This is a very brief post that serves only to express gratitude for the recent and generous connections I have made related to my Great Grandfather John Moors (1876 – 1918). What a wonderful thing it is to have cousins discover my writings and research and to respond! These Paternal relations include Charlene, Jacqueline and now, James. Thank you, for your connection. For about 15 years, I’ve been fanatically engaged in research on both my mother and father’s sides of the family.
Some would ask, “Why does it matter?…or… “What does it all mean, anyway?”…but, there is something innate within me that wants to know who my people are. It is a weakness.
Long-story-short, I have always looked for a photograph of my Dad’s Grandfather, in uniform. Every Remembrance Day, I was disappointed that I had only the image of his wedding day. He died and is buried in Etaples, France. He was lying in General Canada Hospital #51, when during the night, a bombing raid orchestrated by the Germans, decimated most of the location and killed John Moors. I’ve thought that he should be remembered. Don’t get me wrong. I was happy about having the wedding photograph…but, imagine my excitement when, randomly, Charlene sent a photograph over the internet from her home to mine…and to, in a flash, have my Great Grandfather’s visage appear face-to-face with me on a screen in 2018. GAHHHHH!
Enough said…first, our family’s single archive up until now…my Great Grandmother Mary Eleanor Haddow Moors in the center front and my Great Grandfather John Moors back right.
I took this photograph of a photograph that my Auntie Eleanor had hanging in her home. When it comes to gathering family history, I’m not super fussy about archival quality of images. It’s a simple blessing to have moments of history sustained and easily available to as many family members as is possible and as quickly as possible. I think I’ve written about this before…that ‘in the day’ how would family members even include one another in these histories? We are sooo blessed!
Here he is! My Great Grandfather! What a handsome man! My father said he had striking red hair, much like my own Grandfather Moors did and now, my own beautiful daughter.
I’m hoping that Betty Silver’s daughter has an opportunity to see this as I know that she was on the look out for the very same image, saying (as other relations remembered) that a large framed photograph of John in uniform hung in the family dining room.
Second to this, Charlene shared what looks like a younger image of this John.
He looked dapper. I try to imagine as I look at this image, that here is captured the 13 year old who came by ship, on his own…a British Home Child who worked very hard on at least three farm placements including Elora and two outside of Guelph. This was likely taken during his Hamilton days.
And finally, a family photograph including my own Grandfather John Moors, his young brother Robert (Bob), his sister, Grace and his mother, Mary Eleanor Haddow Moors. Mary Eleanor had striking dark eyes and hair…I see a lot of my father in her. This would have been taken some time after the passing of their father and husband John Moors.
And finally, something that I just received tonight…icing on the cake! My first cousin once-removed, James, has provided photographs of front and back of John’s military medal. I’m so grateful that unlike so many families, this object has been cared for and cherished so that now, so many years later, all can enjoy. Blessings on my family for their generous work. My cousin, Teddy Witbeck, has been doing a remarkable job working on our family tree on Family Search. As we continue to piece together our history, his work can be accessed. Trust me, you will have a great head start that way!
Love you all.
I’ve written away and had much support attaining John’s military record…this medal assignment was included there.
These are sad times. (hold that thought…lol)
I picked up the book, Coventry, and had it read in an afternoon. I love it when an afternoon of leisurely everything allows for me to pick up a book, curl up under the wool blanket that Leah gifted me, and read. At 175 pages of elegantly flowing prose, I highly recommend this one, as we move toward Remembrance Day 2017.
In 2015 I sat, gobsmacked when I watched the evening news…one historical/ancient site or artifact after another looted, destroyed and left in ruins by Isis. We don’t talk about it very much anymore, but the destruction in Khorsabad as well as the revered sites of Nineveh, Nimrud and Hatra – (designated or nominated to be UNESCO World Heritage sites) – were attacked and left in shambles by the caliphate.
This book creates, for the reader, an image of what it was really like during the Blitz. This particular novel, an historical fiction, deals with the event on November 14, 1940 when Coventry Cathedral was destroyed. The story is told through the experiences of two females; Harriet and Maeve. There are some excellent reviews on line about this book and I have arrived at some similar thoughts on events, especially. For one, without posting a spoiler, there is a significant event that I felt was unnecessary to the flow of the narrative. You will know the moment when you come to it.
