R.I.P. Neil Armstrong - The First Human To Walk On Moon

From CBC News Posted: Aug 25, 2012 3:18 PM ET Last Updated: Aug 25, 2012 8:58 PM ET
(http://www.cbc.ca/news/world/story/2012/08/25/neil-armstrong-obit.html)

Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon as commander of the Apollo 11 mission, has died at age 82.


Armstrong became the first human to set foot on the moon on July 20, 1969. As he was about to step onto the dusty surface, he uttered the famous line: “That’s one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind.”

The Twitter feed of NBC Nightly News said he died at 2:45 p.m. ET Saturday and that he had suffered complications from heart surgery he underwent earlier this month.

The ex-astronaut underwent cardiac bypass surgery just two days after his birthday on Aug. 5.

Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, the colleague who also walked on the moon, sent out a statement late afternoon on Saturday.

"I know I am joined by millions of others in mourning the passing of a true American hero and the best pilot I ever knew," said Aldrin.
"My friend Neil took the small step but giant leap that changed the world and will forever be remembered as a landmark moment in human history. I had truly hoped that in 2019, we would be standing together along with our colleague Mike Collins to commemorate the 50th Anniversary of our moon landing. Regrettably, this is not to be. Neil will most certainly be there with us in spirit."
'The enormous power of one small step'

U.S. President Barack Obama hailed Armstrong as one of America's greatest heroes in a statement, calling Armstrong's first steps on the moon "a moment of human achievement that will never be forgotten."

"Neil’s spirit of discovery lives on in all the men and women who have devoted their lives to exploring the unknown – including those who are ensuring that we reach higher and go further in space. That legacy will endure – sparked by a man who taught us the enormous power of one small step."

NASA chief Charles Bolden recalled Armstrong's legacy: "[He] will be remembered for taking humankind's first small step on a world beyond our own."

Family Statement

"Neil was our loving husband, father, grandfather, brother and friend.

Neil Armstrong was also a reluctant American hero who always believed he was just doing his job. He served his Nation proudly, as a navy fighter pilot, test pilot, and astronaut. He also found success back home in his native Ohio in business and academia, and became a community leader in Cincinnati. He remained an advocate of aviation and exploration throughout his life and never lost his boyhood wonder of these pursuits.

While we mourn the loss of a very good man, we also celebrate his remarkable life and hope that it serves as an example to young people around the world to work hard to make their dreams come true, to be willing to explore and push the limits, and to selflessly serve a cause greater than themselves.

For those who may ask what they can do to honour Neil, we have a simple request. Honour his example of service, accomplishment and modesty, and the next time you walk outside on a clear night and see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink."

CBC News Chief Correspondent Peter Mansbridge called the moon landing an unforgettable event — one that was watched by an estimated 600 million people.

"That was a day of a global village, to quote Marshall McLuhan, we were all sharing this one event."

Mansbridge, on the phone to CBC News Network, said he had the privilege of going to news conferences in the 1970s where Armstrong would be speaking.

"He didn’t seem very outgoing, he wasn't someone who couldn’t wait to get in front of a camera or microphone. He had a life that was without blemish," said Mansbridge.

"Neil Armstrong was a true hero."

Test pilot

Born in Wapakoneta, Ohio, on Aug. 5, 1930, Armstrong went on to get a Bachelor of Science degree in Aeronautical Engineering from Purdue University and a Master of Science in Aerospace Engineering from the University of Southern California.

According to the NASA website, Armstrong joined the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA) in 1955. NACA was the predecessor to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA). During his 17 years at NACA in Cleveland, he was an engineer, test pilot, astronaut and administrator.

Armstrong then became a research pilot at NASA's Flight Research Center in Edwards, Calif., and flew many pioneering high-speed aircraft. He flew over 200 different models of aircraft, rockets, helicopters and gliders, said the website.


Armstrong was upgraded to astronaut status in 1962. Assigned as command pilot for the Gemini 8 mission, he performed the first successful docking of two vehicles in space on March 16, 1966.


In reflecting on his historic moment on the moon, Armstrong said the "sights were simply magnificent, beyond any visual experience that I had ever been exposed to."

After the moon landing, Armstrong subsequently held the position of Deputy Associate Administrator for Aeronautics, NASA Headquarters, Washington, D.C.

Shunned attention

Armstrong was known for his humility. Despite his fame, he never sought the spotlight. Appearing in Dayton, Ohio, in 2003 to celebrate the 100th anniversary of powered flight, Armstrong spoke for only a few seconds to a crowd of 10,000 before leaving the stage.


Former astronaut and senator John Glenn has described his friend and colleague as "exceptionally brilliant" but "rather retiring."


Eventually, he was a Professor of Aerospace Engineering at the University of Cincinnati between 1971 to 1979. And, from 1982 to1992, Armstrong was chair of Computing Technologies for Aviation, Inc., Charlottesville, Va.


His many honours include the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the Congressional Space Medal of Honour, the NASA Distinguished Service Medal and the Royal Geographic Society's Gold Medal.

Despite all the accolades, Armstrong said he always thought of himself as an engineer.

"I am, and ever will be, a white socks, pocket protector, nerdy engineer," he stated in one of his 2000 interviews. "And I take a substantial amount of pride in the acccomplishments of my profession."

With files from The Associated Press

The Letter

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NOTICE: If you are reading this from my Blackberry App, you will not be able to see the font changes. I know that sounds strange, but there is a reason I have used two types of fonts in this story. I would suggest you scroll to the bottom of the story and click on the link "See Original Article". This will take you to the blog post and the story in its original form. Sorry about this folks but the app is limited right now to show different fonts.

Thanks - William DeSouza

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Dear Peter,

I figured it was high time I dropped you a line and not only say hi, but it would give us a chance to catch up with each other. I'm fine and - Look I can't finish this by starting off with a lie. It was my therapist that suggested I write you this letter, although I must confess I'm not sure what good it would do.

The young man leaned back in his chair and placed the pen down gently on the pad of lined paper. He took first one then two deep cleansing breaths to steady his nerves, and his hands which were now beginning to shake unsteadily.
Standing, he walked over to the fridge and retrieved a bottled water. The heat of the apartment quickly condensed droplets of water on the blue bottle, dripping down and running along his hand. He thought about the letter and what he was going to say as he walked back toward his seat and the task ahead.

