Lessons learned

Me with my little sister Cathy in Toronto 1953

The following piece of my memoir writing appeared in the Katharine Susannah Prichard Past Tense Anthology in June 2016

Lessons Learned

It was a day of firsts – the first snowfall of winter, my first experience of snow, and my first day of school in Canada. I was only five and a half in that winter of 1953. My Canadian mother had brought us all the way from our home in Sydney, Australia to spend nine months with our Nana Mollie in Toronto. My mother had married an Australian and she left Canada to move to Sydney, in 1946. She always felt guilty about leaving her newly-bereaved mother behind and when Nana sent the money for the ocean voyage across the Pacific, she jumped at the opportunity. Dad had to remain behind in Sydney, because of his work. I would be attending the local school in Toronto over the winter term with my older sister Pat.

Lambton Park Primary School was within walking distance from Nana's house, but mother decided to drive us on our first day. I climbed into the back seat of the Austin, rugged up like a rolly-polly doll with my nose pressed to the frosty window. The neighbourhood gardens were covered in snow, like a dusting of fine icing sugar.

'Do you think we'll be playing in the snow Mummy?'
'Yes darling, most probably.'
'Will I make new friends there?'
'Yes of course, you'll be fine.' She reassured us.

Mother dropped us off at the front entrance of the school. I stepped out of the car and anxiously scanned the scene. A long path led up to the front portico of the two-storey brick building. On either side of the path, groups of boys lurked behind the trees. I swung back to the road to call for my mother, but her car had already moved away.

Pat held out a confident hand and we hoisted our school cases and marched at a steady pace towards the front entrance. We were half way down the path when I noticed a boy's head dart out from behind the trees. Then snowballs started flying. I moved behind Pat, but a something like a hard rock hit my arm with a painful whack.

'Ouch!'
A blonde boy laughed. 'Gotcha!'
I bent down to grab a handful of snow, but Pat yanked on my arm. 'No time! Quick, make a run for it!'

We ducked and weaved between the icy missiles, our shoes slipping in the snow, eyes fixed on the entrance up ahead. Other children fled, screeching with us, until we reached the safety of the front door and threw ourselves inside.

The rest of that first day is a blur to me now and it probably passed uneventfully. We had learned our first lesson of survival in the Canadian winter schoolyard. There was a trick to making snowballs and if you didn't know how, you'd better duck for cover. Over that winter we worked hard at perfecting our snowball skills. Although we tried, adding layer upon layer, until the snow turned to ice in our bare hands, we could never quite match it with the local children.

We had other adventures and mishaps in those months in Canada. One bitterly cold day, Pat and I went skating on a makeshift outdoor ice pond at the school. We had been dropped off and were to walk home, a distance of a half mile or so. Later, our hands blue with cold, we could not untie our skates and were alone in the darkening gloom of the afternoon. The other children had somehow vanished. We had to clomp down the street with in our skates still on our feet, and clamber up the stairs of a stranger's house to call for help. It was a moment of lasting embarrassment for my responsible older sister – and another lesson in winter survival.

Before long, we were on the ship sailing across the Pacific, back home to Sydney. Dad was waiting on the wharf to welcome us with big hugs. The summer heat blazed through the car window on the hot drive home through the western suburbs. When we arrived we were greeted by a deafening buzz coming from the backyard trees. The local boys were up there, perched on a branch, collecting cicadas. How did they manage that feat? Our next lesson awaited us. In due course, the dreams of ice and snow melted away.

Leaving Newfoundland

 

The following piece is an excerpt from Chapter Two of my forthcoming book:

Pack your Baggs: a family's journey from Newfoundland to Australia

Conception Bay, Newfoundland 1874

Carbonear jetty buzzed with activity this morning, as the crew prepared the weekly steamboat for departure. Edward Baggs was on board, leaning over the rails to observe the goings-on below. Two men were struggling to push a large wooden crate up the gangplank. With every step upward, they slipped back, straining under the load. Edward's meagre possessions were already on board. He had only one bag, suggesting scant material gains for his 26 years in Newfoundland.

At the sound of a small voice, Edward turned around to see his little brother Allan, standing back frowning.

'Why so glum? Come and join me,' Edward said.

He grabbed Allan by the hand and helped him to the rail.

'When will we get to Saint John's?' Allan said.

'Sometime this evening, I think,' Edward said.

'Are we going to come back to Newfoundland?' asked Allan.

Edward shook his head.

'But what about my friends?'

'You'll soon make new school friends in Toronto. Don't worry.'

Edward wrapped his long arms around his little brother.

'But when will we get to Toronto?'

'Father said it will be more than a week. We have a few boat trips ahead of us, before we board the steam train for Toronto. A ride on the new railroad, imagine that!'

