Events of the Past Ten Days

I’d like to describe a series of happenings and experiences that I have had or have partaken of in the past ten days or so. Letters from the Annex ought to periodically focus on the opportunities given by life in this, my favourite village of Metro Toronto. I will begin though by mentioning a brief trip to Montreal ten days ago that I took to visit my friend of over 50 years, Mary Carten. Mary and I met in the novitiate of the Religious Hospitallers of St Joseph at Amhurstview, close to Kingston, Ont. Later we were part of the Order’s “juniorate” of students in Ottawa, and for part of one school year she and I travelled together from the juniorate’s digs with the Grey Nuns in Rockcliffe to our classes at the U of Ottawa. After I left the Order we remained in touch, visiting when circumstances allowed, particularly during the few years that Mary spent here in Toronto studying theology. After a long stint at a mission in the Dominican Republic, Mary returned to Canada about four years ago to undergo successive waves of heroic treatments for cancer which had already metastasized. To this day she continues with treatments, bearing it all with amazing stoicism because she continues to find joy and interest in her loving extended family, her friends, her faith, and the various issues upon which she has strong opinions, as well as the various questions to which many of us turn our minds periodically about the nature of good and evil and about the chances for survival of the human race.  Mary and I have pretty much always had good conversations. Even when my own life deviated in significant ways from that of a religious sister, I did not find her judgemental or dismissive. We would talk about the minutiae of our lives as well as the bigger questions.

On this visit as on one earlier I stayed overnight at the Mother House, a vast antique building adjacent to the Order’s Hotel Dieu Hospital. So much has changed in the lives of religious since my close encounter with them from 1961-5. Most of the sisters living at the Mother House are now my age or older. Having spent their lives in some form of service to others, they live out their last years cared for in modest circumstances but with the communal support of their own sisterhood. Eating in the refectory with Mary I could observe the various groupings of women chatting with one another over meals. The general feeling was one of peace and relaxation. All of the sisters that I met while there were  friendly and welcoming. Mary and I had a bunch of different talks during my brief visit, not leading to any particular conclusions, but just other threads in the long string of our connection with one another.

The day after my return Mark and I picked up our grandchildren Theoren and Emily at their dad’s house, along with their cousin, Gregory, who also lives with them and their mothers in Sutton. The plan was to drive the three of them to Newmarket to meet Catherine at the pre-arranged waterhole of the Swiss Chalet. There we had a communal dinner in celebration of Emily’s 14^th birthday. Gregory and Theoren who share a room seem constantly engaged in a repartee that vacillated between the hilarious and the offensive (to one another only, I must add). It seems to be part of teenage boys’ experience and repertoire. However, it can become annoying, to which Theoren’s sister and mother will testify. In the car I disrupted their dialogue by inserting leading questions into the mix – about their school programs and so on. Both were quite happy to respond and even to entertain other topics and questions, though left to their own devises they quickly resumed the exercise of connecting with/torturing each other.

We had a fine time at the dinner. As Catherine says, Swiss Chalet has a menu within which most anyone can find something to enjoy. We brought along a chocolate birthday cake for which our very busy waitress provided plates and forks at the end of our meal. We have a great series of photographs taken at Emily’s first birthday party which show her initial experience of chocolate. In the photos she stares at the piece of cake before her; she puts her fist into it; she gingerly raises her fist to her mouth; and then, in short order she employs both hands to convey its wonderfulness, to not just her mouth but to most of her face. The final picture shows the birthday girl entirely decorated with a dark, rich chocolate. I happened to find a card – at the train station in Montreal – that shows an infant girl face down in a chocolate cake. The perfect card for Emily! We all had a good laugh about the coincidence and the memory.

Last Monday I had lunch with three of my old friends (old in both senses, I might add): Maureen, Lorna, and Martha. We have known one another from early days in our Therafields’ lives, way back in 1968. For a number of years the four of us met bi-weekly for lunch at my home or at Maureen’s. Each of us would bring our own lunch which we would consume while talking with one another about the important things happening in each of our lives, how we were feeling both physically and emotionally, and periodically having a needed clearing of the air if tensions had arisen among us. It was a great gift that we gave to ourselves and one another. Over a year ago the habit of this meeting fell away for a variety of reasons,  but with the result of some gradual estrangements. About two weeks ago we met and thoroughly thrashed out this failure to communicate, having some “words” with one another in the process, but happily rededicating ourselves to the practice of regular meetings given to seriously seeing and hearing one another as well as being open about our own situations. Last Monday’s lunch was the first of these promised gatherings; it was great.