This was not suppose to be a big deal he thought as he sat down, reaching over to pick up a coaster from the bottom drawer for the bottle.

“This was a simple letter.” he mused, “A confession and admission of events out of my control. It's also the hardest thing I've ever had to write.” Images and thoughts moved in and out of his consciousness.

He knew what he wanted to say, at least in general terms, but couldn't bring himself to come up with the words. He knew that Peter would not be the only person to read the letter, so it had to be just right. It had to be clear and to the point, at the same time explaining his true feelings.

After taking another sip of water and putting the bottle down, he picked up the pen and held it, ready to write.


This is one of the most difficult letters I’ve had to compose and you're at fault. I've known you better than anyone for twenty six years and in all that time you've never been honest with me. I know now that you’ve fed me a load of bull and it hurts.


There, he said it, and it felt good to finally open up with his true feelings about Peter.

I'm not sure you ever knew this, but your mother once told a story about a cat you used to have and how it died. At the time I thought she was kidding, that she just didn't like me and was trying to sway me away. But I know now that in the same way you tortured and ultimately killed that poor beast, you were doing that to me. Your mother was trying to send me a message for my own good.

He put down the pen and rubbed the fingers on his left hand, sore from pressing so hard on the page. He was on a roll and didn't want to let up, mostly out of fear that if he stopped he would never finish.

Do you remember that time back home? I was six and you took me up that road through the woods. I came back bloody, my pants soaked with, well, let's just say it wasn't good. You never thought I remembered that, did you? Well for years I didn't remember, I had blocked out that painful day for my whole life. It was just a bad dream I would say when I awoke dripping of sweat from the nightmare images. My therapist did some wonderful work to help me remember. To help me recall the horrible pain, your crazy sadistic laugh and the fear I saw in your own eyes. It’s like you couldn't stop yourself, as if you were afraid of stopping like you might loose yourself some how.


He paused again, recalling, reliving each detail of his life. The time in the woods, the incident with the cane, the time he went on his first high school date and Peter showed up to steal his date and humiliate him at the same time. It hurt so much as he recalled each time Peter took over to control his life.


I was just trying to be your friend and I thought I was. I trusted you, and in hind site I'm not sure why really. You listened to me and gave me advice, you didn't run away and I thought, no - believed, that you understood me. Again in retrospect I can see that it was all a game for you, some sick perverted game to hurt me. I can recall that day I got drunk, my first time. We were what, sixteen or seventeen? I knew my limit, I knew how much I could drink and I was ready to stop. But no, you had to make a point didn't you. Every time the waiter came by to refill the glass I put my hand over it. You forced my wrist to move it out of the way, allowing the waiter to fill the wine glass. Like an idiot I drank the glass, each and every sickening glass. You had them bring over shooters and rye, and I, like a dumb jerk, drank each one. I never knew what you were doing and I definitely did not know what I was doing. I'm lucky I survived with the amount of alcohol in my blood. I looked for you at the hospital and of course you were no where to be found. I had a lot to explain for that but I didn't remember much of what happened and no one believed me when I told them it was really your fault.

He paused again, this time standing and walked over to the window. The one bedroom apartment was small by modern standards but it was comfortable. The eight floor of the ten story heritage building gave him a commanding view. The four by four window overlooked a smaller group of low rise tenements and a small outdoor market. He opened the window to allow more air to pass through the fly and dust encrusted screen.


He thought about taking the screen off to clean it but that thought died quickly along with countless others he'd had in the past few years. The sounds coming from the market was a pleasant distraction but at the same time an unwanted one. He would much prefer to be down there, in the open without the imposed responsibility of writing the letter.

"The letter." He sighed to himself as he walked back to his desk.


I always wondered why no one believed me. Each and every time something went wrong I took the blame, not you. You know, I think I've finally figured it out, you manipulated me, and you manipulated the other person. Whoever it was they never stood a chance with you around. Come to think of it, with you around no one even noticed me, I should have kept in the background more often. Instead, like a fool I jumped out front thinking I'd be more like you. On queue you'd take the opportunity to fade away, leaving me holding the bag. You know, I really did want to be more like you, if you'd have given me the chance. I wanted to have friends like you, be more out going and

He stopped writing again, grasping the pen in both hands and tightening his grip till his muscles ached with the strain, nearly snapping the pen in two. A tear welled up in his eyes as he worked hard to keep his emotions under control and in check.

He had built up so much anger and resentment toward Peter that the letter was becoming even more difficult to write. Mostly because he also loved Peter. He wanted to emulate his nemesis, he wanted the nerve and strength of character to do all the exiting things Peter did, but he was afraid. He was willing to just be around Peter, living off the scraps of life.

He found it easer to think and speak about his feelings, his hands just not able to write as fast as his thoughts flowed.

Looking at the page in front of him he knew that the strength of his new found conviction to confront his old friend, and the power of his anger and resentment that had built up over the years was not being conveyed. He thought how much easer it was for someone to understand how you felt when you could speak to them in person. To see your body language, hear your tone.

The frustration he felt right now came close to putting him over the edge, and that would have been dangerous. "This is crazy." He said out loud as he took both hands and wiped away the tears in his eyes.

Standing again, anger quickly took over and with all his might he threw the pen against the far wall and brought down his fists, hitting the desk and the letter as hard as he could. It hurt, but felt good, even though he knew what would happen if he lost control.

Quickly he ran to the small kitchenette and opened a cupboard. Inside, near the front, were several medicine bottles of various colours and sizes. He reached up, moved some around and found the one he was looking for. Fumbling he opened it and took two caplets and swallowed them.

He leaned forward, both hands on the counter, his head sagging forward and his eyes closed. He knew that to loose control at this point would push him back to Peter and he had come too far to do something so stupid.

"I can't go back to that life, I can't take the punishment and abuse any longer." He sobbed. "I am in control, I am in power and no one can take that away from me again." He repeated it over and over as he let his body and mind relax.
After several minutes he straightened and looked outside, half expecting to see a waning sun as it sets behind the buildings. Instead he saw a deep blue sky with the sun high, beaming down on the drab grey apartment blocks. He looked over at the clock and only then realized It was two-twenty in the afternoon. It seemed much later, it seemed as if he had been working on the letter all day.

