Harry was born December 22, 1924 in rural New Brunswick, the youngest of three brothers. Earl, Bert and Harry were only about four years apart.
In an era when cash was short and time was long, the old expression “boys will be boys” must have been born. One time, the boys tied handkerchiefs to the chickens and tossed them off the shed roof as parachutists, a new and exciting invention. This grand experiment resulted in the catastrophic loss of a chicken that hadn’t mastered the finer details of landing. The trio buried it rather than face the wrath of their parents. I don’t think his mother was ever told the story.
When not up to trouble, he earned some money during the school year. Harry’s first paying job was lighting the one room school house woodstove every bitterly cold, dark, New Brunswick winter morning two hours before class would start. In June, he was excited to take the bill to the town office and have not quite seven dollars placed in his hands by a clerk who peered at him and told him to be careful with his money. It was a lot in those days. Despite the many years that have passed, as he reminisced with me about the excitement of waiting for the clerk to get his pay, I could see the boy that still lived inside the man.
Harry joined the service in his twenties and was transferred overseas. He didn’t see action in WWII but did end up with a war wound. He and a few fellow soldiers were out after curfew, carousing through the streets of London. Climbing into the barracks through a glass skylight resulted in a gash requiring several stitches. He didn’t get a medal.
This carefree, mischievous young man was something very few of us got to see. He only appeared in Harry's Cheshire cat, secretive, grin when something amused him. An out and out, burst of laughter was a rare thing to be treasured.
He was a bachelor
for a long time, providing a home for his mother, Lillian. His bachelorhood
lasted until he was in his late forties when he married Betty. Comfortable with
older men and enjoying shooting the breeze with them, he’d met Betty through
her father who eventually lived with them as well. Betty and Harry were
together until her passing a little more than eleven years ago.
He provided
for this small family by working as a carpenter and often turned his hand to
helping out neighbours and friends by doing odd jobs for them as well. When
Harry finally set down his hammer, he was happy to act as chauffeur for the
girls next door and a “youngster” in his seventies.
He was
interested in world events, history and cars. How Harry loved cars! New, old, classics, all
of them. He’d often spend time checking out the new models, driving from sales
lot to sales lot, peering beneath their hoods. Getting a new, gently used car,
was a little piece of heaven on earth and one of the few luxuries he ever
allowed himself. Harry’s daily routine was simple. Beginning with getting together every morning for coffee with the boys, a tradition that has spanned many years and many different venues. It gave him the chance to work on the daily crossword and debate the woes of the world. He did enjoy poking fun at the Walmart walkers but would often sit with them because they got coffee for free. I guess the clerk’s warning so many years ago had sunk in well.
Harry didn’t like the spotlight and was especially annoyed with the coffee crowd when they made some fuss over his 90th birthday two years ago. He wasn’t comfortable at formal affairs and often said, “I am just a carpenter”. Yet, a hint of pride would creep in as he would give me a tour of the area every time I visited. He would point out house after house where he had played some small part in its construction or renovation.
He lived in Ancaster a long time. There were a lot of houses. It’s a fitting memorial for Harry, knowing that this simple, quiet, behind the scenes legacy will be here for many years to come.
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