I attended two events during last week related to my interest in the Holocaust. One was a talk given under the auspices of the Centre for Jewish Studies about terms used over the decades to describe what we refer to mainly as “The Holocaust,” the origins of these terms and the historical context of their usage. The second is a fall term undergraduate class in the history department at U of Toronto taught by Professor Doris Bergen, entitled The Holocaust, Part I, to 1942. I came across Doris Bergen when I attended the New Research on the Holocaust conference last fall. I didn’t know who she was but was impressed with the easy and gracious manner with which she met and introduced speakers at the conference as well as encouraged those attendees like myself to get our butts into the lecture hall on time. At home I found that I had a copy of one of her books, in fact two copies. I looked at courses available about the Holocaust at U of Toronto and the Centre for Jewish Studies via the internet a couple of weeks ago and discovered Bergen’s course. I emailed her, explaining my background and interests and asking if I might audit her course. Disappointingly I did not hear from her. However! I ran into her at the lecture on terminology that I attended last week and made bold to introduce myself. She apologized for not answering as she had been swamped with emails right then at the beginning at the term. She said that, of course, I might be an auditor. So 49 years after I was a third year BA history student at U of T, attending classes in the Sidney Smith building, I was back at it again. It felt terrific! I will only be in town to attend six of the classes this term, but I will take advantage of each one. One of the texts to be used is Victor Klemperer’s I Will Bear Witness, 1933-41. I read his second volume that covers journals written from 1942-45 while in Puerto Vallarta last winter and in the meantime had purchased a copy of volume one, planning to read and write about it while back there this winter. So many happy connections.

Yesterday we had Ophelia and Heather for lunch on the deck off our kitchen.  They were delicious! We met these gals almost four years ago on the 15-day  tour with Gap Adventures that we took from Cairo along the Nile. I wrote about this trip in another blog: www.italyandegypt.blogspot.com It was great to reconnect and to remember some of our experiences together. They have suggested a reunion of the 13 of us who were part of the group to be held at their place in Oakville next summer. Six of our crew belong to the same family, all living in London, Ont; two are in California; and one gal lives in South Africa. Our fearless leader whom we called Magic will not be attending. All of us lost touch with him soon after we left Egypt as the revolution broke out within a week or two and his community of Coptic Christians were especially targeted by extremists.

Mark and I saw two movies this week: 5 Broken Cameras which I wrote about a couple of days ago, and, this afternoon, a documentary on the fabulous Robert Altman. It is a must-see film for anyone like me made happy by his long string of films from the seventies until relatively recently.

And then there have been the sessions – nine in total this past week – opportunities to talk in various levels of depth with people from whom I learn and who hopefully, learn something from me. It must be the very best job in the world, certainly the very best for me. 

So this is more or less a digest of the week (or should I say the ten days) that were. Oh, and I will mention that I have also begun to write about Rudolf Hoess, the commandant of Auschwitz, using information from Laurence Rees' book on that camp, looking at ways that Hoess' formation mirrors that of other young men who in our own time are drawn to extreme, fundamentalist organizations that justify horrific violence as necessary components of a movement toward a "greater good."

Five Broken Cameras: An Israeli/Palestinian Tango

Periodically our local Hot Doc’s theatre co-presents a film with the Globe and Mail. One of the Globe’s foreign journalists comes to present a documentary that relates to an area of his or her particular reportage. Last night two were shown by Patrick Martin, the Globe’s Middle East correspondent, who has spent much of the last several years covering the Palestinian/Israeli story. Martin’s intent in showcasing the films was to demonstrate not just activities that are part of the regular life shared by these two populations in Israel, but some of the complexities of positions held on both sides. The first film, entitled Smile and the World Smiles with You, was a short piece depicting the search of a Palestinian family’s home by a squad of Israeli soldiers. The exact location of this home was not clear to me. It would not likely have been in the Gaza strip, but might have been in the West Bank or in an area more clearly delineated as Israel proper. Soldiers can arrive unannounced and demand to search a private home though again, under what conditions was not made clear. Presumably the squad was looking for materials that could be used to make weapons intended for use against Israelis.