He smiled, and that surprised him. He had long forgotten what it was like to smile He chuckled, feeling better. Subconsciously he realized the antidepressants were kicking in but he didn't care.


Doctor Hibert said that I should open up more, that I've got the capacity to be and do anything I want, that I don't need friends like you. And you know what - I actually believe him this time. I've met some people who've gone through the same type of pain. They’ve had their own Peter's haunt them and what they've shown me is I'm not alone. I like not being alone and finding other's who won't hurt me and will allow me to be a friend.


He had been referred to Doctor Hibert after his last stay in hospital, after Peter had pulled another stunt that broke his left arm. Of course Peter never went to the hospital to visit him, or say sorry, of just to see how he was doing. But that was all right because Doctor Hibert visited him each day, taking the time to listen without judging or labelled.

I was just thinking back to when I met Doctor Hibert. You were the topic of conversation of course. But in a strange way, we were talking about me and not you. Hibert talked about and focused his attention on me...


The letter went on for three more pages and near the end each line got easer to write and each word requiring less effort to compose. The letter flowed from his anger, his passion, and his healing. It pained him to remember the past but he looked forward to the future, his future, not Peter's. His hand hurt, his mussels strained as much as his emotions as he completed his arduous task.

The city train slowed on the elevated platform. He stood and with confidence strode over to the door just as they slid open. Getting off the train he oriented himself and with bold steps walked out of the station toward his appointment.

He only had four blocks to walk, but it allowed him to stretch his legs. He was locked up in his apartment for the past two days preoccupied with writing the letter to Peter and for a short time afterward worried about Peter's reaction. It took an hour on the phone with his doctor to convince him that getting out was the right thing to do, but he managed it.

The eight story medical building looked old, a throw back to the nineteen thirties era art deco style that populates the area. He walked with his head lowered, averting his gaze when he approached or was approached by another person. He knew he wasn't totally cured, but it was a beginning.


The sign on the door read 'Doctor Thomas Hibert - Psychotherapist. He opened the door and went in. Doctor Hibert was leaning over the receptionist going over someone’s chart. The doctor looked up and genuinely smiled - a grin that went from ear to ear.


The doctor walked around the reception area to greet his patient. Holding out his hand he said, "Peter, I'm so glad you were able to make it. It's such a nice day out I thought you might skip out on me." The doctor smiled again, "So, how've you been?"


"Good doctor - I've finished the letter and I think it sums up all I wanted to say." Peter was sporting a satisfied look, as if a weight had been removed from his shoulder.

It was a chapter in his life he wanted to forget, to shed his other personality, his other self and his nemesis. As long as he maintained control, as long as he exerted his good influence over his self destructive side, his dual persona stayed away, cowering in some dark recess of his subconscious like the bully he was.

"Excellent Peter. Lets step into my office and we'll read it together - shall we?" The doctor griped his shoulder, firm and gentle at the same time, directing Peter into the inner office to revile more of the good Peter, to shore up a fragile personality in order that it became dominant over his own future.

REVIEW: Ottawa Story Tellers - Once Upon a Slam

REVIEW: If you like to listen to some WONDERFUL stories, or tell GREAT stories, or just ENJOY a GOOD yarn, then you should come out to 'Once Upon a Slam'. Its hosted by Ottawa Story Tellers and for those who live in the Ottawa area, or if you're visiting Ottawa, this is a treat you should not miss.

I have had the extreme pleasure of attending several times and each time I have experienced joy, fear, sadness, exhilaration, surprise, happiness, regret, and any number of emotions that leaves me breathless. No kidding!

'Once Upon a Slam' features short narrative stories; each one lasting five minutes. Story tellers recite (no reading allowed, so they better know their stories) their stories to the audience. Random members of the audience (selected at the start of the evening) score the tall tales and the winner takes home bragging rights and fond memories. The stories range from personal accounts, tall tales, ghost stories, comedic, yarns, you name it, someone wants to tell it.

I love the fact that anyone can join in and tell a story. If you wanted to, and can face a small intimate crowd, you can sign up at the start of the night and have you're moment on stage. Its great stuff.


Right now Once Upon a Slam is on a summer break till  September; but when it starts up, its held  every last Friday of the month at the Mercury Lounge Underground (aka Bar 56) 56 Byward Market. One of THE BEST Venues for the Slam. It starts at 7pm and there is a $7 cover charge for listeners (slam participants get in free).

Concept Ships - Artwork by Hanho Lee

Check out some fantastic SF art work - Great work on concept Ships Blog: http://conceptships.blogspot.ca/ Spaceship concept art by professional concept artist hanho lee suwon south korea...

The Train - A Short Story by William DeSouza

The Train

A short story by

William A. DeSouza © Copyright 2005

Meera Riddell rolled over in her bed and pressed the snooze button on the clock radio, the volume as it went off was far too loud for her this early in the morning.

“Oh man.” She moaned and let the words drag out as she tried to open her eyes. The white quilted comforter was half tossed on the floor as she turned.

The digital screen on the radio showed the time as fifteen minutes past four in the morning and this was not Meera’s normal hour to wake. As a matter of fact, if it wasn’t for having to catch the train at six fifty, she would still be sleeping.

Once she managed to pry her eyes open about half way, the crusty white flakes of sleep started falling away. She looked out the window, the curtains were drawn about half way and the sliding window was open. It was dark, there wasn’t much light from the quarter moon that was now low in the sky. Nevertheless there was life outside that darkness. The sounds seeping through the window revealed a Toronto wakening up. Busses, street cars, trucks and cars stopped and accelerated past her low rise apartment. The sound of vehicular traffic mixed with the odd pedestrian rushing past was something she heard everyday, but never paid any attention to it. This morning was no exception and after so many years of living and working in the big city, the noises were just a distant background resonance.

This was the dawn of a busy work day for most, but Meera was starting a long deserved three week vacation. She was originally planning to head off to Jamaica with a friend, but those plans changed when a fire swept through the hotel. It would still be some time before the resort she had booked with was ready to accept guests. Timing was against her and she wasn’t able t re-book at another resort this late in the season, and with her friend now off to BC to visit family, a disappointed Meera was stuck in Toronto. This was supposed to be her dream vacation, but instead she would be visiting the Metro Zoo, shopping at the Eaton’s Centre and taking long walks down Yonge Street.

