Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

It was early November 1953 when my fellow apprentice soldiers and I arrived in Montreal by train. It seemed to us a huge city. We were staying at the Royal Canadian Ordnance Corps on Hochelaga Street, and after debarking from the bus, we were taken to the administration building to be documented. My name was listed as Thomas John Lessard, and not the way it should, John Thomas Lessard. I tried to explain the error and was told by the clerk that it was on all my paperwork and would take too much time to rectify. He said, “This is the army. Live with it.” As a result, I have been correcting it all my life.
Carrying on, we paraded to the quartermaster stores to be kitted out with uniforms, bedding, schoolbooks, rifles, etc. Our medical was set for the next day.
We made our way to the barracks, which was a two storey, typical military structure. Ours had classrooms upstairs and downstairs, along with a laundry room, dormitory style bedrooms, our own administration offices and NCO quarters.
It wasn’t until the next day that we discovered the worst thing about our camp. After we were rudely awakened in the morning, we were told that we had 10 minutes to get cleaned up, dressed and get outside to parade to the mess hall. When we stepped out the door and into the crisp November air of Quebec, we were greeted with one of the most God-awful smells any of us were to meet the rest of our lives. Situated a couple of blocks away was an Imperial Oil refinery neatly on the west side of the fences. A couple of the weaker stomached youngsters turned around and went back into the building, only to be quickly escorted out again. The mess hall was a couple of streets west of where we were, which made the oily stench worse — as if that were possible. Anyway, we struggled through the smell. That was the first of my experiences with army mess halls, and the food was actually very good. Being 16 years old we had pretty good appetites, and were even allotted extra rations.

Last Monday, my wife (her name is Rita, and she’s cute) and I took at drive to Londesborough to try to find the hall at which we would be going for a wedding reception the next Saturday. Since there were no restaurants in town we carried on to Bayfield to DJs. Everyone I know is aware of this establishment. I remembered my sister telling me that an old school chum lived in this town. We looked him up and, sure enough, after 60 years we met again. Being older now, we each have minor medical problems, but still are pretty chipper. As he had to visit his doctor, we had a short but wonderful meeting. Like mine, his wife is in pretty good shape. We both chose our life partners very well.

Happy birthday Donald Dinney, Christopher, Will, Connie, and Olivia Lessard.
Congratulations to Liette Clarke and Jeff Burton, who have a new baby girl.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

My military career of 18 years took me to many places I probably would never have gone on my own. When I joined the RCOC in 1953 at the age of 16, I was sent to Montreal, where the ordnance corps school was located. For a kid that young who had never been away from home, it was quite an exciting experience. One of the best times was when we had to do our qualifying on the rifle. We had to take a bus to Mt. Bruno off the island and into the Gatineau hills. Beautiful country.
After completing my training, which took almost two years, my first posting was to 27 COD on Highbury Avenue in London. For the first two months, I was living in Wolseley Barracks, but was told that I had to move out and find a place on the economy (in other words, an apartment or a rooming house). One of the older guys showed me a rooming house on Hale Street, just a ten-minute walk from work. The lady who ran the place had two small children and 21 boarders whom she fed and housed. She found room for me on the third floor (at one time the attic) with seven other tenants, all army. We ate and lived – and caroused – together. It was a very interesting time. They certainly taught me a lot, about half of which they shouldn’t have.
A little more than a year later, the Suez Crisis occurred. Up on the notice board, a request for volunteers was posted. The first name to be entered was yours truly. Off I went to Egypt for the better part of a year. Six months after I returned, there was a request on the board for a storeman to go out to Wainwright, Alberta, as increment attached to the RCEME workshop for a three month summer exercise. I got the job, but when I reported in, I was told that I would be the C.O.’s batman-driver. That was a pretty cushy duty. It was a surprise for me to find out that my brother-in-law Sam was stationed in Calgary with the Queen’s Own Rifles, at whose camp we bunked before heading north to Wainwright. I didn’t realize until then that my sister was living there; they showed me a great time.
Back to London. The next year I was back to Alberta again. Another good summer.
I wanted to go to Germany and the only way to get there was to get posted to the 1st battalion, the Royal Canadian Regiment stationed at Ipperwash. I didn’t even know where that was. I soon found out and was pleasantly surprised to experience one of the best camps I was ever to live in. The other in consideration was Lizard Flats in Cyprus.
While with the battalion, I had three years in Germany, two tours in Cyprus, two summers in Petawawa, one in Gagetown, winter exercises up north, and a month in Jamaica. If not for the army, I wouldn’t have gone on an upgrading course in Montreal, where I met my future wife. She travelled with me to Germany, where we married and had our first two boys. Rita turned 69 earlier this month (happy birthday).
Happy birthday this month to Bob and Jessica. I hope everyone is enjoying this beautiful spring weather. It’s nice to be alive.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