Second to that, I was somewhat disappointed that Humphreys did not create a stronger relationship between the two protagonists. I think that Humphreys writes such beautiful characters that it would have been very satisfying to delve more into their connection and build a stronger relationship.
There were times while reading when I had tears,…such devastation during a single event in our collective history! Yet, as I look at what events are taking place in our world today…and just what a fragile peace remains in so many parts of the world, I find myself, almost daily, wondering why human beings have not learned from past mistakes. An article that deals successfully with this very topic and the elegizing of literary content is written by Adam Haslett in a New York Times piece.
We inhabit such a beautiful planet. It is difficult to consider the destruction that is caused by humanity. I did not know about Coventry until reading this book. Highly recommend this one.
A link to an excellent interview with the author.
As a part of researching my family, there are just a few archival items that have been passed along in our family and some of those are a little worse for wear. There are two postcards, written by my Great Grandfather John Moors addressed to his son, my Grandfather John Moors. One is in my auntie’s possession and the other is in my father’s possession. The first one is known as a silk, easily identifiable because of the stitched front side.
The silk that we have in our family is now behind glass. I apologize for the glare as it did impact the photograph, but it is great to have a digital image and to be able to share its contents with my family.
On the backside…lovely words…a father to his son. John asks for mailing information for Walter and George. I’m pleased that I have placed both of them in this photograph prior to heading overseas. He writes very much as my grandfather spoke, with a bit of formality. I reach across time and space to give him my love. This is August 2016, mid ocean. My Great Grandfather died, while a patient, during the bombing of Etaples Canada Hospital on May 19, 1918.
Walter and George both appear in the 40th Field Battery photo taken at Camp Borden. I don’t know if my Great Grandfather had any opportunity to reconnect with them. They both survived the war, though there are several references that put their military units at such locations as Vimy and Passchendaele.
My Great Uncle Walter…
My Great Uncle George…
The second postcard was more simple issue, sent as my Great Grandfather was returning to the war, after a leave in Paris. It’s strange, but this object is a real treasure, in my mind. When one thinks about letters or postcards, there is an intimate relationship between the hand, the eye, and the heart…these two items were held in the hands of my relation. Quite amazing that they have managed to move through the passage of time!
A couple of things I wonder…
…if my Grandfather sent his father letters.
…if anyone has a photograph of my Great Grandfather in uniform. As far as I know, the photograph that appears at the bottom of this post is the only one in existence. This is also a digital image.
I am forever-grateful for these two postcards, the last one post marked March of 1918, two months prior to John’s death.
One of the components of the Alberta Elementary Art Curriculum is Expression. Here lies the opportunity for students to explore media, personal narratives and ‘let ‘er loose’. While I typically embed reflection and depiction in my lessons, as well as inherently guide the students to compose well (all of the strands are connected), sometimes I focus more on the act of painting or sculpting or learning what media can do. Seasonal celebrations lend themselves well to Expression. Those educators who lean heavily on Pinterest for their ‘art ideas’ need to remember that these are, for the most part, Expression lessons and often of the variety that focuses on the ‘how to’ rather on the child’s personal interpretation of their internal narrative. We need to be wary of the ‘paper cut out’ approach for the sake of a ‘pretty display’. I think it’s essential the ‘art idea’ bank be balanced with more unpredictable outcomes and never sacrifice the experiences that come with Reflection, Depiction and Composition.
This month the students in my care, painted. The use of the brush continues to be a skill to be reckoned with. Turning the brush sideways for thin marks and flat for wider marks, another technique to practice. Dry brush and wet brush effects can be observed and discussed.
Creating candlelight separately, to be cut out and glued to the candle after drying…one idea…in the case that you have short bits of time for painting, instead of a sustained period of time.
The resulting collages, including a wreath of evergreen that has been created using green on green, studies in pattern. In this case a second candle will be added on the second week of Advent (taller), a Gaudete candle on the third week (taller still and pink in colour) and the fourth candle, the last week, leading to Christmas.
