Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Hill

My oldest daughter has cultivated a new passion this summer: riding her bike.  As a bicycle commuter, I could not be a happier father to have my girl be as enthused about cycling as I am.  Every opportunity she has to ride, she'll take it.  I used to ride my bike with her, but found that I could keep up with her just as well by walking.

Earlier in the season, she did quite a bit of walking over riding because she had a paralyzing fear of hills.  Didn't matter if the hill was a steep grade or slight enough to barely get a marble rolling on its own, she had to walk down.  After a couple days of this, I went over braking with her and then encouraged her to try braking to slow her descent.  She still persisted in walking down hills.  Before I chided her disbelief in her own abilities, I remembered someone else who had trouble with hills: my sister.

Summer of '86 or so.  We were living in Petawawa, Ontario at the time and bikes were our vehicles of independence.  Wherever we wanted to go, we went.  One of the destinations of choice was Petawawa Beach, renamed Black Bear Beach.  For some odd reason, whenever we went there, there was never a lifeguard, which added an element of adventure, but the ride there was what made me think of my daughter.

Comparing my memory to Google Maps, the final turn to get to Petawawa - sorry, Black Bear - Beach went down a fairly steep hill.  The adventurous, and scary, part was close to the bottom of the hill where the road transitioned from paved to gravel.  My step brother and I had no problem getting down the hill.  We just alternated between coasting and braking, never letting our speed get much beyond a crawl.  My sister went much quicker, and not because she was a daredevil with a death wish, but simply because she was frightened and froze up.  In retrospect, I'm surprised she survived since this was the time before bicycle helmets were common and mandatory for youth.  As my sister put it when I asked her about the experience, she only remembered going down the hill and then waking up in the hospital.

My sister made a full recovery, and soon we were off to the beach again.  When we reached the hill, she was still shaken, but determined to try again.  I demonstrated the safe way to go down the hill, and told her what I was doing as I went down.  Coast, brake, coast, brake, coast, brake... WHOOSH!  She zoomed past me at the bottom of the hill and I realized her biggest mistake.  Closing her eyes when she got scared.  This led to another crash, but not quite as spectacular as the first.  

My memory may be faint, but I don't remember any other bicycle excursions to the beach.  I seem to recall we went with my parents every time afterwards.  

After this recollection of blood and dust, I figured it would be best to let my daughter take hills at her own pace, and not push her to ride down them regardless of the grade.

I am happy to report that my girl now delights in riding down small hills, but is still dismounts for steep ones.  And she has never been to the hospital for any of her crashes.

Lest We Forget

No picture to go with this post, but I felt that a picture would have been inappropriate.

Today was Remembrance Day in Canada, and across the country there were moments of silence for those who fought and died for the freedoms that we enjoy today, and often take for granted.  There are usually large gatherings, such as the one at the University of Alberta, and last year we crossed the field by our apartment building to attend the ceremony in Beaumont.

This year I wanted to do something different and pay respects at a place I had only visited once, about ten years ago.  It was the Beechmount Cemetery in Edmonton.  I discovered it when my wife and I were delivering newspapers in the early days of our marriage.  Our route went up to the southern edge of the cemetery, and one day I took a moment to get a better look at what was there.  Why, I'm not sure.  But I distinctly remember seeing the uniform tombstones arranged in perfect lines.  Row upon row.  I went through one of the gate to get a better look.  I don't remember whose grave I was looking at, but I recall I reached out my hand to the stone, but stopped myself short.

Again, no sure at the time why I stopped myself, but I talked about it with Caitlin today, and she mentioned that tactile contact with anything makes things more real.  Perhaps that the reason for my hesitation.  I knew it was real, but I didn't want to be more real.  I was the only one in the cemetery at the time, and it was early morning.  The sun was shining, but only just above the horizon.  Seeing the gravemarkers row upon row was enough to send a shiver through me.  I didn't need anything else to cement this memory.

Now ten years later, I felt inspired to go there again.  Much like so many things associated with that cemetery, I'm not sure why.

This time, we had our two girls in tow.  It was not a spring day, but a cold winter embrace.  We drove up the residential road along 107 Street NW until we came to the Cross of Sacrifice at the west end.  I had not seen that when I initially found the cemetery as I had entered at 104 Street and the foliage had blocked my view.  We turned right and followed along the south the of the cemetery for a few blocks until we found a parking spot on the side of the road.  A small gate allowed us passage into the sacred ground, and there were tombstones as far as you could see either to the left or the right.  My family and I walked towards the Cross of Sacrifice, since we had seen some people gathering there when we turned east to find a parking space.  Then Erini pointed out something that both my wife and I had over looked.  Every stone had a poppy in front of it.  Some had been covered by the snow, but from what we observed, every stone had a small red poppy in front of it, carefully placed in the center.

There were a few people at the monument, one elderly gentleman in full uniform, and another man dressed in regular street attire.  I approached the uniformed man and asked him if there would be a ceremony, to which he replied the would in a few minutes.  We had arrived a few minutes before eleven o'clock.  I then inquired if he knew anything about the poppies that were laid at the grave sides.  I was pleasantly surprised to know that this was work of a program instituted by the City of Edmonton called No Stone Left Alone.

At eleven o'clock, a larger crowd had formed, but no more than a couple dozen people.  In hindsight, there was a much larger display on Friday 8 November, when the children had been distributing the poppies.  The uniformed gentleman announced that he wasn't sure how loud his recording would be, but the iPod he had was sufficiently loud to play the simple recording of Taps.

We all shared a moment of silence, and my girls were surprisingly quiet as well.  Bronwyn started to wonder what was going on when the uniformed gentleman searched for the second recording that he played after the moment of silence, but that was about all.

After the very brief ceremony, a lady approached the Cross of Sacrifice and laid her poppy on the monument.  A young officer in full uniform stepped away from his family for a moment and approached the monument alone.  He brought himself to attention and gave a very sharp salute.  All against a back drop of the Canadian flag at half mast.  It brought both Caitlin and I to tears.

Walking back to the van, Caitlin suggested that we come back again in the spring when the snow was gone.  I'm very sure that it would look much different than we saw that day, but it will likely have the same sentiment.

One other thing I noticed on the grave stones was that the death dates were not all in the forties.  In fact, I didn't see any from the forties.  There were some from the fifties, but they also noted their age at time of death, and most of them were in their sixties or older.  One stone close to the monument was of a gentleman who died in 2000 at the age of ninety-three.  Doing some math, I realized that most all of these soldiers were not men who died in military service, but had served nonetheless and were given a burial in the Field of Honour.  These were men that came home, but had left their homes and served their country while they were in their mature years.

I had always heard about young soldiers who left behind family and sweethearts, but these were men that likely served in The Great War as well as World War II.  These were men that lived full lives and got to live out their days in the free land they fought for.  All deserving of our respect.

Lest we forget.