(Editor’s Note: Please remember that these are memories of a time long ago, and the activities described in the following story are neither condoned nor recommended.)

My buddy “Bobbie” and I were walking back to the barracks one summer evening when, out of the blue, he says, “Let’s go to Port Huron.”
The canteen was closed and the hotel in town would be closing at midnight. With Ontario being on daylight saving time and Michigan on standard time, the bars were going to be open for a while, especially considering some of them stayed open until 2 a.m. in those days.
Away we went. With very few OPP around and the speed limits higher than today, it didn’t take too long to get to our destination. At the bar we went to, there were already a number of Canadian military enjoying some time off. We closed the place.
Bobbie was in pretty rough shape as we got to the car and took off. I was able to hold my liquor better than he could, but he still wouldn’t let me drive. About halfway home, he turned his head to barf out the window, and sure enough, t was closed. You can just imagine the mess.
Undeterred, we continued home. We pulled into the parking lot at the rear of the camp, turned off the motor, and staggered to the barracks. It was about 4 a.m. by this time, and we had to be up at 6 a.m.. Because we didn’t leave camp by the front gate, we didn’t bother getting passes, which I suppose meant we were AWOL, but we never got caught on any of our excursions.
The afternoon was very warm and sunny, and we didn’t get back to the car until after duty at 4 p.m. Our first mistake was opening the doors. The odour and flies were enough to make us throw up, but neither of us did.
We had to haul our rears back to the shack and get a bucket, soap, rags and tools. The door panel had to come off, and the glass had to be taken out. With the sun shining on the car all day, it was like an oven inside and Bobbie’s heavings from the night before were caked on the door, glass and floor. I’m sure we didn’t get it all off because the smell lingered for what seemed like forever. It took us until about 10 p.m. to get the car cleaned as best we could and put back together.
We were sweaty and smelly, so we we drove down to the beach and cooled off in the lake. We were thirsty and I remembered that I had picked up a six-pack in Port Huron. I don’t know why it hadn’t exploded from the heat, but it was still intact. When I opened a can, the beer shot into the air and left me with about half a can of warm liquid. Undaunted, I drank it up and grabbed another. Bobbie wasn’t interested. I wonder why.

Thanks to Gary D. for all the help you gave me and Rita during my rehab this winter. You are very much appreciated.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

Arriving at Camp Ipperwash in 1960, I was directed to the battalion orderly room, where I was greeted and my name entered on the battalion nominal roll. After all the paperwork was completed and I was told about my assignment to headquarters company, I was directed to that office, where all the routines and paraphernalia were explained to me. After pointing out where I would be working, at the quartermaster stores, I was then told I would be living in H Block 26B. The glimpses I had of the camp as I was arriving that morning led me to think he said Stalag 26B, as I was certain that camp resembled this one. Undaunted, I stumbled around and finally found the hut that was to be my home until we left for Germany in the fall of 1962.

The voice of God
My bed was located right beside a window. I dumped my gear and headed for the Q.M. stores. As I was walking across the parade square, I heard a loud voice come over the air. “Halt! Where are you going?!” I thought it was God and almost fell to my knees. “To find the Q.M. stores, sir!” I replied. “Turn right around and march off the parade ground: NOW!” he said. Of course, I obeyed, and later found out that my first thoughts were very close to the truth; the regimental sergeant major is god of the battalion and the parade square is his holy domain.