At least that was the case until some friend’s from work invited her to visit a cottage they rented up north. It wasn’t what she really wanted to do. After all, Northern Ontario was a far cry away from the lush tropical beaches of Jamaica. At first she could only envision black flies and fisherman dressed in plaid. It did however give her a chance to get away for a while. Toronto was beginning to shrink in on her and a feeling of claustrophobia was starting to bring her down.

North to Meera was places like Gravenhurst or Huntsville Ontario. Having growing up in Toronto she never really saw much of the outside world. Well, not if you don’t count the evening news and pictures from friends that had cottages in and around Huntsville. In this case, the North was Timmins Ontario and in her wildest dreams she never believed that she would ever be visiting Timmins.

She sat up slowly in bed as the lights from passing vehicles cast long moving shadows on her ceiling.

“Why did I ever agree to this?” She asked herself in a low, mumbling voice.

Reaching around to scratch her lower back, she stood, slipped her feet into her slippers and made her way to the bathroom. When she reached the bathroom and turned on the lights she looked in the mirror and gasped.

“Holly crap!” She announced as she ran her fingers through her knotted hair, “I’m glad I never saw myself at this unholy hour – I look bad enough to be declared a danger to small animals and children.” She started to laugh as she disrobed and entered the shower, pulling the curtain closed.

After showering, getting dressed and ensuring she didn’t forget anything, including her ticket, she left her apartment to catch a taxi, locking the door behind her.

It would be a twenty or thirty minute drive to Union Station at this hour she thought to herself. If there was one constant about living and working in TO, it was the traffic – at any time of day.

She was originally planning to take the GO Train, but she didn’t feel like walking this early. Taking the GO Train would have meant leaving a half hour earlier to catch the bus to the local station five blocks away. In the end she felt that besides the undesirable chore of having to walk it wouldn’t have saved her any time.

She had called for the taxi and as she reached the front door of her building it was just pulling up. She asked for non-smoking and as she neared the yellow taxi she was hoping that’s what they sent. Most of the cabs had converted to non-smoking because of new regulations, but from experience she also knew that some of the drivers didn’t care about that, choosing to puff away.

The driver was an older gentleman, Meera figured him to be between fifty and sixty years old. He stepped out and opened the door for her, popping the trunk at the same time. He took her bag – she liked to pack light – and placed it in the trunk.

“Morning Miss’s, where to?” He asked as he sat down and closed the door. He had an accent but Meera couldn’t place it, central Europe she thought, but it wasn’t important.

“Union Station on Front Street please.” She replied taking a tentative sniff of the air, happy the driver was a non-smoker.

He activated the meter and they were off. The drive from Scarbourgh was quiet enough, the driver only making the odd attempt at conversation. Something about the weather and of course traffic problems he faced each day. Meera was grateful for the lack of banter this early. She was content to watch the morning light grow.

She had thought the driver would take the 401, the main highway running east west across the top of Toronto. Instead he made his way down Kingston Road. Meera watched the buildings fly by, not really paying attention. The city was getting crowded and in places dirty and messy. It was like parts were left to decay over time, the reason not clear to anyone.

Meera’s parents immigrated from the U.S. to Canada when she was three years old and although she never knew much of her former home, she always wondered why they moved. One day when she was fifteen she had asked the question and their answer was just that Canada was a better place to raise a child.

She never really saw much of difference however, one country the same as the other and Toronto not much different from Boston, where she was born. Her parents were always working and they never really traveled. When they did take a vacation, it was to Florida, Mexico or some place warm. She chuckled to herself as she thought about her current destination. When she told her parents where she was headed they also had the same reaction and a good laugh.

The cab turned onto the Don Valley Parkway and although they were on a highway, the speed remained constant at sixty kilometers. She was astounded sometimes at the amount of traffic on roads and highways in the Toronto area. She recalled the local nick name of the DVP as the Don Valley Parking Lot. Eventually they drove up the on-ramp to the Gardner Express Way and before she knew it, they were pulling off the elevated roadway onto Front Street with Union Station not far away.

Checking the meter, Meera pulled out two twenties from her purse in anticipation, but quickly realized she should also add a tip. She searched her loose change and found five more dollars for the gratuity.

As the cab pulled away, Meera stood in front of the train station. This wasn’t the first time she had been at Union Station, after all she got off here every day when she took the GO Train into work. This time however she didn’t have to rush to work so she took the time to really look around. She began noticing things about the station that she had never seen or really paid attention to before. The grandeur of the station was only now revealing itself to Meera as she stood and surveyed the large gothic columns that adorned the facade of the station. Her eyes followed the columns upward until they met the intricate stone work at the roof line.

It was a beautiful and majestic building in its magnificence. She didn’t know it, but even the Prince of Wales in 1927, on the official opening of the station said, “You build your stations like we build our cathedrals.” Union Station in Toronto has always been one of the grandest train stations in Canada, home to trains and public transit connections.

Meera picked up her roll on bag and opted to carry it rather than use the built in wheels. It wasn’t that heavy after all she thought. She checked the time on her watch – it was almost five forty, plenty of time she reflected as she walked toward the stations entrance.

After opening the large wooden doors and walking into the main concourse, she felt the full extent of the station opening itself up to her and she said to no one, “I have to pay attention more often.”

As if for the first time, she became aware of the size of the main hall, passengers scurrying about like worker ants in a hive darting from the door to the gates that lead to the trains, subway, ticket booths or shops. The cathedral ceilings with grand arches, gothic stone carvings all combined to create a surreal ambiance. Sun light streamed from the large arched window at the far end of the terminus as well as the smaller upper windows that dotted the outer walls. Even at this early hour the light cast shadows among the stone carvings. Flags from each province dotted the wall just above one bank of ticket booths which lined the outer area of the grand space. Each booth was separated by velvet ropes on waist high chrome stands. The floor was made from tiles of marble or granite, Meera wasn’t sure which.