That is the set up: an occupying force has the right to come with serious weapons at the ready, enter a home, order its occupants about, intrude upon its most private places, and, if obstructed, arrest and/or possibly inflict physical damage against the family members. However, one unusual aspect of the scene belies some of the intense discrepancy of power inherent to it: the occupants document the entire inspection of the home with a video camera. How can this be? How can a family of least six people, living in what appears to be at most two or three small rooms, supported by casual shoe repair work of the father and a teenage boy, afford this clearly sophisticated and expensive apparatus? Why do the soldiers permit the videotaping which clearly annoys and embarrasses them? The camera and its usage represent what Martin was pointing out: the starkly varied opinions within Israel itself about the prosecution of its occupation and its coexistence with the Palestinians. Recognizing that soldiers would be sent to search homes for weapons and that abuses could easily occur, the Supreme Court ordered the distribution of video cameras to some of the homes in the area to be used specifically to record these events, in this way acting as a deterrent  to soldiers who might be tempted or provoked into crossing the line from inspection to abuse.

The interactions between the soldiers and the family occur in two languages: Hebrew and Arabic. The language of one group is not understood by the other, a formidable barrier against the development of empathy on either side. One of the soldiers understands Arabic and must translate things said into Hebrew for his comrades. There are about six soldiers in the squad. All are dressed in military combat gear with masks covering at least portions of their faces, and, all carry serious weapons, fully drawn, often pointed directly at the people they are questioning. The oldest son of the family shows them the goods on shelves in what might be a common bedroom. The soldiers are especially interested in what might be secreted in the area at the bottom of the shelves. The 19 year old boy there to prove to them that nothing questionable lurks in their home, clearly enjoys delaying and frustrating the soldiers, making ironic comments and thwarting their desire to examine, confirm safe, and leave the premises. The person holding the camera comes close to the soldiers, embarrassing and annoying them despite many calls for him to back off. The soldiers themselves seem to be about the same age as the son of the house. They do not take kindly to his “smart” remarks. He is made to stand against the wall of the house with his hands up while he is thoroughly searched. The boy grins and makes comments throughout, not giving the soldiers the satisfaction of being respectful or fearful. His demeanour further annoys them and tension rises. The boy’s father tells him several times to be quiet, aware that he could provoke a violent reaction or arrest. Finally the father appeals to the soldiers directly, wanting to neutralize the provocation of the boy’s grin. “Smile,” he says, “and the world smiles with you.” This homely saying is understood by all and is received as if a piece of wisdom, allowing the soldiers to relax and to back down. Tension resolves, inspection completed, they move off to another assignment.

This kind of up close and personal interaction between the soldiers and the civilian population differs greatly from that shown in the second, longer film, Five Broken Cameras. Filmed over a period of about six years, from 2005 to around 2011, it chronicles the systematic encroachment of Israeli settlement in the West Bank as it engulfs land owned by members of a village, Bil’in, at its very edge. In this film the police and soldiers are viewed quite externally, men at a distance from the villagers, enforcing barriers set by the needs of the settlers and responding to the villagers’ resistance by progressively violent means. The broken cameras of the film’s title are exhibits shown by Emad Burnat, the villager who documented the process of encroachment and the forms of resistance used by his neighbours and himself. Each of his five cameras captured one period of the interactions; each was subsequently broken by some violent encounter with the army sent to enforce the security of the settlers.

The film opens on the occasion of the birth of the Bernat’s fourth son and concludes around the time of his sixth birthday. It focuses in many ways on the Palestinian villagers themselves, on their manner of living off the land with their olive trees and their herds, on their families and communal life, their spirit and liveliness, and, as the movement of the settlers more and more encroach upon their centuries-old way of being – literally hiving off portions of their land and burning down or uprooting their olive trees -- the forms of resistance that inevitably were stirred. In the early days resistance was entirely non-violent. Villagers would congregate to protest, hold up signs, and argue with soldiers sent to buffer them from the settlers. As feeling grew more intense they were ordered to disperse; failure to comply would prompt the soldiers to throw tear gas canisters in their direction. Excitement was clearly experienced by the young Palestinians in these encounters. They galvanized a sense of communal purpose: we are being oppressed; we have the right to protest and to make our case known to the world. The early encounters demonstrate liveliness and even fun as the protesters sing and move closer to the limits laid down by the soldiers, taunting them until the inevitable shower of tear gas erupts and the villagers run away. Gradually the stakes get higher. A fence built between the settlement and the village, limits the villagers’ ability to move about locally. Attempts to sabotage the building of the fence lead to more intense encounters: the firing of tear gas canisters directly at the villagers; some bullets fired and people wounded; arrests and detentions; a villager killed; Bernat himself seriously wounded when his car crashes into the fence (under what circumstances was not clear). Because his injuries were life threatening, the soldiers took him to an Israeli hospital, in effect saving his life as the facilities at Palestinian medical centres would have been inadequate.