Fitting right in
I found the Q.M. stores and reported in. By now, it was almost closing time, so the clerk quickly introduced me to everyone available, gave me a quick glimpse of the stores and told me to follow him. He led me outside to the parking lot and we drove to the wet canteen without even asking if I drank or not. The canteen wasn’t open yet, but that didn’t deter him. He just dragged me around to the back door, pounded a couple of times, and we were admitted. Since the bar was legally closed, and you never knew when the orderly officer or anyone else with authority might come along, the bartender took us into the walk-in cooler where we had a couple of pints before supper. Talk about being taught the ropes; I was learning very quickly.
After supper, I was asked to join two of the guys on a tour of Thedford. First stop, just inside the village, was the Legion. It was located off the main road and back in quite a piece so the residents wouldn’t complain about noise or other things that might go on in an establishment that served booze. After a glass or two, we went to the next watering hold, the Thedford Hotel, which would some time later be renamed The Pink Elephant. In those days, it was a jumping joint.
You may not remember, but there was segregation in those days. Every hotel was separated into a men’s room and a ladies’ and escorts’ only room. The only way to get into the ladies’ room was to have one of the women invite you over. There were times when one of the soldiers who lived in town would go home, pick up his wife, and bring her down so we could all drink on the women’s side.
To add to the fun, there were apartments above the hotel and most of the Main Street stores, and we knew many of the married couples who lived there. We had many a party up there in the days when I was stationed at Ipperwash with 1RCR.
A year later, I married Rita in Germany on February 8, 1963. We celebrated 47 years last week. With love, Tom.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

“I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”
Those were the words that came out of my mouth the day I slipped and fell on the ice next door. I had been to town in the morning and walked in and out of a number of stores with no problem. Then I went home.

When I got there, I noticed that the BRA truck had come and gone, so I gathered up my blue box, threw it onto the porch. Then I reached for my neighbour’s to do the same, but walking across the driveway, I didn’t notice a small patch of ice covered with a light film of snow. Sure enough, I hit it with my prosthetic leg. Down I went, and looking back on it now, I think my leg must have landed on the cement step.
What now?
I lay there contemplating what to do. Rita had worked all night, so I thought she would be upstairs in bed, but I called her name a number of times anyway. Luckily she was still up; she ran out and tried to help me up, but my stump was too sore. She ran in, got a blanket, rolled me onto it, and dragged me over to the porch, which had a railing. I still couldn’t get up, so she went inside and got my wheelchair. She laid down a rug, rolled the wheelchair onto it, and engaged the brakes. I crawled backwards and inched my way up. She pushed me to the steps and, because we don’t have a ramp, I had to use crutches to make my way into the house while Rita brought the chair in.
My stump was swelling rapidly, and I asked Rita to fetch some ice. I called Tele-Health, and the nurse said I should go to the emergency room in Exeter for an x-ray. It took us an hour to get outside, into the car and to the hospital; we arrived at 2 p.m.
The waiting room was empty, so I reported to the reception. The doctors were in a meeting until 4 p.m. or so, so we waited until a new receptionist came on duty at 3 p.m. She sent a nurse out to take me into triage, where she took my blood pressure and sent me back to reception to be documented. I was wheeled into examination at 4 p.m. The doctor had a look at my knee and arranged an x-ray.
After the x-ray, the doctor returned to tell me that the results were inconclusive because the swelling was too hard to see through. He was going to make arrangements at Strathroy hospital for a CAT scan as soon as possible.
The next day, the orthopedic specialist’s nurse called at 10 a.m. and asked me to be at the hospital by 11:15 a.m. That was impossible because Rita wouldn’t be home until 11, and the hospital’s an hour away, so she scheduled me for 1:30 p.m. the following day.
The test done, the doctor told me I have two faint cracks in my femur, put my leg in a half-cast, and sent me home. Can’t walk for three months!

