CHAPTER #15

Donald Aikins MacFadyen and others.

I am rather glad that I was too young to have known Don in his salad days. I'm not saying that he's become any more trainable with age....but he has mellowed a little, although not by much.

Don has always been supremely self-confident and, because of that, has never hesitated to take risks in both personal and business affairs. I remember that, when the company he worked for refused to buy some equipment that Don deemed essential, he just went out and bought it himself then leased it back to the company. It seemed the only way to get things done. He still takes risks that sometimes cause me to swallow my Adam's apple but, most of the time, he succeeds in achieving whatever it is he sets out to do.

I've talked a little bit about Don's wartime experiences in these recollections so I won't say much more about them now. He was a brave night-fighter pilot and is featured in all the books on Canadian Aviation history about WWII. He is one of a handful of pilots profiled in a book called The Tumbling Sky and is frequently asked to provide his autograph for history buffs. Recently we were told that a portrait of him, along with a summary of his wartime exploits and decorations, will be placed in the Aviation Museum at Trenton.

Don was featured in a wartime film called Wings of Youth which was narrated by Lorne Greene. We came by a copy of the film (on video) when an airline pilot, who is also a history buff, saw a photograph of Don displayed at an Airforce Reunion. He recognized Don's face and asked if he was still alive. He then telephoned us and asked if we would like to have a copy of the film. You bet. Rod and I got a kick out of seeing Don (with no hair on his chest at that time) doing field exercises, talking with the commanding officer and then going up in an airplane with a camera attached to its wing so that it could photograph him doing acrobatics in the air. After seeing Don flying upside down and doing somersaults in that film I was really glad I didn't know him way back then.

The RCAF 418 Squadron, with which Don was most closely associated, recently celebrated its very last reunion. Most of the members who are still around attended, as did we. Don's two best friends and navigators were there also: Rob Bruce and his wife Beatrice travelled all the way from Gloucester, England, and Jim Wright (and his wife Laurice) came down for it from British Columbia.

It was a poignant affair with a piper, a five piece band playing all the old songs from the '40s, a splendid dinner, and speeches recalling some memorable past events. I can attest to many surreptitious tears being shed that night, especially by my old softie husband - and me.

Don's middle years were busy and successful. As an officer and trouble-shooter for Hunting and Northway Surveys, he travelled the world, and since you have followed him on part of those journeys, through these recollections, I won't go into any more detail.

For a number of years Don was absorbed in a search for his Scottish roots. His grandfather was a Baptist minister who emigrated from Scotland with a young family which grew to include eight sons and four daughters. I don't know how he did it on a minister's salary but all the children thrived and led full and productive lives.

Through the search for those roots Don met a distant cousin who came from Tiverton, the small town where Grandfather Alexander and some of his family members are buried. Florence Lambden is now a good friend of the family and, because she is the same age as my own mother, I feel especially close to her. (Florence has since passed away).

Don made one or two trips to Scotland himself and met other MacFadyens on Tyree. In typical Don fashion, he researched the Clan tartans and when he found that there had once been a MacFadyen tartan (it is a sept of the Clan MacLaine) he ordered a bolt of it to be woven again so that he could have a kilt made for himself and any other MacFadyens who might want one.

About ten years ago Don attended a Clan Reunion in Roanoke, Virginia, and I was commissioned to do a portrait of the Chief for presentation at that time. I was also asked to put Castle Moy in the background as it was the ancestral home of the Chief of the Clan MacLaine of Lochbuie. The castle has been in ruins for centuries, of course. A rival clan exists called the Clan MacLaine of Duart which the Lochbuie people tend to pronounce as "Dirt".

While in Scotland on his roots search, Don was out in the rain one day, turning over gravestones, when he spied four legs sticking up out of the heather some distance away. Investigating further he discovered a big fat sheep lying, feet up, in a hole. The poor sheep, unable to get up, might have died if it hadn't been found. At any rate, with much levering Don managed to get the animal on its feet, after which it urinated for 10 minutes, looked him gratefully in the eye and tried to go home with him. Fortunately its flock was seen grazing in the distance and the stray thought better of adoption. Although considering the amount of mutton eaten in Scotland it might have been better off with him after all.

Don has been actively searching for diamond properties in Canada for the past fifteen years and there has been no time to continue his genealogical studies, but he does still occasionally hear from the MacFadyens on Tyree as well as a number of other distant relatives unearthed in the original investigations.

Don had the misfortune to have a heart attack in '93, the result of too much stress and too many hamburgers and French fries for lunch. Fortunately he survived it well and since that time has been fairly good at sticking to the proper diet and regimen, although he grumbles frequently about the side-effects of some of the medication he takes.

Then, six years later, just when everything seemed to have been nicely stabilized, Don had two strokes in one year. The first left little evidence of its passing but the second caused him to experience some impediment to his speech. Now he cannot always find the words he is searching for and it causes him endless frustration - let's face it, this man lives to talk - but, having a great deal of determination and stamina, he simply soldiers on without too much complaint. Soon to be eighty-two, Don has never even considered retirement: he works full days from Monday to Friday and sometimes goes in to his office on Saturday too. Just to check the fax machine, he says....

Strangely enough, Don is associated with people who are actually finding diamonds, and gold too, in Ontario. There are even five discoveries called MacFadyen #1, to #5. Of course I haven't yet received a single diamond, or even a small nugget of gold, but Don is eternally optimistic and I wouldn't have him any other way. He loves my little mother and, although he has never met my brother, says he has always had a good feeling about him; so, in my book, that makes him much better than all the diamonds or gold in the world.