The rest of the family ventured out on deck to join them. By now many locals had disembarked and a party of friends and relatives had gathered on the dock to see them off. It wasn't every day that such a large group left the shores of Newfoundland. Edward's mother struggled to remain calm and some of those in the group below had already dissolved into tears.

All at once they heard a snarl from the horn – then a final warning shout.

'All those not travelling must leave the boat now!'

The steamer's smoke stack belched out an acrid-smelling cloud, showering Edward with spots of black soot. After several attempts, the men below managed to remove the hemp ropes. Free from its harness, the boat began to pull away from the jetty. Within minutes the boat had gathered a head of steam and was making its way into the deeper waters of Conception Bay. Fishermen were already out this morning and Edward recognised some of the faces of those leaning over the side of the dory hauling in cod. This was the life he was leaving behind. He moved to the stern of the boat as they pointed east. The familiar homeland was diminishing before his eyes into a blur of small coves. All he could make out were the ochre-coloured specs of settlements dotted around the bay and the white church on the rise. A swell came up when they left the protection of the headland and the wind bared its teeth. Far to the north a giant iceberg floated, white as a ghost ship. Edward shivered. It was time to join his family inside, where they had kept a spot for him on the wooden benches, surrounded by their belongings.

 

Arrival of Joseph Baggs in Toronto, Canada, 1874

The following piece is an excerpt from Chapter One of my forthcoming book: Pack your Baggs: a family's journey from Newfoundland to Australia

Toronto, Canada 1874

The train bringing Joseph Baggs to Toronto draws in to Union Station. There is a screech of metal and the wooden carriage gives out an almighty shudder, as if rattling its aching bones. Joseph hears the low hiss of steam and simultaneously feels a sigh of relief for their safe arrival. He has reached his final destination, but the arduous journey has taken a toll on his 54-year-old body and he is exhausted. He draws up the carriage window and puts his head out, only to be hit by a blast of hot humid air. The mayhem on the platform is overwhelming. Porters are loudly touting for business and a sea of strange faces pass by. In the centre of the platform a stout man in a long frock coat stands holding up a sign that reads "Wesleyan Methodist Congregation". 'Maybe they can help,' thinks Joseph.

Joseph turns to his wife, 'Phoebe, will you just look at all these people. I've never seen so many gathered in one place.'

'I suppose most of them have come to meet the new arrivals,' Phoebe says.

'Well no one will be here to meet us,' Joseph says. 'We are strangers in this place.'

That thought gives him pause and he casts his mind back to home.

'If only my brothers could see all this. They'd be astounded,' Joseph says.

'Yes indeed. I wonder what they are doing right now?' Phoebe says.

'Most likely they'll be heading back into the cove in their fishing dories – if the weather was kind to them today.'

Joseph keeps his inner fears to himself as he reflects on the momentous step he has taken in coming to a new country. After years of agonising over whether to branch out on his own, Joseph has acted and arrived in Toronto. Will he be able to find work at this stage of life? Cod fishing, which has sustained his family for generations, is not an option in this inland town. His future is vested in the decision to emigrate, so he has to make it work. Added to that, there is the enormous expense he has incurred – the cost of the steamer out of Saint John's and the tickets for nine members of the family on the railroad.

'That man on the train kept going on about "the Panic",' Phoebe says. 'Whatever did he mean?'

'There is an economic depression and they are predicting rough waters ahead. But I take the positive approach. We are blessed with our seven children and the older boys are behind us in this venture.'

Joseph gathers the younger children to him and pushes open the carriage doors.

'Come along Allan, Arabella, collect your belongings.'

His eyes scan up to the high vaulted roof of the train station.

'Look children, what a grand building this Union Station is! You will never have seen its like before.'

Nothing could have prepared Joseph for this new world. Until now, he had spent his entire life in the familiar surroundings of his close-knit fishing community in Newfoundland, where everyday life had continued unchanged over generations. How will he make the transition to city life in a new country at this advanced stage of life? What work will he find?

Joseph Baggs, his wife Phoebe and their seven children, some of whom are adults by this stage, make their way down the platform carrying a motley collection of bags and boxes from home. When they reach the Wesleyan man holding up the sign, Joseph pauses.

 

The Supreme Sacrifice

The following piece of my writing originally appeared in the Katharine Susannah Prichard (KSP) Past Tense Anthology in June 2016

The Supreme Sacrifice

Sgt Herbert Gerald (Bud) Baggs 1922–1943

My grandfather, Herbert Baggs, came through the Great Depression with his job intact. He was blessed. By 1939, his daughter (my mother) Marg had joined the workforce and her younger brother Gerald was in high school. At the end of the decade Grandpa and Nana Mollie settled into a grand new house in Toronto and life was rosy. But, with the war clouds drifting across Canada, his greatest crisis was on the horizon.