It’s an odd coincidence that exactly 35 years prior to the accident, Rita also spent December 16 at South Huron Hospital. It was a much happier event, though, as she was giving birth to our last child, Casey.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

It all began about the middle of November. The weather was perfect for the harvesting of corn and beans, and the planting of winter wheat. Also, it was ideal for the installation of Christmas decorations. Dark evenings became brighter and brighter. First, one resident put up a couple of lights. His neighbour then, not to be outdone, put up a few more. Just like clockwork, the fellow across the street sees his chance to outdo the Joneses and erects lights and blown-up Santas or Scrooges. Sure enough, everyone gets in on the game and pretty soon we don’t require street lights. The majority of the houses have been well laid out, but as is to be expected, some go way overboard. I would imagine this lighting will take a downturn when the so-called “smart meters” come into use.

Electrical problems II
I looked forward to attending the annual lighting of the park in Exeter on a nice evening at the end of November; last year’s lighting was cancelled because of snow. It was disappointing, then, that it wasn’t better organized this year. The donated hot chocolate from Tim Horton’s must have been picked up too early because it was lukewarm, but it was appreciated and polished off nonetheless. The entertainment had a rough time getting the sound to work and so were set back half an hour. When they were able to get started, the countdown to the lighting began, 5-4-3-2-1. Nothing. Soon, the lights did come on. Actually, half of them lit and were followed by a loud bang. Eventually all came on, prompting oohs and ahhs from the kids. We couldn’t sing the two songs that followed because we didn’t know the words. Before the scheduled end time, I followed a large number of revelers to our cars.

The fix is in
This week, we were visited at our old municipal offices by a large delegation of electrical contractors. Maybe the work on our new community centre will begin soon. I’m looking forward to the completion of our recreational facilities in about 2011. If it turns out the way it’s planned, it will give Crediton and area residents something to cheer, deservedly after the mess we put up with these past few years.
I was hoping the new sewers would end the smells that sometimes permeate my house and those of my neighbours, but it seems that someone is still sending paint thinners and sewage into the storm drains. The smell of the thinner was so strong that I called the South Huron offices to send someone out. A man arrived, checked my house and basement, and went out front and lifted the manhole cover. He sniffed and said, “Yep, that’s paint thinner.” I asked him what I could do about it, and he told me to shove a rag into the drain hole, which I did. After a couple of days, the odour was gone. We still get occasional sewage stink through the house, but I’ve never heard back from South Huron. I don’t expect I ever will. Maybe when everyone west of me is hooked up, I won’t have that problem.
Merry Christmas!

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

I was privileged to attend the Grand Bend Legion’s Remembrance Day dinner on Saturday November 7.
My first order of business was to purchase a nice cold beer at the bar. Next was to find where Rita was sitting. My sister-in-law Joan, who volunteers at all of the occasions, directed me to the table, which was right in front of the head table. I’m usually the type who goes to church and sits at the back, so I felt hemmed in sitting in the front: too far from the bar. I felt embarrassed getting up and walking down the middle aisle for refreshments and back up to my seat with all the people eyeing me, so I didn’t. One beer to last me all through the evening? I don’t think so.
Anyway, after the guest pastor said grace, we made our way to the food tables. Legion members and guests are always so friendly and laid back at these functions. Even though everyone is hungry, no one pushes or complains if things don’t go as smoothly as they would like. Once the super volunteer ladies had everything in place, the lines began to move. Plates were filled – some with lots of food and others with less, depending on the individual. I just said, “Keep it coming,” because I didn’t have to cook it. The beef was cooked like no restaurant can do it. These ladies – God bless them – know how to put on a meal that has no equal.
After we were filled with food we were treated with the guest speakers thanking the veterans and those who never made it back to Canada. One speaker made reference to a Canadian who had travelled to France and at immigration he was asked for his passport. Fumbling for it in his pocket, the French officer said, “Don’t you Canadians know that you have to have your passports ready when you come to France?” The Canadian replied, “The last time I was in France was at Dieppe in 1944 and none of you Frenchmen stayed around to check my passport.”
The guest of honour was a young RCR corporal who had recently returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. This soldier did himself proud in his presentation. He shows us slides depicting the environment in which he served: pretty desolate. The conditions reminded me of my tour in the Gaza Strip in 1957. He spoke of the living conditions his unit was forced to put up with. The temperature change between day and night can be very disturbing. The ground does not absorb the heat like it does in Canada and therefore, it can drop from 50 C at noon to 15 C at 4 a.m..
He stressed that he and his comrades try very hard to represent Canada well to the locals, sometimes succeeding and sometimes not. They do think that they are making a difference.
Every year the Legion is making improvements to educate Canadians of the importance of remembering those who have and still do give their lives for all of us. I witnessed this in the number of school children attending the cenotaph ceremony on Wednesday.
I have one request: one of my uncles was torpedoed twice in the North Atlantic while working as a boiler man in a convoy heading for England. He was a civilian, but was never recognized by the government. We need to consider changing the rules for how civilians serving in the theatre of war are recognized for their contributions.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