It was interesting to watch attitudes in Bernat’s family. His infant son’s early vocabulary reflects the environment in which he is developing. His brothers are all enthusiastically involved, each in turn being subjected to arrest. His wife, not a part of the overt resistance enacted for the most part only by men and boys, is supportive of it all, reflecting her own pride and excitement. She encourages her sons to emulate the drive and passions of their father and uncles. Bernat, who had purchased his first camera to capture images of his newly born fourth son, turned it outward from a familial focus, to that of the growing crisis for his village and its way of life. Progressively he is drawn into a serious commitment to chronicling and publicizing the effects of the settlers’ aggressive encroachments. Over the period in which the film was shot the resistance of the village became international news, drawing others of various backgrounds to the locale, eager to join in thwarting the aims of the settlers. Bernat’s activism attracted the interest and co-operation of Guy Davidi, an Israeli film maker, with whom Five Broken Cameras was produced. Midway in the period documented the Israeli Supreme Court ruled that the settlements were illegal and that the fence was to be taken down. In fact, the ruling had little effect: the developments continued; it was two years until the fence was removed, only to be replaced soon after by a concrete wall similar to those encircling the population of Gaza.

Like the permissions given to soldiers to search private homes but to have their efforts videotaped, the rulings of the Court and their ambiguous results reflect the widely differing attitudes of the Israelis themselves. Unfortunately, as Martin pointed out during the Q and A following the movies, the political climate of the country is shifting further and further to the right. Those who decry abuses of power and the encroachment of Palestinian lands are more likely to move abroad, seeking a way of life more consistent with their own liberal views. Those who hold an ultra-orthodox view that the whole of Israel has been given to their people by God and that their right to exploit and develop it is unquestionable, tend to remain and to work politically and practically to enforce their vision.

The audience itself reflected the divergence of views held not just in Israel but in Canada and other countries as well. Many of the questions were straight forward request for information about the situation as experienced by Martin. Two were clear expressions of diametrically opposed views respecting blame and future directions. The first gentleman signalled his disapproval of the money now being poured into Gaza to rebuild after the recent round of fighting; his statement clearly focused blame on the people of Gaza themselves. They ought now to live with the rubble that they have effectively made of their own cities by fighting with the Israelis. The second commentator pointedly asked Martin if he was a mouth piece for the Israeli government, spouting well-worn excuses for the exploitation of the Palestinian people. Martin seemed quite unfazed by this assault, amiably addressing the gentleman and assuring him that such was in no way his intent. At this point the moderator announced the necessity of our clearing the theatre to allow patrons queuing for the 8:30 movie to take their places. And clear it, we did.

Back to a beginning

I have not been writing in the past two weeks because I have been sorting out my directions. A year ago Mark and I embarked on our trip to Europe to visit some of the sites of the Holocaust. I wrote about this experience before, during, and afterward in my blog A Journey Toward the Holocaust. I was profoundly affected by our journey, most particularly by the day that we spent at Auschwitz. When we returned to Toronto, I wrote for awhile longer about seminars that I attended at the Centre for Jewish Studies at the U of Toronto and about some authors that I was reading. When we went to Puerto Vallarta for the winter I took along a number of books related to the Holocaust but found myself disinclined to read them. Back in Toronto in the spring I started this blog, focussing mainly on my new life in the Annex area, its resources and pleasures, other books that I have been reading, and incidents related to my family and friends.

