A FREE GUIDED STORYTELLING PROGRAM FOR SENIORS, THEIR FAMILIES AND COMMUNITY ORGANISATIONS

Your memories. Your stories. Your place. Your pace.

Keep One Memory at a Time© beside you.

Technology and Internet service are not always perfect. Prepare OMAAT on this device once, and the core program can stay with you even when Wi-Fi, cellular service, or an outside Internet service is temporarily unavailable.

A temporary Internet problem should never have to interrupt a good conversation.

Phone: portable and offline-first. Tablet: choose connected or offline use. Computer: connected use is recommended so updates arrive automatically.

Emergency Access

Read.Pause.Listen.Follow.

onememoryatatime.org/app

Before You Begin

There is no right way to use this.There is no schedule and no finish line. One memory is enough.

Foreword

There is something powerful about a memory. Not the dates or the details, but: A feeling. A sound. A smell. A person. A place. Or merely a moment that comes back without warning. For many seniors, those memories are still there. They don’t disappear. They simply wait—for the right way to return. One Memory at a Time was created with a simple idea from the author's memoir: We don’t ask for memories…we help them arrive.

In its earliest form, this program began as a collection of stories and prompts—designed to gently open the door to conversation. What quickly became clear was that something deeper was happening. People were not just answering questions. They were remembering. They were sharing. They were reconnecting—with themselves and with each other.

This latest version of One Memory at a Time builds on what we learned in tests with senior organizations, facilities and individuals. It introduces a more natural and flexible experience to memory recall. But at its heart, nothing has changed. This is still not a program about getting answers right. It is about Connection, Dignity, Being heard, and Being remembered. For more information, visit our website at: www.onememoryatatime.org

The 10-Minute Memory Companion© Training

You do not need hours of training to begin. You do not need special qualifications. You do not need experience. You can become a Memory Companion in about 10 minutes. Here’s all you need to know:

1. Read the story • Slowly • Naturally

2. Pause when it feels right • If someone reacts, allow space and time

3. Listen • Give your attention • Let people finish without rushing • If no one reacts, continue • Allow silence

4. Use prompts only if needed • Ask 1–2 simple questions • Skip them if the conversation is flowing

5. Do less • Don’t over-guide • Don’t fill every moment • Don’t rush.

That’s the training! You are not leading the program; you are accompanying it.

When introducing someone new to the program, keep it simple.

✔ You:

Just read the story,

Pause when something connects, and

Listen.

That’s all you need to do.

✔ What helps new memory companions the most?

Seeing one story succeed

Knowing there is no pressure

Trying it once. Confidence comes quickly through experience.

Do less and let the story work.

✔ Do not ask another question too quickly. Instead:

Wait and allow for the memory to take hold

Don’t turn it into a Q&A by asking one question after another

Don’t expect immediate responses

✔ Let conversation happen naturally. Don’t try to fix emotions

• Do not try to change the subject too quickly

• Don’t try to “lead” every moment by offering solutions

Stay present, acknowledge gently.

The more natural it feels, the better it works.

A simple reminder for every session–“If you remember nothing else, remember this: Read, Pause and Listen”. You don’t need to master this. You don’t need to study it. You don’t need to prepare perfectly. You just need to start. And once you do, the experience will guide you.

Tips for Using This Workbook

How to Use This Workbook

Welcome to One Memory at a Time©. I'm delighted you've opened this workbook. Whether you're using it for yourself, sharing it with a parent or grandparent, helping a friend preserve their memories, or simply enjoying meaningful conversations together with others as a group, you've already taken the most important step. You've decided that a life is worth remembering.

That is what this workbook is all about. It wasn't created to test anyone's memory. It wasn't created to write the perfect autobiography. It wasn't created to fill pages with answers. It was created to help people enjoy conversations, rediscover memories, and preserve the stories that make every life unique.

There is no right way to use this workbook. There is no schedule to follow. There is no finish line. Some people may enjoy one story every week. Others may spend an afternoon talking about a single memory. Some may complete every page. Others may only write a handful of favourite stories. Every one of those experiences is a success. Because success isn't measured by how much you read or write. It's measured by the conversations you have and the memories you preserve. So relax. Pour a cup of coffee or tea. Find a comfortable place to sit. Open this book. And simply begin.

The Only Three Things You Need to Remember

People often ask, "How do I use One Memory at a Time©?" The answer is wonderfully simple.

Read. Read the story slowly and naturally. Don't worry about reading perfectly. Just enjoy it.