Fully painted Advent Wreaths, horizontally on large paper. Concept in composition was overlapping…we did a few exercises with our bodies before beginning this…talked a little about perception. Notice North, South, East and West marked at the compass points of the picture plane. These dots give the students reminders to stretch their images to touch each of those edges. Chalk allows the students to explore placement, change their minds and plan and scheme. Pencil is debilitating at this age. Erasers become appendages. lol Just get rid of both. White chalk rocks!
Smaller format…still, on coloured construction for an activated picture plane. Later, to have the candle flames whitened with chalk or white oil pastel…I would suggest that these smaller compositions might have oil pastel underlines or embellishments added after dry.
Given that I’m a big family historian, it’s strange that my own name appears nowhere on our family quilt, presented to my grandfather and grandmother Moors in 1978. But then, I think that my brother, Stuart, is also missing…so, that’s life. ;0)
What I dearly love is that my mother’s embroidery…her handwriting…and her wishes appear here. It’s as though Mom made me a little visit today as I was documenting the quilt.
I thought that if I photographed each of the squares, the family, as it was shaped in 1978 (because families change…you know it…for all sorts of different reasons), people might want to save a digital photo for their own history. I think it’s pretty darned special.
I dug through my own personal photographs, taken with an old film camera and found these two references. I like that my Auntie Eleanor is present in one and that my Auntie Ruth is in the other.
I think that might be my Auntie Mary in the background here, with Laura Lee on her hip…not certain.
My own family was represented by the following squares, lovingly embroidered by Mom. Dad’s features a big muskie he once caught…
I hope that my family, after celebrating such a wonderful party this past weekend in Magrath, will enjoy these posts and perhaps tuck a few squares away in their files! Play list from 1978…just let this Youtube go…
From the same reunion, my cousin, Danny…then…
…and now!
Angels…
I read a beautifully illustrated book to the grade threes about the meaning of the poppy. Thank you, Wilma, for leaving that for us. I mixed up a few shades of red during the lunch hour, deciding last minute to go ahead and use tempera with the students. I think students are always somewhat in awe when I recite the words to the poem, ‘In Flanders Fields’, by memory. I told the grade threes that my teacher, Miss Goodrich, had us memorize it when I was in grade three. Once in the heart, poetry never seems to leave.
I showed them a painting I did back in 1997 and told them that I hoped to show them how to depict poppies. On the board, I showed them a symbol for poppy…how we draw or make a poppy in a simple way.
We talked about the organic…zig zagging…crinkly texture of the poppy flower and about the construction of the central part of the flower as well. I told them the story of my great grandfather and about how the poppies bloom in early spring in these beautiful cemeteries of France.
While I did not use this video, I suppose you might, if you don’t feel confident about drawing.
I just drew poppies from different points of view right on the white board in the classroom. The students, on white paper folded into four, practiced depicting poppies a number of times and put a little smiley face next to the one they would use as a reference for their large composition.
I always encourage large compositions to be planned out, using white chalk. But these days, very few schools stalk white chalk, given new technologies. This class pulled out a red or pink or white crayon and marked their four compass points on their paper edges. Their mouths dropped open as they could visualize that the expectation was that their poppies would touch each of those edges and be that large! To simplify…drawings were done and revised in wax crayon, red fill in of general shapes completed; purple, yellow and black details were added last. The poppies were then cut out.
I didn’t archive the entire process, but these photos are pretty representative. Thank you, Wilma for your class! They were awesome and very receptive.
This was the first time that I attended the Equinox Vigil. I was primarily motivated because it was a lovely evening for weather. For the first days, leaves were dancing down the street…a slight wind, warm sun, blue sky dappled in cloud, cool air. It was a perfect autumn evening. The fall equinox falls on Wednesday of this coming week.
I thought that I would bring to the non-denominational event, thoughts and prayers for my dearly departed Mom and my family. I would open up to a reflective and prayerful evening in the Union Cemetery. The evening opened with a beautiful sky and dance. This piece, Rico. Michael was a piece created with Calgary’s departed, Michael Green, at heart.
Various musicians were present to the event…first and throughout the evening, Simon Fisk and Robin Tufts. Their music was both haunting and spirit-charged. Absolutely beautiful. I stood in the dark at one point and just listened and was moved because of this powerful setting.