(Continued from last issue)
The saga of the sewers continued throughout the town with no end in sight. Rumours abounded that the sewers would be finished by December, and the road paved the following year. These optimists must have been talking about another town.
Once the sewers were laid and some paving done, we were told we could hook up. One resident, whose house is situated about 70’ back from the road, was having a bathroom installed in his basement. This required digging deep to make a hook up. The engineers must have misread his instructions because the hook up did not even come close to the sewer intake, which was much higher. The only solution was to dig up the road and put a new intake connection lower down on the main sewer. Unfortunately for the resident, his water was shut off so they could lay the pipes, and his septic tank had already been detached, so he and his wife had no bathroom facilities. The authorities told him to rent a “porta-potty”. Instead, he moved to his trailer for a few days.
For about a year, because of the sinkholes and settling of the roadway, we enjoyed a feeling of driving on a motocross track as we traveled to and from our home. Another year went by with no trucks or tourists going through town, which meant no business for our local gas bar and variety store.
To add to our woes, an inspector found cracks in our new bridge, and it had to be closed for repairs. Detours again.
When hook up time arrived, we were told we had nine months to complete the process, which involved getting estimates from different plumbers and contractors.
The best estimate for our house was $1500, while others were quoted $3000. Our contractor was quick, neat and clean, and took just over three hours to complete the job for $1400. Other people had estimates of as high as $9500. After contacting our contractors, they ended up saving close to $7000. Perhaps there was some greed involved? Some residents are still not hooked up.
Last July, we received a notice saying we had to choose how to pay for the sewer service: either cash up front, or over 20 years at six per cent interest. We had two weeks to comply. The deadline was on a Monday. One of my neighbours was away on holidays and didn’t get the notice until the Sunday before the deadline. Not enough time to arrange for the cash. Another senior citizen arrived at the municipal office the day after the deadline with money in hand and was told she was too late.
To add to her misery, this woman has been trying to sell her beautiful home for quite some time, but prospective buyers are turning away because of a messy property across the street. The same thing is happening in the east end of town, where a neighbour’s yard is littered with cars, trucks, machinery and household articles.
We are pursuing a way to bring to the attention of all residents the bylaws referring to keeping their residences and yards in neat, tidy and good repair. Bylaws are accessible at www.town.southhuron.on.ca under By-Laws: Property Standards 41-2002. Have a look, and then look at your own properties. Pat yourself on the back if you’re up to date.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