A couple of weeks ago Mark was away for the day visiting some of his buddies in Orillia and enjoying time on the lake. It was a quiet day for me. I spent some time walking about my “library” of books in the built-in shelves in our livingroom, pulling out and thinking about books that I have read and ones that are awaiting some attention. I recognized a sense of wariness in myself about tackling ones that relate the painful stories of Holocaust survivors. It felt as though to read them I would be reinserting myself into that place of anguish that I experienced for some time after being at Auschwitz. I knew at that moment that I had in some ways put away my connection with and interest in the Holocaust to protect myself. I also knew that if I was to be true to myself, I would have to put my caution to one side.

I began by selecting a slim volume entitled Fragments of Isabella: A Memoir of Auschwitz by Isabella Leitner, as well as a larger volume, The Dentist of Auschwitz: A Memoir by Benjamin Jacobs. I read these two books within a few days, beginning then on Laurence Rees’ book Auschwitz: A New History. Published in 2005, it is dedicated to the 1.1 million men, women, and children who perished at Auschwitz. The vast majority of these people were Jews, but their number also included Roma people, Poles, homosexuals, political dissidents, and Soviet prisoners of war. Rees’ book is of particular interest to me as he has had the advantage of research pursued after the dissolution of the Soviet Union. Using documents previously unavailable, Rees is able to look more closely at what ultimately evolved into the “final solution” of the “Jewish question” and the role that Auschwitz played therein. He shines a clearer spotlight on Rudolf Hoss, the commandant of Auschwitz from its inception as a concentration camp throughout its years as the primary death machine of the Nazi party, as well as on others who played major and minor roles in the attempt to exterminate the Jews. I plan to study his book more closely and to summarize and reflect upon his findings in my Holocaust blog.

It may seem to many an anomaly for a person like me to imbed herself so deeply in an area of interest that is in many respects distant from her own time, place, and culture. Born in Canada of Scots and Irish parentage and brought up as a Roman Catholic, I am an unlikely candidate to be viewing myself as a witness to the Holocaust. And yet despite the chasms of time, space, genealogy, and cultural heritage, I do experience myself standing in that place. The Holocaust of the Jews and all of the components of racism and hatred that facilitated its enactment belong not just to one period of time and geography but in a very real way to all of us who live and who have ever lived. It touches upon our human capacity for good and for evil. I have inklings about the sources of my interest and concern about this period of history, still reverberating as it is in many ways within our contemporary world, though there are undoubtedly aspects that I do not understand. Be that as it may, I nonetheless intend to pursue the line of inquiry and of self-learning upon which I embarked in a consistent fashion about a year and a half ago. I welcome any commentary or questions along this path.

Perth and the Doyles

I spent most of the past weekend immersed in all things Perth and Doyle. My cousin Michael Doyle died on Vancouver Island a couple of months ago rather suddenly. His son, Jamie came east with a portion of Michael’s ashes for a memorial held in the home of Michael’s brother, Monty, in Perth. Two earlier memorials had been held, one in Victoria sponsored by the Search and Rescue community of which Michael had been a founder, and a second in Edmonton initiated by Jamie and his mother, Michael’s former partner. Michael, Monty, and their sister, Nonie are/were the children of Martin Doyle, my father’s younger brother.

I knew Michael only when we were kids together for a few years in Ottawa. Martin was a naval officer and their family moved accordingly back and forth across Canada – mostly in Halifax or Victoria. In 1954 our family moved from Brockville to Ottawa and we settled just a mile or so up Carling Avenue from the Martin Doyles, stationed then in the nation’s capital. Mike, the oldest, was about 10 then. I was 14. Television was just becoming a staple family appliance though it was another year until we landed one. In the meantime we trooped every Sunday evening over to Uncle Martin and Aunt Mary’s place, crowding into their living room for the splendours of the Ed Sullivan Show, and, if the adults were feeling indulgent, the subsequent Four Star Theatre. On Saturday nights we would often go over for the Jackie Gleason Show as well. There were four of us Jay and Mary Doyles: Linda, 15; me; Craig, 10; and Valerie (Teedy as she was then known), 6. Mart and Mary had three: Michael, Nonie, 8 or 9, and Monty, a couple of years younger.