Every Saturday Don goes to see his good friends Ruth and Andy Andersen. They are the originators of the Hot Stove League, which is just another way of saying that Ruth has to make a lot of tea and snacks for Don, Andy, their friend, Bob, and others to eat while they solve the problems of the world. Theresa and Bill Bryan are also part of this group and once invited us to attend a Robbie Burns celebration in their home to eat haggis, read poems and sing songs. In keeping with the spirit of the occasion Don wore his kilt and even had a small dirk tucked into his sock for emergencies. Andy does lapidary work, grinding, polishing and facetting stones with great skill and Ruth sets them into jewellery to sell at craft shows.

I probably should mention that Don met the Andersens through a mutual interest in facetting. After his official "retirement", Don spent two years getting a degree in Gemmology and was so good at facetting gems that he became an instructor at Georgian College in Barrie for a number of years. Because Barrie is a two hour drive from Toronto, Don used to spend the night with his old airforce friend, Tom Andersen, who lived up there at the time; in that way Don was able to arrive at the college in time to instruct an early morning class.

Tom Anderson was a diabetic and, being a widower, lived alone. He enjoyed having Don's company and Don was instrumental in saving Tom's life on two occasions when he arrived to find Tom in a diabetic coma. Once he had fallen into a ditch outside the house while his dog waited anxiously beside his unconscious body. Sadly, Tom died of the disease some years ago and Don felt the loss of his friend very keenly.

Cats and mice.

Siamese cats have always been central to our lives in Canada and they are especially important to Rod. He loves our cats so much that he won't go anywhere for any length of time because he knows they will miss him (and he them).

I mentioned earlier that our first cat Mingo died in '83 and we acquired Topaz as a replacement. Then Topaz died in '86 and Bluebell and Blinky came into our lives. Blinky died in '97 and Angus and Amy were imported to console Bluebell and the rest of the family. Each cat has had it's own special character and place in our hearts. Sadly, Rod and I have had the tearful task of holding each of our five beloved cats as they were euthanased. However, we've also been consoled by knowing what a painless, peaceful passing each of them had.

Up to now I've said very little about the adventures we've had with field mice. The MacFadyen Mouse Motel is a prime destination for many of the rodents in our ravine each winter. There is a well trodden path up the vine outside, through an invisible hole, and into the ceiling of the recreation room. At night they can be heard squeaking and rolling toys around to entertain the babes. When the babes grow up and set off to make their own way in the world, however, they sometimes get lost and fall down the space between the wall shared by the recreation and laundry rooms. Hearing their desperate jumps and pitiful scratchings, imagining their panic and even slow death, is always more than Rod and I can tolerate so we developed a rescue technique of our own.

Into the laundry room, locate the level of scratching, get a drill bit and make an escape hole one inch in diameter. Next put a stool under the hole with a box on it containing seeds. Before long, mouse jumps through hole, grabs a few seeds, and is put outside. Easy. One time I saw a little whiskered face at the opening before the box was in place so I quickly grabbed a glass jar and caught two of them one after the other. The wall has nine holes in it now, at various levels, and even though we haven't had any escapees for some time, we consider them to be safety Fire Exits for the MacFadyen Mouse Motel.

Amy did manage to catch one adventurous rodent last winter. We heard a strange growling sound as she ran past the door with a mouse tightly clenched between her teeth. Alarm bells rang as we chased her all over the house (the two other cats, Don, Rod, Mum, and me) until we cornered her in the kitchen. Unfortunately the mouse was dead. It was a horrible, gory sight, but one that left Amy with an insatiable thirst for blood and glory. Since then she's been constantly on the hunt for another one.

Two winters ago we caught a total of 35 mice on 35 successive days in one of those Have-a-Heart traps that allows you to release them alive into the garden. It's been said that we were catching the same mice over and over again, and that may have been true. Rod kept big bags of birdseed in the vestibule downstairs and until these were stored in plastic garbage cans, we continued to catch mice. Despite the fact that the supply has now dried up, Angus and Amy live on in eternal hope: each evening they crouch in front of a small round hole at the base of a door jamb, waiting. I always close the door - just in case.

More sadness.

Sadly, Don's sister Joan was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease in the late '80s. While we were all completely devastated by the news, Joan accepted it with her usual calm, good grace.

All through Joan's illness Bob cared for her tenderly and, as the disease progressed, Susan and Sally helped to feed and bathe her with loving care. Eventually, when Joan needed to be placed in a nursing home, Bob visited her every day. When she died, some six years later, Bob felt totally lost and, although he went to live with Sue for a while, it wasn't too long before he joined Joan in what we sincerely hope is heaven.

Don't you think that when a friend or family member dies it always makes us reflect on the legacy that person has left behind? We recall happy memories mostly, but sad times, too. I firmly believe that those friends and family members live on through their children - and in the things those children might do to make this world a better place. And they live on in the hearts of their loved ones... forever. That seems to me to be a legacy worth leaving.

Okay, that's enough. I've just decided that the rest of my recollections have got to be compressed into one final chapter. I simply cannot ramble on forever about cats or mice or even immortality.

It has taken five months to write this memoir for my mother but before I end this chapter, I must thank the people who helped me along the way.

My brother, Eddie, of course. He checked an early draft and, among other things, corrected me on one very important point: the year in which I first got married. I thought it was '54 and he reminded me that it was '55, several months after his own wedding to Joan;

Yvonne Komlenovich, Tina Noble and Babs Currie kept me going with their unfailing interest and encouragement;

Nick Holwell followed the developing story all the way and called me up if he found any glaring errors: like typing Ottawa instead of Oshawa;

Gwen Daffern questioned the length of time we had lived in our house: I said 42 years (counting from the time Don and I were married) when it was only 33!

Sally and Sue straightened me out on several key points; and my two guys did sterling duty as proof readers. Don even said these pages have filled many holes in his memory.

I thank you all very much indeed for your invaluable help and encouragement! It means a lot to me that you cared enough to want to read my story.