I wrote Mom’s name on one of the Memorial Lanterns, lanterns that would be processed twice throughout the evening…light in a dark place. This ritual felt a lot like writing Mom’s name into the Book of Remembrance at my parish church. Each year, when the Book of Remembrance is placed for all to see, I pray for her peace and our peace…those left behind and missing her.
While I oriented myself to the setting and the event, I missed a couple of events that I had hoped to enjoy…one, the Quickdraw Animation film screen, a tribute to Chris Reimer, ‘Dude, That’s Insane’…
and Kris Demeanor, poet and musician.
At the top of the hill, at the M Horseshoe of the Union Cemetery Rayne-Anne Latchford illuminated lives, by sharing with us, a number of stories of personalities who lived in Calgary, but who passed and are now laying, for the most part, in unmarked graves. She has a passion for history and for the narratives of people. She also spoke beautifully about how ‘now’ is the time to share stories with one another and to connect with our families. It is the stories that will remain.
I could listen to historian, Harold Sanders for hours. Thank you, for sharing with us history of Calgary’s cemeteries and letting us know just how much we can learn from the people who are resting in our midst. I hope to have opportunity to return to Union Cemetery in the light of day and make some discoveries on my own. 
Being surrounded by music for the evening added to the atmosphere of the sacred. Thank you to the Calgary Renaissance Singers & Players for their beautiful sound.
Beautiful installations were sprinkled throughout the Cemetery pathways…this one, the Breath of Life Memorial by Eveline Kolijn.
As it became dark, I settled in with a hot cup of spiced tea and chatted with friends. It was good to see you Michelena, Billy, Jenn, Bev, Bill, Steve, Don and friends and Dale. Walking alone, down the hill, the sky appeared lighter than the ancient evergreens that flanked me. I looked up and gave thanks to my ancestors. I also prayed for the many students who have passed away since teaching them…for my daughter’s and son’s friends who have passed…for my relations, most recently, my Auntie Margaret and my Uncle Bob.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord,
and let perpetual light shine upon them.
May they rest in peace.
Amen.
I wanted to title this post, “A Duty to Remember”, but those words have already been taken…written about in eloquent fashion by Ziya Meral in a thesis titled A Duty to Remember? Politics and Morality of Remembering Past Atrocities.
Before writing about art or music or time spent at the pond…before making observations of even the present moment, I bow my head and pray for the families and friends who lost loved ones on September 11th fourteen years ago.
In 2005, I launched this blog and I’ve been writing pretty consistently ever since. Often bloggers grow weary of the act and abandon their writing after some time. Surprisingly, this has not happened with me. The morning of September 11, 2005, I wrote these words…
Posted on September 11, 2005
I was spinning my wheels that morning. There were things to get done as always and so I busied myself with those rituals when one of the children called upstairs to me, “Mom, what is the World Trade Center?”
As I remember it, I stepped out from the bathroom, into the hall where I could see the television clearly. A voice said, “A plane just flew into the World Trade Center.”
As I set myself down on the couch, a plane hit the second tower. Smoke and flame billowed heavenward….it was truly something that seemed unbelievable. It remains so.
It is very early in the morning. I’ve just come in from the studio…it is only right that I should remember in the silence of this first bit of morning the many who lost their lives and the families they left behind, shattered and rebuilding to this day.
Being in My Head
Posted on September 21, 2005
There is really little else going on…..but the music and the painting. When I sit for my short breaks Laurie-dog sits beside me and I scratch behind his ear. That’s how simple things are. I’ve poured myself a glass of Dad’s homemade Shiraz. This will make the next round of work more festive somehow. Perhaps I’ll play Santana and rev things up a little. I take the children to watch Santana this Saturday. The tune…Make Somebody Happy comes to mind right now. I’ve added a photograph album of my space. I call my studio The Chapel….so I now have my space in this space. This concept makes me smile.
Heaven in My Studio
How do I find that these two posts are connected…and why do I write of memory? Very often when we are grieving or suffering loss or trauma, other voices speak to us, meaning well, but delivering messages like these.
“We have only the present.”
“Don’t live in the past.”
“Let go.”
“Move on.”
“That is history.”
“In time, you will heal and you will focus on today.”
