- Looking for a spiritual oasis for my tattered corporate
soul, I decided to move back to the county in search of a simpler place
and time. My final location is somewhere between the 49th parallel and
Santa's Village, on an old dirt road in an Ontario township, named Tichborne.
My wife returned to collage in search of her vision to become an accountant.
I built an office in my garage to start on my dream of writing. Soon, friendly
locals started dropping by to welcome the new, 'folks from the city.'
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- The locals here are generally poor of pocket but rich
of heart beyond all measure. They would sit in quiet amazement listing
to stories about the American cities that I had visited. During one visit
I asked my guest if there were any local heroes in the area. He confirmed
there were several but by far, the most notable hero was a man named Carl
Barr. He told me Carl had been the Reeve several times, fought in the war
and had received some sort of meritorious service award. The caller shared
that Carl was eighty years of age living a scant three miles from me --
folks considered him the area patriarch.
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- I didn't have to look for Carl, he found me. On a warm
spring day while strolling from the house to my garage his tired Ford pick-up
rolled into my drive and stopped. Walking to the truck, I was greeted by
a hearty, "Hello. I'm Carl Barr." His hand extended through the
window to shake. While he crushed my hand, I noticed a black-and-white
boarder-collie lying dutifully by his side, the dog's head resting on his
lap. Behind the dog was a cane. Carl wore a frayed train engineers cap
which covered his brush-cut and rested just above bushy gray eyebrows.
His red flannel work shirt was tucked unevenly into khaki work pants.
-
- "Nice to meet you Carl, I'm Lea MacDonald. I'm on
my way to the garage to do some writing. Perhaps you'd like to join me
and have a Coke or something." "Well, okay, if it wouldn't be
too much trouble." "Not at all, follow me."
-
- Unlaced, size 13 work boots shuffled through the gravel
on their way to my garage. He seemed to be stiff. Walking slightly bent
over Carl made good use of his cane.
-
- Inside the office Carl made himself cozy on the large
couch, his hands rested comfortably over the handle of the cane. "So,
what do you write about Lea?" "Well, I guess I write about anything
and everything. Currently, I'm looking for heroes from this area. Actually,
I had mentioned that to one of the folks who visited me last week and your
name came up."
-
- "It did?" His eyebrows rose with surprise.
He lifted the peak on his cap scratching his head. "I don't recall
doing anything heroic. I just came home from the war and went back to farming."
"The gentleman I talked with said you received an award of some sort
Carl." "Well, yes, I did get an award but I can't remember having
done anything special for it other than getting home." Staring at
the floor, he looked to be in deep thought.
-
- I swung in my chair to face the keyboard. Speaking over
my shoulder I said, "Perhaps you could tell me what it takes to be
a hero." "Well, I guess I could but it would be easier to show
you. Can you follow me to the farm?" "Sure, I'd be glad to."
-
- As I followed Carl I thought maybe he'd been modest and
was going to show me his award, adding an explanation of how he'd earned
it. We turned following his driveway up a hill to an old farmhouse overlooking
a deep-blue bay from Bob's Lake.
-
- We made our way inside. Walking through a rustic living
room, then an antique filled dinning room, I followed him slowly up an
old staircase. The walls were adorned with old photographs set in oval
mahogany frames. He pointed out some pictures with his cane explaining
the photographs were of the family who had built the farm during the early
eighteen hundreds. The farm had been passed through the family until he
bought it in 1947 with help from the DVA.
-
- I followed him into a room at the top of the stairs.
He pointed his cane at a Boston Rocker. "Sit down, son. I have something
I'd like you to read." He opened an old chest removing a book: The
Dammed Lakes Second Edition An Environmental History of Crow and Bobs Lakes.
The book opened to chapter eight where Carl had placed a book-mark. Carl
sat down asking me to read page 195, down to the picture.
-
- I read: A soldier from the lakes confided to a friend
his feelings about this far away war which became quite personal and was
anything but noble. Because he was a skilled marksman, he was assigned
sniper duty - to watch the opposing line of trenches and shoot any visible
enemy. In the dim light of predawn a German soldier with the same duty
made a fatal mistake. After a long night, he straightened up to stretch.
In one motion, the Canadian's rifle sights centered on the enemy's chest
and he was blown on his back.
-
- Years later the Canadian lamented to a friend: "I
know I personally picked out a man and killed him. I can excuse myself
- I was doing the duty assigned to me - but I have never been able to get
that moment from my mind. I think about it a lot."
-
- I quietly closed the book. Swallowing hard, I looked
to Carl, his lips quivering as he spoke. "Son, war should always be
avoided, but when called upon to do his duty a man must do what he knows
is right." Through misty eyes he looked out the window to some distant
place in time. He continued, his voice shaking, "War does not make
a hero, son. A real hero has the courage to face every day with the full
memory of what he's done in war, unclouded by drink or any other relief.
The man you just read about is a true hero. Not because he caused another
man to fall, but because he had the courage to never forget him."
-
- He slipped a handkerchief from his pocket wiping his
eyes. "Can you find your way out, son?" "Yes sir. I, can."
"If you get a chance son, tell folks what a real hero is."
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- I will, Mr. Barr. I promise.
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