There was a centre kiosk with four large black electronic signs that showed the arrival and departure of the trains and what gate to attend to in order to be faired onto the proper track. In front of her on the other side of the station was a lunch area with fast food and coffee in the offerings. To her right were a series of doors that lead to more waiting area and shops, and of course more food stands.

Keep the masses fed and they won’t complain so much when their train is late, Meera laughed.

Meera checked the time again – six o’clock. Her first order of business was the centre kiosk. She had tickets after all, but was not sure what gate the Northlander was leaving from. As she walked toward it, she shook her head in dismay thinking, how long have I lived in this city? And how many times have I passed through this station and never noticed anything about it? She couldn’t answer the questions of course, but it did make her wonder how much she had missed about the city she lived and worked in.

Checking the departure time on her ticket and confirming it with the display board, she took note that she had just over forty five minutes before the scheduled departure from gate number seven. She knew her way to the departure gates and proceeded down the ramp that would lead her to gate seven.

Meera spent the next forty five minutes watching other passengers coming and going in the station. Folks were rushing to work, children on their way to school and station workers going about their daily talks. She mused that if it wasn’t for this vacation she would be one of the masses milling about in front of her. The forty five minutes went by fast and as the boarding call was announced, Meera went up the escalator to the platform and got onto the train. The silver car was one of two passenger cars and there was a dining car attached to a yellow and blue locomotive. There was another train car located just behind the engine but it didn’t look to Meera that it was meant for passengers. Maybe some sort of mechanical or storage car she thought.

Ontario Northland had acquired some older rolling stock from GO Transit in the eighties and to Meera they didn’t look like the most comfortable ride for the thirteen hour trip.

She groaned as she boarded and wondered why she didn’t fly, it would have cost almost the same and was several hours faster. Her friends however had told her that in coming north she should take the train. The trip wasn’t as speedy, but it was worth every minute spent, and that she should relax and really take in the countryside and enjoy the first day of her vacation. She found her seat, placed her bag in the storage area with the help of a Conductor and sat down with resigned indifference.

As she sat down Meera realized why the train only had two passenger cars – only half the seats were occupied. She had a window seat and the one adjacent to her was empty along with the seats to her front and rear. Across the aisle four seats were occupied by one family, a mother, father and two children. The girls may have been ten and twelve. They seemed excited as they peered out the window at other trains in the station and spoke in Japanese to their parents - at least Meera thought is sounded Japanese. The girls were so excited and spoke so fast it was hard for Meera to tell. She began to see that other than three of four people sitting as individuals, the majority of the passengers on this shared voyage were families of various sizes.

On vacation or heading home? She wondered about her fellow travelers as the train pulled out of the station – jerky at first as the locomotive ramped up to speed, then it settled to a smooth rhythmic motion. She was still tired after having gotten up so early, and now she was getting hungry. She rested her head on the back of the seat, closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She didn’t want to eat right away as sleep beat out hunger for her will.

Meera opened her eyes wondering if she slept and if so how long. She raised her wrist and looked at her watch, startled to see it had only been thirty or forty minutes. It felt like an hour had passed and her empty stomach grumbled. She stood and after making sure what direction she had to go for the dining car, turned left. She noticed that the Japanese family was not there. Must have gone for a walk she mused.

She opened the door between cars and entered the dining car, closing the door with a thud behind her. She walked past the narrow bulkhead for the kitchen area to the dining area wondering if she would be able to find a seat.

As it turned out, the only other people in the car were four business people chatting about some deal or another while typing away on their laptops. At another table was the Japanese family. She quickly sized up the table situation and chose the table next to the family. The suits, as she called them, were too loud for her liking this early and she did want to have a quiet trip.

Ordering a bacon and egg sandwich with an orange juice and chocolate milk she paid for it and took a seat. At once the two children, grinning as wide as a child on Christmas day, gestured toward her and spoke quickly to their mother. Meera smiled and wondered what that was all about. The mother looked up and smiled back at Meera.

Taking the initiative, Meera asked the mother, “What did they say?”

The mom replied in broken but clear English, “My daughters ask if you would be so kind as to take picture of us by window?”

Meera was flattered, “I’d be happy to.”

The father took out a digital camera from its case and quickly showed Meera how to use it, asking her to take two pictures while trying to get part of the window in the picture. Meera held the camera carefully and found a stable spot that afforded her a good view of the family and the fast moving scenery outside the dining car window. She took one picture and then another, checking the view screen at the back of the camera after each snap.

The family reviewed the pictures and bowing quickly thanked her for her kindness in taking the pictures. Meera, curious as always, asked if they were on vacation and where they were from.

“We are on vacation – This is our second week in Canada. We are from Kyushu, which is South Japan.”

“How’ve you been enjoying your vacation so far?” Meera asked the children.

“They do not speak English yet.” Replied the mother, then facing the two wide eyed children translated the question. Their response came so quickly and with so much enthusiasm that Meera was able figure out the answer.

The mother replied, “They are very happy to be visiting your great country. Mika said that you must be very proud to be living here and having so much in one beautiful country.” The mother smiled.

The father cut in at this point, “Canada is much different than Japan. In Japan, you do not have this space. If you take the train, you are seeing buildings, homes and factures along the whole trip. Here, you have room to breath, room to play.”

Meera never thought about it like that before. She looked out the window and other than the odd rail shed or building, there was green trees, farms and fields.

The mother spoke next, “Space is very important to us and so is nature. It is where we came from - the land, trees, sky and rivers. In Japan we have little of this left. We have some parks and the mountains but here in Canada, we are able to see it all together and interact with it every where we have gone. You must travel a great deal here.”

That last sentence grabbed her attention as she never traveled in Canada. She never saw a reason to go outside of Toronto, especially Northern Ontario. Green space and nature was something she took for granted. The parks in Toronto and the green space along the Don Valley were all she knew of nature in Canada. One leaf was the same as the other. Now these visitors were giving her something to contemplate.

Meera spent the next hour speaking with the parents and two young children in the dining car before she finished her sandwich and headed back to her seat.

She had brought a book she wanted to read, Death’s Door by William DeSouza. A co-worker had told her about the sci-fi novel and while not normally into the whole science fiction scene, she wanted to see if she would enjoy reading it. It’s not like she didn’t have plenty of time of this trip. She had to admit to herself that although the prospect of taking the train for thirteen hours was at first depressing, it hadn’t started out all that bad.