During their stay in Ottawa Mart and Mary would rent a cottage at Rideau Ferry each summer and we would go to visit there for at least one weekend per year – most likely even when we were still in Brockville. My grandfather Charlie Doyle, then a widower, would come out from Perth, just a few miles from the Ferry. Martin would play the cottage piano; Grampa would play his fiddle; and we would all dance – everyone with everyone. It was a lot of fun and remains to this day one of my fondest memories of that early Doyle collection. Though Nonie was five years my junior, we played avidly together during those visits, especially in the lake. Parents still believed that allowing children in the water before an hour had elapsed after eating was to invite lethal consequences. Waiting for the hour to pass until we could once again throw ourselves into the Rideau seemed akin to the punishment of Purgatory to Nonie and me.

I have no memories of the Martin Doyles during my later teenage years, though they remained in Ottawa as did we. We got our own TV and we moved a bit further away. I was involved with my own adolescent life as undoubtedly those kids were with theirs. My parents moved to Toronto in 1959 and I joined my sister at the nursing school of the Hotel Dieu Hospital in Kingston; in February, 1961 I entered the novitiate of the Sisters running the hospital. When I left the Order four years later I had two months remaining in the second year of my undergraduate program at U of Ottawa. I moved in with Mart and Mary, sharing a room with Nonie, also in her second year. During those two months I ate dinner each evening with the family, reconnecting with them and getting a sense of each of them from the vantage point of a young adult.

Michael was still with the family, though I am not certain what he was doing then. Nonie was at university but I don’t think that Michael was studying. He seemed terribly awkward and sensitive to me then, nervous around his father whom I could then see had become a dominant, rather demanding figure, not the easy-going Uncle Martin that I had remembered. I think that it was not too long after that period that Michael moved to Vancouver Island, immersing himself in a life focussed on outdoor sports and eventually, safety and the rescue of people at risk in the vastness of the BC coastal lands. The memorial held for Michael in Victoria was attended by members of the Search and Rescue fraternity, an RCMP representative, Canadian Forces veterans, and other work mates and friends. Their eulogy stressed the innovations that Mike brought to search and rescue operations that have been incorporated in other parts of the world. It was moving to read of the love and respect for Michael that so many had for his idiosyncratic and clearly from-the-heart manner of being. Simply being who he was, Mike brought new approaches and energy to a sector in need. My sister, Linda remarked to me a couple of days later that we sometimes are given glimpses of a person at their funerals to which we have not previously been privy. This is ever so true.

At Monty’s place on Saturday Mark and I were greeted by generations of the Mart and Mary Doyles. Nonie and her husband Roy were there with their daughter, Natalie, who to our surprise lives here in Toronto, on Walmer Rd no less, about three blocks from us! One of Monty’s two daughters is undergoing treatment that kept her and her mother from attending, but her two children were there, as were five cousins of theirs, children of Monty’s son, Justin and their other daughter. A second cousin of ours, Pat, daughter of my dad’s first cousin Kathleen attended as well. And, importantly, Jamie, Michael’s 20 year old son was there, meeting and greeting all of these relatives whom he barely knew but with whom he quickly became one. It was a warm and welcoming scene, unburdened by any sense of familial regrets or recriminations.

We sat together in the living room, hearing from Jamie a report on the two earlier memorials for his dad. His cousin, Justin who had spent a summer after high school with Michael, spoke of his outdoor adventures and the many things he had learned under Mike’s tutelage. Then Nonie spoke at length about growing up with her big brother Mike and the many ways that he had helped and encouraged her. The seven beautiful young cousins, aged between about 4 or 5 and 12, sang together a rendition of This Little Light of Mine. It was a simple, sincerely loving memorial to Michael, to his life, given by some of the people whom he had touched. My sister Linda and her husband Darcy were there as well. We were moved by this entree into the family of our cousins and very happy that we had attended.