Our personal losses; the loss of a marriage, the death of a loved one, the end of relationship, the death of a pet, leaving one place for a new place may pale in comparison to the atrocities that are our collective memory, loss and trauma, but we still need the respect from others, to remember. Memory is what we are left.
On September 11, we have a ‘duty to remember’ and I take directly from the Ziya Meral thesis, these words…
It wasn’t five minutes ago that I stood in the middle of a wide open field. The air was cold. Crystals of snow tickled my cheeks. The sky was dark…the trees, etched in fine detail against the street lamps. Snow crunched under foot. My border collie, Max, charged wildly in circles. When his face looked up at me, it was white apart from his dark eyes, sparkling like coal and like everything around me. The sensory experience brought back two memories.
For one, I remembered walking home from the airplane hangar that doubled in winter, as a skating rink for military children. My friends and I would laugh and talk all the way home, one at a time, veering off in the direction of a PMQ…home…warmly lit up on a winter’s night, the collective shrinking in size, the longer we walked. Boots, stiff from the frigid air. That same crunch under foot. Leaping into banks, harder and more lumpy than they appeared and piled high on the sides of the road. Snow packed in swaths shone under street lamps like sheets of cellophane. A recent plough must have just passed by. We walked down the center of the road. No cars. No traffic. Voices echoing.
Secondly, I thought about my own father throwing a ball for his treasured pet, Gus. I could look out from my window at 42 Market Street, to the huge field across the street and plainly see my father throwing the ball over and over again, repetitiously and Gus, speeding back like black lightening as many times.. As I threw the whizzo for Max Man in MY field tonight, the repeated action brought up a memory of my father and another dog that, at the time and even now, means the world to me.
Childhood.
So, tonight, similar feelings bubbled up inside me. I heard myself saying out loud in the field, “I want to remember this moment.”
When my first born was in my arms, I held her close and touched the downy fuzz on the top of her head. Tears slipping warm down my cheek, I said, “I don’t want to forget this. Let this moment stay with me. Let me remember.” Tonight that wee child is a beautiful woman with a husband and the ability to cook amazing meals, nestled in her own home, discovering all of this, apart.
This has been happening a lot lately. On the day when I had to let go of our family pet, I spent the entire day alone with him…observing…touching the small imperfections of his ears…looking at the patterns on his tail and his tummy, wanting to remember…the joys of the 15 year relationship by some how remembering the details of his physical body, his warm breath, his purring, his gestures.
These and many more experiences (too many to relate here) have come up for me recently, but these do not, the revelation make! (Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury). The revelation is that these experiences, in part, are why we write…why we paint…why we play music. I think that we do these things as a way of recollection or floating, as in resin, our experiences, our memories, and our treasured sensory discoveries.
Tonight…Remembrance Day 2014 slips away. We have remembered through music, poetry, verse, stories and the simple beauty of a red poppy. Through these rituals, our lives as a creative, struggling, discovering, failing, flopping, getting-up-again people are rehearsed and remembered.
I have written about a crystalline winter’s night, so I will remember.
I Am the One Who Will Remember Everything
Oh what have we here, he must be three or four,
Shaken out of a boot on its way back to war
And hes not looking for a father or a mother,
Just a seven year old brother,
On this smudged line border camp of refugees,
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
So where are we now, he must be five or six,
Just running around, hungry kids, sharpened sticks.
And he will grow with pain and fear and jealousy,
Taken in by schools of zealotry,
Who train orphans to make orphans evermore.
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
You drink the smoke, you ride the noise
You drink the smoke, you ride the noise,
And you say its necessary,
And you forget the ordinary
But I say, on the wheel of time,
Scour the Earth and find the
Orphans of forgetting, all the orphans of forgetting,
Give them stars for math and praise for good play,
Heres a Band-Aid, happy birthday,
Yes of course I did remember,
I remember everything.
Oh come over here, kid weve got all these books to read,
With the turtles and frogs, cats and dogs who civilize the centuries,
And in a world thats angry, cruel and furious,
Theres this monkey whos just curious,
Floating high above a park with bright balloons.
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
I am the one who will remember everything.
Everything
Songwriters
DAR WILLIAMS
