented my chalk drawing of the Indian chief that appears on American nickels of that era. She even helped me draw the side view of his eyes, and for that I thought she was wonderful.

And I was right, as usual.

***

More exciting adventures will surely follow, perhaps on some sort of regular basis, now that the holidays are over.

Please click here to read ‘Chapter ONE - The Early Days in Burgessville PT 1.’

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Beamsville isn’t near Woodstock. That is Beachville.

The answer to yesterday’s question, ‘Why does Beamsville, Ontario sound so familiar?’ is as follows:


["Beachville is situated SW of Woodstock": photos GH]

Beamsville sounds familiar because its name is quite similar to Beachville. And Beachville is between Ingersoll and Woodstock. And because during one of my last motorcycle rides of the 2010 season I cruised through Ingersoll and Beachville (the home of baseball, says a roadside placard) on my way to Woodstock and Highway 59, the road that travels south from Woodstock and through my two home towns.


["Looking east on Dunds St., (H. 59) Woodstock']


["Go west on Dundas to London. Turn left at the bottom of the hill and - voila - Beachville, then Ingersoll"]

And where is Beamsville, since it’s not Beachville and on my way to Woodstock?

I don’t know.

Maybe near Windsor?

Anyone?

Maybe yesterday’s visitor (the first) from Beamsville could say a few words.

***

Highway 59 passes through Burgessville and Norwich, my hometowns from long ago.

While writing ‘My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet,’ I’ll try to share a few of the countless exciting adventures that happened on or near that world famous King’s highway.

Be there.

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My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

[Post 3]

Chapter ONE - The Early Days in Burgessville PT 1

I was born on September 18, 1949 in Woodstock, Ontario, and was pulled out of a very warm place by Doctor Lossing, a masked man with very cold hands.


["Immediately after birth I was rolled to room SR - the Show Room"]

I wailed like any child would in the same circumstances.

My mother later told me I was born on a Sunday and the nurses called me Gorgeous George because of my lovely black hair. Who could blame them. I was a looker.


["Gorgeous George and sister Dale": circa 1950]

My mother, Edith Jane Harrison (nee Catton), and father, Gordon Douglas Harrison, wisely slapped a thick diaper over my hinder parts soon after I was born and called me Gordon Arthur Harrison.

A few years later, after taking time to think about my name, I told my mother I didn’t like it. I can remember she told me why I was called Gordon, she actually tried to reason with me (Was I being unreasonable? Name another 3-year old kid who wants to be called Gordon?), but I can’t honestly remember a thing she said.

I can remember that I continued to complain.

“I don’t like my name. I want to be called something else,” I said.


["My 'baby bracelet'. HARRISON was fine. But GORDON - WWT?"]

Like a wise parent, my mother didn’t go right out and change my name to something I liked better because I probably had something fairly unusual in mind. For example, when my youngest sister Jane Marie was born several years later I suggested that she be called Spooky. Though the name has a certain amount of snap or panache to it, imagine what jane would think of me today had my suggestion ruled the day.

“I’m called Spooky because of you, you idiot,” she’d surely say. “Because of you I only have two friends, Drippy and Sneezy. Why did mother ever take you’re advice?”

I’m glad she didn’t.

I’m also glad I never argued about wearing diapers for the first few years. If somebody has to slap one on me in another thirty years I’ll be ready.

Shortly after I was born my parents drove me to my home in Burgessville, 11 miles south of Woodstock on Highway 59, in an old wreck of a car, maybe a Model A.


["My two hometowns are south of Woodstock on H. 59"]

I was given a room on the main floor and was happy to share it with younger brother Kim Douglas three years later.

I think I wanted him to be called Stinky when he first arrived home. It fit at the time.

***

More exciting adventures will surely follow.

I will honestly attempt to add to my memoirs on a weekly or twice-weekly basis.

Please read the bold Foreword to My Memoirs here.

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My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

Foreword

Many of the books I own have Forewords.

The first one I selected from the closet in my computer room (Whisky: The Water of Life - Uisge Beatha, by Helen Arthur) has a Foreword written by Charles Maclean and it begins as follows:

“Nearly twice as many books about whisky have been published in English since 1990 than were published between 1645 and 1970; seventy-two titles in this decade, so far as I can ascertain, as opposed to the thirty-eight in the previous two and a quarter centuries. Is there room for yet another whisky book?”

Good grief, I say. Enough.

Will Mr. Maclean next list all 72 titles or say twice as many books were printed in German?

Few people would want to know.

And that’s the chance a writer takes when the Foreword to their new book is written by someone else.


["Authentic adventures - I was there": GH circa 1953]

Good thing I caught that. The last thing I want is for Charles Maclean or someone I know to ask, is there room for yet another book of memoirs?

Because I say yes, and I don’t want anyone to have any doubt about it.

For example, Bill Bryson’s latest book, ‘The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid - A Memoir,’ is definitely worth the price of admission, i.e., $9.99, and if I can get it for less by waiting until after Christmas, then so be it.

With those thoughts in mind I have written my own Foreword.

I am uniquely qualified to write my memoirs at this time because I am of clear mind and sound judgement.

Little that I say will embarrass any living member of my family. Odds are slim any will even buy this book or read as far as page 92, where I mention a few juicy bits about my four siblings.

My hale and hearty adventures in life bear an authentic ring because I was there. About my Lester B. Pearson story: I sat right beside him in a blue convertible. Ken Dryden: I stood beside him and asked him to autograph my leather hockey helmet. The Queen Mother: She bore a striking resemblance to my grandmother. Prince Charles: Not so much.

My writing style is fairly easy to understand and, according to my computer’s spell-checking software, I spell most words correctly, Canadian-style.

I have known the author of this hefty book my entire life and am looking forward to reading what I have to say for myself. You should too.

If even a few of my many readers are inspired to write their own memoirs for the enjoyment of others (or to embarrass their family because of some unresolved issue) I will be fully rewarded for my efforts here.

***

GH will honestly attempt to add to his memoirs on a weekly or twice-weekly basis.

Please read the Introduction to My Memoirs here.

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My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet

Introduction

This is all rather sudden, I know.

I was recently doing some Christmas shopping at Chapters in London, Ontario, and came across a new book by Bill Bryson entitled ‘The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid - A Memoir.’

I was stunned.

I thought, Bryson’s dead? He’s not older than me, is he?

Then I corrected myself. He wasn’t older than me, was he?


["Ready for adventure": GH circa 1950]

I picked up the book from the Bargain Shelf. It was greatly reduced in price. $9.99. Excellent.

I thumbed through it and saw a picture of Bill as a child. Cute kid. So was I once. I read a few lines and realized Bill was the author and had written his own memoirs before he died, which is - or was - probably the right time.

Then I thought, maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he just wanted to get things down on paper before he forgot. None of us is getting any younger. I know I’m not.

I returned the book to the shelf because I figured it would likely be a couple of bucks cheaper after Christmas.

And when I got home later that day I decided to start writing my own memoirs, but call the book by a different name.

I think the title, ‘My Memoirs: And I’m Not Even Dead Yet’ is an honest assessment of where I am with my life at present and am hoping this new writing project will inspire me to reflect on all of my life's interesting adventures, even travel a bit more than usual, maybe even write a book about that, too.

Bill Bryson writes (or, wrote) a lot of great books about his adventures. Why can’t I?

And so it begins.

GH

***

GH will honestly attempt to add to his memoirs on a weekly or twice-weekly basis.

However, adventures may cut into his writing time.

He’s off!

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