Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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Years ago, I visited my 88-year-old father-in-law, Ed, a veteran of the Second World War, who as soon as I walked in the door, handed me a box wrapped in Christmas paper.
“Forgive that paper,” he chuckled, “it was all I could find. With Marge gone, I don’t know where anything is around here.”
Marge, my mother-in-law died the year before, so Ed was alone in the house they’d bought in 1947, and that was now crammed with furniture, appliances and the countless possessions that Marge referred to as “all our nice things.”
“Aw, thanks Ed”, I said. “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
I did not want whatever was in the box or any of the “nice things,” that Ed gave, “so it stays in the family.” One week, the gift was a 1940s wind-up/flashlight/shortwave radio, “in case you get stuck somewhere.”
“Thanks Ed, it’s good to be prepared,” I’d said, then dropped the radio off at Value Village.
I’d become a ruthless minimalist, since my work as a community nurse first exposed me to “hoarding,” a mental-health disorder experienced by some of my clients.
One man slept on top of his “hoard,” a pile of junk so high his nose was mere inches from the ceiling. Another client, a woman in treatment for breast cancer, lived in a homeless shelter but actually owned a house willed to her by her long-deceased parents.
She had “hoarded” the house so dangerously, the City condemned it and levied fines which she could not afford to pay. However, she refused to sell the house or part with even one item from the generations of junk that was treasure to her.
It never ceased to perplex me that my client was essentially homeless, while raccoons lived in her house.
I realized my parents-in-law weren’t hoarders in a disordered way. It’s just that I felt overwhelmed by the responsibility to, sooner than later, clear out their 75-year-old house, and disperse all the “nice things” they’d accrued over a lifetime.
As I peeled the Christmas wrap off this latest gift from Ed, I asked, “what’s the occasion?”
“It’s Canada Day!” he smiled, “this is from World War II, when I was in the RCAF Bomber Command. I was 19.”
The box was too small for another radio, so I expected more medals. He’d already given me his War Medal, the one awarded to Commonwealth and British Forces, who fought together for peace and freedoms, I realize now that I’d taken those freedoms for granted.
However, what I did find in the box was a little gold pin in the shape of a caterpillar with tiny rubies for eyes. “What’s this, Ed?”
“We got hit over Holland,” he said. “I was a tail gunner, the plane caught fire and I had to jump out. They gave these pins when you used their parachute to bail out. Called us the Caterpillar Club!”
“For God’s sake, Ed. You’re telling me you jumped out of a burning plane and all they gave you was a lapel pin? You were a teenager!”
“Better than a kick in the ass!” Ed said, with a smile.
I laughed and gave him a hug. “Thanks, Ed. I’m keeping this forever.”
Later, I discovered that the Irvin Airchute (Parachute) Company of Canada, established in 1922, awarded a gold caterpillar shaped pin to anyone who used their parachutes when forced to bail out of a disabled aircraft. The caterpillar is a symbol for the silkworm that spun the silk for early parachutes, and the reason for the Caterpillar Club’s motto: “Life depends on a Silken Thread.”
Cathy Newman lives in Toronto.