She was beginning to learn new things about herself and her lifestyle. The rushed and hurried pace never allowed her to focus and notice life around her and she was only slowly beginning to see this.

As she got back to her seat, the Conductor opened the door at the opposite end of the car and began to announce the first stop on the route. “Washago – Next stop is Washago.” He announced in a deep baritone.

Washago? She thought. She’d never even heard of a town called Washago. She stopped the Conductor as he passed and asked about the stop.

“It’s not a normal stop but we have to pick up some supplies for a New Liskeard area company. Its just north of Orillia on the north end of Lake Couchiching.” The Conductor paused when the name of the lake created a puzzled look on Meera’s face. The look was akin to having eaten a donut full of worms and he almost laughed out loud at the site of it.

Continuing, he went on to try and clear up the confusion he saw in Meera, “In its hay day it was an old railway centre, a kind of hub. It’s mostly used for freight these days – not enough folks taking the train out this way. At least not stopping on their way to North Bay.”

She thanked him and he went on toward the dining car continuing to announce the stop. She chided herself for not knowing more about the country she lived in. Although in consolation, she figured that not too many people would have known about Washago.

The stop came and went quickly and soon they arrived at the regularly scheduled stop of Gravenhurst. Now that town she had heard of – mind you, it was from the television and not first hand. The train slowed as a freight train passed, headed in the opposite direction. There were several tracks with a variety of passenger and freight cars sitting idle and she could even see an old steam engine at what looked like a period station painted white with a red trim. That must be a fun ride she thought absentmindedly.

When the train stopped, she saw no one getting off, but three people getting on. At least she could only see three people as they mounted the steps to her own car. She mused that others could have boarded the other car ahead of hers.

In just a few minutes the train bells started, signaling that it was about to move. She could hear the big diesel engines rev up and felt the car jerk as it slowly accelerated forward.

The Japanese family had not returned to their seat as yet. She looked around and located the three people that boarded her car at Gravenhurst. They were a young couple with a small child, a boy that looked to be around seven or eight. After sorting out their bags, they sat in the seats in front of Meera. The Conductor assisted them in rotating the back rest on one set of seats to create a four seat section, where the two seats faced two others.

The young boy was very excited, almost bouncing as he jumped from the big picture window to the seat, quizzing his parents about one thing and then the next.

Meera wasn’t paying much attention at this point as she was beginning to get into the book’s prolog. After about an hour or so, she didn’t know how much time had passed, the train slowed and then stopped. The Conductor came back announcing that they had to wait for a priority freight train and that it wouldn’t be a long delay. She continued to read to pass the time and only barely noticed when the locomotive began again.

After a while however she had to stop reading as the rhythmic click clack of the iron wheels on the track and the swaying of the car, mixed with reading the story began to put her to sleep. Her head started to bob and her eyelids started to close, slowly at first. Meera didn’t want to sleep right now however, so she put down the book and stretched her arms above her head. She stood and took a few steps in either direction of her seat.

The young mother, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties, looked up at Meera and smiling, said “guten tag – good afternoon.”

“Hello, what a lovely child you have.” Meera thought the boy was the cutest she had seen.

He had short crop dirty blond hair and big blue green eyes and a wide grin that was welcoming and charming. Meera bent over and stretched out her hand in greeting. The little boy announced himself as Manfred and promptly shook Meera’s hand.

“Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.” She said, thrilled to see such a polite little boy. The two Japanese girls were equally as charming, but in a young boy at this age – now that was rare she thought.

She started a conversation with the mother and father and soon found out that they too were on vacation. They were from Baden Baden in Germany. She learned that the father had worked on the Canadian Forces base that was located in Baden Baden until it closed in the early nineties. The family came to Canada to see the country for themselves. They had learned all about Canada from some friends he met on the base and subsequently stayed in touch with, one of which they were visiting with in Gravenhurst.

It was nearly one in the afternoon but Meera did not feel very hungry, so she continued to chat with her newest traveling companions. The parents spoke of the openness of the countryside and of not seeing a town for so long.

They spoke of what it’s like in Germany were the roads and rail take you from one town and village to another but as soon as you leave the outskirts of a town you enter another with very little if any countryside – at least nothing like in Canada. They talked about how everyone they met so far was friendly and helpful. They also spoke of the cleanliness of every place they went.

Meera listened and was amazed yet again that she never saw these things. If she did she took them for granted and that disturbed her. She wasn’t sure why it should upset her so much, it’s not like she went anywhere. Eventually the conversation ended and she went back to her seat. The Japanese family had returned to their chairs so she gave a friendly nod to them as she sat down.

She thought about what both of the families she’d met had to say about her country. She used to think that this wasn’t so much her country but her adoptive country, and her real home was the United States since that’s where she was born. But on this trip she was beginning to see, hear and learn more about Canada than she had ever known.

In time she thought, that’s it! She had an epiphany.

It wasn’t that she was just finding out about Canada after so many years that bothered her. It was that she was finding out more about her home from visitors to her home. From people that didn’t even live here but only passing through. She was embarrassed in a way about that fact and at the same time grateful to them.

She was getting hungry now as she looked at her watch. She stood and made her way back to the dining car. The train had already stopped at Bracebridge and Huntsville, each time letting off one or two people and taking on several more.

In the dining car there were more travelers sitting at the tables than on her previous visit and she had to look for a free chair. She spotted one in the middle, ordered a club sandwich, small garden salad and a diet cola and made her way over to the empty chair, asking the woman occupying the other seat if anyone was sitting there.

The woman, in her mid forties looked up and said smiling, “No, it’s empty – help yourself.”

Right away Meera recognized the accent as a Bostonian, someone from the City of Boston where she was born. The woman was friendly enough introducing herself as Shelly and the two of them struck up a conversation. Meera told her about being born in Boston but not having been back since she was a young child. The woman took the opportunity to bring Meera up to speed on the state of the city, telling her about the ‘Big Dig’. A massive underground tunnel that will put a large chunk of Boston traffic underground creating park land and friendlier pedestrian space. Meera was fascinated about the project and all the other updates to her knowledge of Boston.