One other thing happened on the weekend as well that had great import for me, though I don’t know if it is as meaningful to anyone else. Fifteen years ago we had a Doyle family reunion in Perth. I had been able to locate the Doyle homestead on Concession 5 of Drummond county and Ivan Dowdall, then its owner. He had been renting out the house though he mainly used the property for farming. Some time earlier his tenants had vamoosed without paying their rent, leaving the place in poor condition. Ivan gave me permission to take members of the family to see and tour the house during our reunion weekend. Quite a few of us went over. The house was in terrible condition. The original stone had been plastered over, a surface which was then stained and peeling in places. A second story had been added at sometime earlier but a fire had left much of it in ruin. A large hole in the kitchen floor was the site of egress for rodents who had clearly taken up residence. But it was singularly moving to stand within the walls of this house, nonetheless. I think that we all felt it as a hush fell upon the party standing in the living area while we absorbed the fact that this home had been built by our great-great-grandparents Martin and Mary Doyle of Wexford County, Ireland, in 1827, and that our great-grandfather Timothy Doyle, our grandfather, Charley Doyle, and our parents Jay, Madeline, and Marty Doyle had all been born there.

I hadn’t been back to see the house since then and indeed, was uncertain whether it was still standing. I knew that Ivan Dowdall had died and that his daughter Gina had inherited his properties, but whether she had kept them, I didn’t know. Mark and I tried three times on the weekend to find the house and on the third try, we succeeded! Trees at the road now obscured our vision of the structure that we had been easily able to see 15 years ago. We had a map showing the various lots given to settlers in the early 19^th century and knew that we were close to where it had to be, or, to have been. We decided to drive up a long laneway just in case, and WOW, there it was. Not only that but the lawn was mown and there were lawn chairs about and a truck by the side of the house. We ventured to go further and knocked at the front door. A lady came out from the side, looking rather confused and possibly perturbed at our strange late afternoon appearance. I hastily told her who I was and why we had come. She became very friendly and welcoming. A moment or so later her husband drove up the lane. We introduced ourselves to Roy and Mary Watt and they promptly invited us into their kitchen where we sat and talked about their and our connections to the house.

It is still owned by the Dowdalls, by Gina, in fact. She lives down the road in the original Dowdall house which she is restoring even as she updates it. She is a most energetic woman in her forties, doing all of this as well as pursuing her profession as a high school teacher. Roy Watt is a stone mason by trade as well as a man of many practical capabilities. He was doing work for Ivan Dowdall about the time that we visited there 15 years ago. When he asked Ivan about the place, Ivan told him that he was welcome to live there if he cleaned it out and fixed it up. Mary and Roy have been there for the past 14 years. They have a relationship with Gina that mirrors that which Roy had with Ivan. He takes care of the properties and does work that Gina needs, for example, masonry and fence building, in exchange for their rent. They are all very fond of one another, true neighbours and friends. While we were still visiting with Mary and Roy, he called Gina and she agreed to meet with us.

We drove along Concession 5 to her place at lot 14, the home where my great-grandfather Timothy’s sister, Margaret moved when she married Lawrence Dowdall in 1850. When her father Martin Doyle died, her mother Mary moved there for her own last years. I believe that Gina’s father Ivan was my third cousin, making her my third cousin, once removed. (Don’t you love it!) She greeted us outside with her companion collie dog and then took us for a tour of her home, delving rather deeply with Mark into some of the minutiae of her restoration work.  As Mark is engaged often as a heritage architect, he has learned a great deal about this field. He was impressed with her approach and accomplishments to date.

We drove back into Perth tired and hungry after a long and satisfying day. I am so very happy that our family’s homestead is not just still intact but that it is housing a couple who clearly love the place and who are taking care of it. I know that my father would be happy to hear this news if he was still with us. You might ask: why do you care? I can’t really answer that question. I only know that I do. It is a concrete location that for me houses the lived history of my family, at least the Doyle portion of it for almost a hundred years. My grandparents left the farm in about 1921 to start a grocery store in Perth. The land was poor and the work of caring for it unending. Once Grandpa’s parents had died they struck out in a new direction, looking to find a different life for themselves. My dad was 10 years old then and his parents were in their thirties. Just like my daughters, both in their 30s now, they had the energy and the vision to move on in new directions for themselves and for their children.

Two years from now will be the two hundredth anniversary of the founding of Perth. In 1816 it was intentionally formed on what was to become Highway 7, a road linking the clearly vulnerable cities on Lake Ontario to the future capital of what became Ottawa. Already present Scottish immigrants and demobilized officers and regulars from the forces sent by Britain to end the War of 1812-14 comprised the core of the new settlement. There will be celebrations in Perth to mark the anniversary. I want to be there myself to be immersed in that aura of the pioneers, those people who have gone before us, laying the physical and emotional infrastructure for the lives that we live today.