Illustration by Alex Siklos
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I’ve been spending a lot of time with ghosts lately. The darker months seemed like the right time to work through the rest of the accumulated photos, cards and letters my parents had left behind. What began with the can-do fervour of a tidy optimist slowly got bogged down by a grab bag of emotions − happiness in recollecting fun memories of trips taken together matched with sadness at recognizing faces of long lost family and pets. Familiar, much younger faces smiled back at me. Strangers stood beside a parent, grinning broadly, some identified by a name scribbled on the back, others left a mystery to me. Who were they? Why’d they lose touch? I wondered if these strangers had a daughter or son who was looking at the same photo and asking the same question.
One large framed photo is of my father’s eldest brother Bob. It was taken in 1941, the year he enlisted at the age of 20. We’d had the photo forever, and my mother had relayed to me what she had learned about him. Bob was my dad’s favourite brother, a kind leader of the pack of four boys, a natural athlete who was good at track, cross country and ski jumping, and popular with peers and adults alike. A family photo was taken outside their home in Haileybury, Ont., no doubt just before he departed. Bob and the next brother in line, Hugh, were both in uniform, each taking a spot at the outer edge of the group, their parents and two younger brothers tucked safely between them. The look of worry is sketched on my grandparents’ faces; my father, then 14, shyly smiles. It would be the last photo they would have of the whole family.
I had learned of Bob’s fate when I was young. While on a mission, his plane went missing somewhere off the Italian coast. Eventually, it was presumed that he had perished. Bob’s name was added to the Book of Remembrance collection; decades later, I was able to look him up on the digital version and learn that his name had been added to a memorial wall in Alexandria, Egypt. Directions were included, in case I was inclined to visit one day. That didn’t happen, but in looking at his official photo and realizing I was likely the last member of his family to wonder, I did feel compelled to know more about Bob.
Through an acquaintance who knew how to access his records, I was able to read comments his training officers had written about him: he was described as bright, quiet and steady, popular with his classmates, and having the potential for officer training. What had made him an idolized big brother would serve him well in his new role. Among the scanned documents I received were copies of the correspondence sent to my grandparents notifying them that he was missing in action: while on a night mission in January, 1943, the Wellington aircraft he and five other airmen were flying in failed to return.
I cannot imagine what it must have been like for my grandparents, sitting on this information, holding onto the tiniest of hope for good news. Eventually, a final notice was sent many months later officially declaring his death. He was 22.
The war vet who taught me that life sometimes hangs on a silken thread
I have another photo, this one of my father taken in June of that same year. The entire student body is lined up outside of the high school in Haileybury for an official photo. Two years have brought maturity to his face but there’s no trace of a smile. This photo was likely taken at the same time that hope was running out for his brother.
My father and I took a trip up to Haileybury in 2004. I was game for the chance to learn more about a town I’d only heard about. We passed by the house Dad grew up in, the high school, and the mining school he attended after he returned from his service in Korea.
We stopped at the park in the centre of town. There was something he wanted to show me. It was a peaceful place, the grass neatly mowed with mature trees offering shade and shelter. In the midst of this was the cenotaph, the town’s memorial to those who had died serving their country.
“There he is,” I pointed, upon spotting his brother’s name: Robert Brownlee Carlson. Dad paused, then continued to scan the names, recognizing Bob’s best friend, along with the son of the principal. I told Dad I was glad that Bob was remembered, glad that we had stopped to visit. He agreed. For a man who loved to tell stories, he remained quiet when it came to this brother. Dad preferred stories with a funny ending. I suspect some stories were just too sad for him to tell.
I’m still not sure what to do with Bob’s photo. For now, it’s safely tucked in the cupboard until the next time I feel the need to pare away at the collection. Yet I’m glad I spent time getting to know an uncle I never met and remembering the little brother who loved him. Not all ghosts come back to haunt us.
Mary Carlson lives in Kemptville, Ont.