But what was even more interesting was the questions that the woman had for Meera. Questions about Toronto and Ontario and the countryside they were passing through. Again Meera was at a loss for words, choosing instead to do most of the asking and less of the answering. Her lack of knowledge of Canada was an embarrassment to her and she once again felt inadequate but amazed at how much a visitor to Canada knew about her home.

The woman was contemplating moving to Canada in the coming year and that’s why she was taking this trip. She was disillusioned with the state of politics in the US as well as the state of the economy south of the border right now. She felt that the climate in Canada was more conducive to raising a family and starting her own business. Meera soon learned that the woman’s husband, who was a doctor, also wanted to make the move. He had gotten into medicine to help people, no matter what their economic status, but found that more of the hospitals and health services in the US did not meet his expectations of health care for all.

This was something that Meera had not heard before, even from the six o’clock news. They would report the opposite - that many Canadians wanted to move to the US. Not the other way around. This was really something new to her as she never considered that someone would move to Canada for the same reasons people wanted to leave.

Then she thought about her own parents who moved to Canada for the same reasons Shelly just brought up. Again she found that she took too many things for granted, that Canada was more than what you saw every day as you rushed from place to place.

The rest of the trip was spent looking out the window seeing the land for the first time. The lakes and forests in North Bay and Temagami, the old mine shafts in Cobalt, the abundant farms in New Liskeard and the rich historical buildings that remained as railway stations.

She spoke with other passengers, those that lived and worked in the area and visitors like the ones that she had already met. She learned that the pace of life outside of Toronto was much slower. People did not take the land for granted, choosing instead to play as much as they worked in the wide open space that was Canada. Meera also talked with the Conductor each time he came by to announce a stop, and he seemed eager to share his thirty plus years of history on the rails with her at every opportunity.

She learned about the ‘Great Fire’ that raged in the twenties, destroying much of the homes, villages and towns from Cobalt to as far north as Kirkland Lake. She discovered the richness that was Northern Ontario and Canada - the resource based industries like mining and logging. She even leaned about the diamond mining that was taking place even today. She never even knew that Canada was a major producer of diamonds in the world.

Meera soon grasped why her friends pushed her to take the train and not to fly. She would have missed all of this and she would have never forgiven herself if that happened. The train was indeed the way to travel – to see the country she called home.

My Time Remembered - A Fictional Short Story by William DeSouza

My Time Remembered

A Fictional Short Story by William DeSouza

First Published in 2004

He sat at his desk thinking about life, his life in particular. A cup of tea still fresh and steaming in his hands. Leaning back in his chair, the swivels and springs creaking with age, he closed his eyes as visions of past memories danced in his head.

Images of family, friends and strangers mixed with dreams, hopes and fears all came together in the amalgam that was his life.

It was a good and long life he thought with few regrets.

The light from the sun streaming through the bay window of his study fell on his face, the sensation felt warm on his skin. The sounds of children playing outside helped to put him in the mood to work, reminding him of the task he had set out to accomplish.

He had put out several old photo albums and at least five produce size boxes of loose photos and clippings from newspapers and magazines, all of which he wanted to use somehow in this project. Pictures and stories that spanned a lifetime were sprawled out on the large, but otherwise clean and tidy desk.

Opening his eyes and turning to his son sitting beside him in an arm chair, he asked in an almost child like enthusiasm, "So? How do you want to start this then?"

"Its your life dad, how did it start?"

"I was born...."

His son cocked an eyebrow and gave his father a quizzical look.

Responding quickly to his sons overly skeptical glare, "Well I was born ya know!"

"I'm not disputing that part." A thin smile beginning to form, "But do you really want to begin your life story like that?"

Thinking for only a split second, "If its good enough for Clinton, its good enough for me."

He placed the teacup down gently in its saucer and crossed his arms, determined to have his way.

He paused again to think and reflect in more detail about his long life. The wrinkles in his brow thin and hardly showing, laugh lines around his eyes and cheeks creasing only slightly as he smiled. At eighty-three he was in pretty good health and physical condition and he was proud of that.

Age, he always said, was nothing more than how old you felt inside. If you felt young, your mind and body would work together to keep you young.

He had lived a long and interesting life, but had never talked about it much. It was always the past to many people. Some used to tell him to forget the past and embrace the future.

"What do you know," he used to tell them. "Once you're dead - the past is all you had. So better make sure it’s a good one. Folks remember you from your past, not your future."

Now he thought, was the perfect time to put pen to paper and record his past for prosperity, and my children and their children.

He wanted to leave them something different, something that was part of himself. He wanted to give them a future by showing them their past. He didn't think he was going anywhere, but at eighty-three, he didn't want to put it off.

His son asked softly, "Look dad, why now of all times do you want to write a book?"

Without answering directly, the old man quickly changed the subject by picking up a stack of loose photos and newspaper cut outs. He shuffled through them, turning them over, flipping some that were upside-down. He would cock his head to the left when he came across something he didn't recognize.

His son was from what he called the fast food generation. If it didn't happen in less than one minute, it took too long. He thought that any baby boomer was part of that generation. The old man knew he was driving his son crazy by taking his time.

"I remember them." He said at last, an audible sigh being heard from his son.

He was pointing to an old newspaper clipping on the top of the stack showing three boys on a makeshift raft. Each boy holding a pole that reached into a small creak as they pushed their way along.

He took the clipping in his left hand and quietly replaced the rest on the table. The newsprint was old and crinkled to the touch. The edges were neatly cut, and only slightly brown with age, the date was hand written in faded green ink and showed July 17, 1937.

"I was sixteen then." He said, pausing. "It was two months before I joined up and Stinky Trotman and two of his friends decided they were pirates on the high seas. I remember the reporter wanted to get some photos of logging and millwork in the area at the time. It was a week after a strike at the mill..."

His son held up his hand, palm out to say 'hold on a second'. "Ah - Dad, what does that have to do with Stinky Trotman? And who names their kid Stinky?"

"It's nothing to do with Stinky - I was creating a seen in the readers head. Stinky wasn't his real name either, just what we called him." He said it without missing a beat. His son could only shake his head and smile.