Not long after Crediton’s bridge repair was finished and traffic resumed (but not back to the amount we had before the bridge was condemned), tenders were requested from all companies vying for contracts involved in the sewer project.
Finally, the shovels hit the ground. No financial aid was available with no prospects of any in the future; once you start to dig, no grants are available and you are on your own.
Slowly, the main drag was excavated, leaving the town a mess and traffic delayed and rerouted. “It’ll all be completed in a year,” we were told; fortunately for them, they didn’t stress which year that would be. There were plenty of engineers, foremen, heavy equipment operators, and even some labourers on the job from morning until night.
Daily, they ran into unforeseen snags: underground springs, sinkholes, and unknown pipes and wires were among the surprises. By the time they were halfway through town, Centralia was almost completed (by a different company).
As the project continued up to my area, as I was sitting on my porch reading a book and resting my feet and legs on cushions, I was suddenly pelted by rocks and water hurtling toward my house. I had to scramble to get my shoes on, pick up the cushions and chair and my book, open the door and squeeze inside. It was quite a chore and damp to boot.
I looked out my window to see what happened, and saw five people laughing at my stumbling efforts while standing over a hole on the north side, watching the eruption from the water line. Someone told me they didn’t realize there was a line at that location. It just so happened that I was the only one on the street sitting outside watching the entertainment, which led me to suspect that the break was planned.
What goes around, comes around. Later that year, they were working on a manhole in front of my sidewalk and the men needed some water. One of the crew went to the side of my house, took down my hose, brought it to the hole and tried to turn it on. Nothing happened. So, back he went to turn the tap up to full blast. Still nothing. I watched him return to the hole and hollered to Rita to run downstairs and turn the water on. You should have heard the hollering from the hole – no one was holding the hose! My turn to laugh.
To be continued…

Did you know that Exeter’s new radio station, MyFM 90.5 is on the air? Rita and I have listened for a couple of days and so far found it pleasurable. Easy listening music, local news, and talented DJs. Keep up the good work, MyFM.

Keeping the Peace
By Tom Lessard, C.D.

It all began many many moons ago. This is the saga of the bridge, sewers and roads.
“We need a new bridge,” they said. “And your septic systems are shot, and have to be replaced by sewers.”
Detour signs began going up, which meant there would be no entry or exit at the east end of town. Jordy’s Gas Bar immediately felt the brunt of this move as there was no through traffic. This detour had one positive effect on the town. The “race track” (the main road) was virtually shut down and there was no loud truck noise. One negative effect was that, as my wife and I have to clean the Huron Park Post Office, we were obliged to go down Parr Line to Mt. Camel Road and turn left at Airport Line to get to Huron Park (quite the detour).
We took up residence in Crediton on November 8th, 2002; first-time home owners we were. Two weeks later, we received a notice in our front door inviting us to a meeting at the town hall that would explain everything we needed to know about the upcoming installation of sewers. No one had told us of this project prior to this. It was a bit of a shock to find out that it was going to cost us up to $20 000 per lot. From what I have been told by many residents of the town, this sewer project had been in the planning since 1995. Prior to amalgamation there was, so I’ve been informed, $1 million in a fund in the Stephen Twp. budget for just such a project, but that money disappeared when we were taken over by South Huron. At the meeting we were told that requests had been made to COMRIF for federal and provincial assistance to cover two-thirds of the cost, leaving us to pay the remaining third. This would have been no real hardship to most Creditionites. It sounded good, especially to those whose septic tanks were in bad shape. We organized the citizenry of both Crediton and Centralia after we were told that there would be no COMRIF funding because the fund had been depleted.
The push was on. Signs were made up with “No Grants. No Sewers” inscribed on them. Most of the households of both villages attended the next council meetings to voice our displeasure with the powers that be over their caving in to the MInistry of Environment to push the sewers through without any financial aid coming in. I even had sign boards, which I wore, and paraded around in front of the town hall. It didn’t do us a lot of good. It was no money out of councillors’ pockets (all residents of other towns), so they didn’t seem to be bothered by our woes. Projects will proceed with utmost speed.
Thank God for Diane Faubert Tripp. She took it upon herself to make an appointment with the provincial Finance Minister, who was going to be in Goderich. From him, she received $1 million to be shared by the homeowners in both villages, amounting to $3500 per house.
You get a get a gold star in heaven for your efforts, Diane.
To be continued….
Happy Birthday Millie Lessard and Patsy Gray. You both look just as pretty as you did 60 years ago. Love you both.