Herbert's only son Gerald was born in 1922, ten years into their marriage, when Mollie was 39. He was the longed-for son, who was always affectionately known as Bud. There was a gap of seven years between Bud and my mother. Marg doted on her adorable little brother. Bud grew into a tall lean lad, with brown wavy hair and hazel eyes. He was a superb swimmer and won several medals for the school swimming team.

Bud enlisted with the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) in 1941, at the tender age of 19. He had no previous flying experience but, like many others, was keen to contribute his youth and energy to the cause. At his recruitment, the interviewing officer singled him out as potential officer material. He was streamed into the pressure-cooker pilot training program and worked his way through the system, serving 15 months at six different training locations in Canada. On 4 February 1943, Herbert and Mollie were proud to see their son's name printed in the daily newspaper – he had graduated as a RCAF pilot. No sooner did he have his wings, when he was assigned to train other recruits.

On 21 February 1943 Gerald wrote to his sister Marg:

Dear Marg,

Well here I am, still trying to be an instructor. What a job! All we do is fly around in light little biplanes which always feel like the motor is about to drop out. After flying twin engines at Brantford it is quite a letdown. But I am beginning to get used to them.

I got both your letters and your telegram. You will have to excuse me for not answering them sooner but they keep us pretty busy on this station. I always seem to be rushing somewhere ...

Has the weather been any better in Toronto lately? It has been pretty nice here for the last few days and today the sun is really warm. I sure hope it stays like this. Last week it was down to about 40 below and I just about froze to death.

Well, I have to start flying right now so I'll see you next weekend if the air force doesn't change its mind again.

Love,

Bud

P.S. how do you like my snappy personal stationery.

The Air Force posted Bud to the number Ten Elementary Flying Training School at Pendleton, Ontario in March 1943.

On the afternoon of 20 April 1943 Herbert and Mollie were at home listening to the radio, when there was a knock at the front door and Herbert went to open it. A solemn young military man was standing on the porch, with a telegram in his hand. With a sense of panic and dread an ashen-faced Herbert accepted the telegram and by the time he did so, Mollie had rushed up to his side. He closed the door behind the messenger, and somehow managed to steer Mollie into the lounge room.

The telegram confirmed their worst fears – Bud had been killed in a flying accident. There were no details, just the bare facts. His Tiger Moth plane had crashed on a training flight at 10.25am on the previous day in Curran, Ontario.

Herbert stared mutely at the telegram; his eyes scanned back and forth across the printed words, trying to take it in.

Mollie wailed, 'oh no, this can't be. My sweet boy.'

Herbert turned the telegram over in his hands. Such a small piece of paper.

'It doesn't make sense. He's only been up there three weeks.'

They sat in silence in the lounge room, until the light outside faded and the room grew dim. Herbert got up and went over to the front window and peered out. The ghostly blue spruce stood sentinel on their front lawn and beyond that their neighbour's granite wall glowed under the street light. He heard the low growl of an automobile engine starting up. Headlights shone and a car pulled out of the driveway opposite. Life in the neighbourhood continued on regardless. Herbert knew if he was to support Mollie through this, he would need to mine a deep reserve of inner strength.

Several days later, on 24 April 1943 the name of 21-year-old Sgt Herbert Gerald Baggs was printed in the Toronto Globe and Mail among the list of air casualties. He and four other Canadian airmen had made the supreme sacrifice on that day.

In May 1943 a Court of Inquiry investigated the flying accident. The enquiry provided no solace at all to Herbert and Mollie. It found that Bud was the pilot at the controls in the front seat of the Tiger Moth at the time of the accident. His student was in the back seat. The report laid it out bluntly:

On a practiced forced landing approach, the aircraft was put into a steep side slip and it stalled at a low altitude, and struck the ground before control could be regained. The pilot was killed and student seriously injured.

The cause of the accident, according to one witness, was – 'pilot error on part of instructor in allowing the aircraft to stall at a low altitude.'

We tend to hear about war deaths that result from combat; however a staggering number occurred as a result of accidents. My uncle was one of 856 persons to be killed or seriously injured during their air training in Canada. Wartime exigencies meant that everything about the air training program was conducted in haste. It seems incredible that two months after receiving his wings in February 1943, Bud was a trainer himself. But that was an indication of the pressure of training during war time.

Bud never married or had children and there are few around to tell his story. As one of his remaining family members, I am left with a deep sense of sorrow at so much unfulfilled promise in a life cut short. His young face is frozen for me in time – the bud that never flowered.

My grandfather never recovered from the catastrophe of losing his only son and a pall hung over the household. His health went into a decline and on 31 March 1946 Herbert died of a stroke. He was only 60. If he drew any comfort in his last years it must have come from knowing that his son had played his part in delivering supremacy to the Allies in the air war, which ultimately gave them victory. Sgt Herbert Gerald Baggs' gravestone carries the familiar inscription – 'at the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember him'.