"Any way, where was I?" Pausing again, "Oh yes - So this reporter, taking stills, saw Stinky on the creak and came over to take the picture. An interest piece I think he said. I had only just arrived so I never was part of the pirate crew. Too bad though, the picture was published the next day in the paper. I could've been famous." He laughed.

His voice was soft but clear as he remembered the events in the picture, as if it happened that week.

His son had quietly taken out a digital voice recorder and placed it on the table, turning the mike in his father’s direction and pressing the record button. He didn't want to miss a word - he was always amazed at the rich and varied history that was involved in his father's life.

"Let's try something dad, what were your earliest memories as a child?"

The old man closed his eyes again. Disjointed images started to swim around his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

Then, "Your grandmother at the market - we always went to market on Saturday. You would be amazed at the smells. You could begin to smell the market from the train station five blocks away. Horses, livestock, exotic foods cooking, smoke from the cooking and heating fires..."

He smiled and breathed in deeply, as if he was there right now. Smell was a powerful sense, especially strong and pungent odors. Being able to trigger forceful memories it had a tremendous affect on ones ability to recall events.

The old man continued, "As we neared the market we would pass venders selling flowers, trinkets and medicines not found anywhere else but could cure everything. Horse drawn carts were lined up four to six deep on the streets and everyone moved with purpose, or chatted with merchants."

The old man picked up his cup and drank.

His son took the break to ask, "You did a lot with grandma didn't you? I wish I had been able to meet her."

"You would've been hard pressed to keep up with her. I was devastated when she died, but I had to keep going."

"That was 1940 wasn't it?" He didn't want to ask at first.

He knew that even after so many decades his grandmother's death was still painful for his father.

"It was - I was in England then with my regiment about to ship out to Italy. We were knee deep in it and it took two months for the mail to reach me with news of her death."

The old man's body language changed abruptly as he straightened himself in the chair. As if an emotional shield was suddenly draped over the psyche, allowing him to speak about it but protect him at the same time.

"My father's letter threw me for a loop, I didn't know what to think. Part of me wanted to run home and part wanted to bury my head in the sand. My dad gave me the answer though. He said to stay and fight. To never surrender - to never give up."

He opened his eyes and looked at his son before continuing. "He said your grandmother was proud of what I was doing and her dying was not as important as what was happening."

His son interrupted and asked, "How did she die?"

He regretted the question as soon as he asked it.

"Pneumonia - She had been struck ill with the flu and her constitution was not strong enough to fight it off."

Then the old man did something his son did not expect; he smiled, giggling slightly before going on.

"It's funny to think about it now, her dying not being as important as the war. She was a wise women, and strong. She made me realize at that time what I was doing and how important it was on a larger scale."

His son stood and walked quietly over to a side table, pouring himself another cup of coffee from an urn. He didn't want to interrupt.

"The war for me, at first anyway, was excitement and adventure."

The memories were vivid, clear, and came flooding back.

"It was a means to an end - a way to get out from the routine that was life in Ottawa. Over there it was an adventure, another world. Oh I'd heard the stories of those that went to France during the First World War - and part of me believed the horror, but another side of me still saw it as exciting."

The old man chuckled to himself, and turned toward his son. "The young can be silly and foolish, and we were all young once. My mother, in thinking the war was more important than her made me take stock of my attitudes. It was at that moment I realized what she meant."

"And what was that?" His son interjected.

"That life and death are more than just about the individual. That the collective is nothing without the individual and the individual is nothing without the collective."

He noticed the confused look on his son's face. There was a certain amount of satisfaction in that.

"We are so intertwined that madmen like Hitler and Mussolini, no matter what their stated aims, cause irreparable harm to the collective and thus the individual and must be stopped. I was more determined than ever to be part of the war effort to stop them. I did miss her, but I also knew what I had to do and I knew she would understand. We shipped out a week later."

His son was beginning to understand the need for his father to write this book. He never heard his dad talk about the past as candid and openly as he is now.

It was not just about family, it was about the collective good. It was about remembering our struggles, and our mistakes in an effort to avoid the same mistakes. It was an effort to recall the good things in life as much as it was to be remembered for your efforts in life. His father's exploits during the war, the friends he lost, the friends he met, on both sides, helped to shape who he became; and as his son by extension, who he is today.

"I think I know the answer already, but what is your most vivid recollection during that time? You spent time in Northern Africa and in Europe, didn't you?"

"I did - the first eighteen months in North Africa. Sweating during the day and freezing at night. We lost more troops during that campaign than at any other time. There was never any cover for the tanks and the big eighty-eights picked us off one by one. I lost a lot of friends during that period. By the time we arrived in France most of the really heavy fighting was over."

"When and how did you meet mom?" He had a lot of material from the war years from diaries and letters his father had saved, so there was no point in spending too much time re-hashing it.

"In England when our unit was pulled back from the front. The war was winding down and after all our kit was cleaned we had a lot of free time. I was site seeing with some mates in the high street and I spotted her having a sandwich lunch on a bench. My friends kept egging me on to say something to her. I can still remember he dark red skirt and white blouse, her white wool sweater."

He couldn't help not remembering the first time he met Elizabeth. It was as if they both knew each other prior. A shared existence in another life, karma, fate, call it what you will, they hit it off from the beginning.

The old man continued to remember and as he spoke, his visions and smile only expanded, filling him with happiness and joy. From his marriage to Elizabeth, the birth of his first child, another war in Korea, it was all relived in the next three hours. Both he and his son lost track of time, and in a way that was what this was all about.

Time didn't matter; it was living that really mattered. Living out the time you had in a way that gave you satisfaction and affected those around you in an equally positive manner.

It took two months, but the old man finally finished his book. He was sitting on the front porch, swinging gently. The summer heat was causing a shimmer in the distance and only a slight breeze blew the leaves on the big maple tree on the front lawn. His grandchildren played a game of tag while their parents, also sitting on the porch, spoke of events past and wishes still to come as they prepared for a BBQ supper.

He just finished reading the final page of the final draft of his book, and as he closed the manuscript he smiled. It was a good book and his family was proud of him. One publisher had already signed a contract and for the first time in his long life, he knew he could rest. He had nothing else to prove or accomplish. For his time remembered would now be handed down to his children and grandchildren. The legacy of his past would become their future.