Pause. If someone smiles…Pauses…Laughs…or begins remembering…Simply give them time. You don't have to fill every moment of silence. Sometimes the quietest moments become the most meaningful.

Listen. If a story begins to unfold, let it. You don't need to guide it. You don't need to hurry it. You don't need to get back to the workbook. Just listen. Sometimes the best stories aren't the ones in the book. They're the ones the book helps bring back.

That's it. - Read. Pause. Listen.

Everything else in this guide simply offers ideas to make those conversations even more enjoyable, such as memory and sensory prompts as well as the memory moments.

If you’re thinking, “I don’t have a very good memory,” you’re not alone. In fact, you’re exactly where most people begin. This workbook is not about testing memory. It is about allowing it to arrive.

There are two simple ways to experience each story:

THE STORY: Sometimes just hearing the story is enough. This is a relaxed, natural reading experience. There is no expectation to respond. You can: Read it quietly, listen as it is read, write some of your thoughts or simply let it bring back whatever it may.

THE GUIDED STORY: This version includes gentle Memory Moments within the story. There is no pressure to respond here either. You don’t need to choose which one is right. Simply follow what feels natural. These are small pauses or simple invitations to reflect. You may share something, say a few words, or simply listen.

Your memories belong to you. No one else gets to correct them. You can share as much or as little as you wish - A sentence is enough. A few words are enough. Even just listening is enough. You are always in control - If something doesn’t feel right, simply skip it. You decide which doors to open. Let your senses guide you - If details don’t come easily, try remembering how something felt, what you heard, what you smelled, what it was like to be there, or use a photograph. There is a section after each story with some sensory suggestions. Take your time - This is not a test. There is no finish line. We don’t ask for memories; we help them arrive!

Choose a Volume

Each volume stands on its own. Choose the journey that feels right today.

Volume 1 · Our Youth

Choose any memory door. There is no required order.

Story 1 · Volume 1

Our Community Memories

“The Memory Doors We First Opened in Our Youth”

Milford — Where My Character Was Constructed
“Woods, Walkable Schools, and Community Parents”

Workbook image for Our Community Memories

My childhood home in Milford—a suburb of Saint John, New Brunswick—did more than shelter me. It shaped me. It set the default settings of my personality: curiosity, confidence, loyalty to community, hard work, volunteering, and the slightly questionable belief that if you survived a bad idea once, you were probably invincible.

If you were a baby boomer, Milford might make you envious. Not because we had money—we didn’t—but because we had something better: a neighbourhood that functioned like a living organism. It breathed together, watched out for each other, and raised kids the way farmers raise free-range chickens. We wandered, scraped our knees, learned the hard way, and always came home to eat and rest.

In the 1960s, our house sat four homes from Milford School. Grades One through Eight meant a short walk… or a faster run when bullies were involved. Community schools were the norm then. No buses. No long rides. No kids leaving the neighbourhood before sunrise in the winter. We lived close enough to hear the school bell ring like a neighbourhood announcement.

Today, those schools are gone. Kids are bused kilometres away. On paper, that sounds like progress. It removed the heart of the neighbourhood. You lost the sound of children walking to school, the comfort of parents knowing the whole street was watching out for them, and the everyday rhythm that made a place feel alive.

At 3:15, school emptied, and by 3:30 we were already in motion— sliding down snowbanks, skating on the pond, playing baseball or street hockey, or disappearing into the woods like explorers with no map and no fear. Compare that to today, where childhood freedom is squeezed into scheduled blocks, and daylight disappears before kids even get home.

Milford was a four-season national park disguised as a neighbourhood. Beaches, trails, rock climbing, camping, and campfires— all free. No waivers. No wristbands. No adult hovering with a warning to be careful. Just space, trust, and imagination. And the woods—the woods were everything. They weren’t just trees. They were our imagination with a roof. Our classroom for negotiation, cooperation, and the occasional argument over who got to be “king of the camp” with the highest tree climb.

My brother Mike and I bought a tent with our newspaper money when we were nine. It leaked. The zipper stuck. None of that mattered. It was ours. Some kids had family cottages, but we built our own in the woods. We had tools, scrap wood, and wilderness behind the house. We built camps constantly, using whatever materials mysteriously “circulated” through Milford. If boards or nails disappeared, they weren’t stolen—they were donated to KIP, the Kid Infrastructure Program. We were recycling before it was fashionable.

Behind our house lay the woods of Black Charlie—a scary local legend from the 1930s I never met. I’m sure parents invented him to keep us out of the woods at night. That was parenting in the 1950s. No apps. No tracking. Just one mysterious character who “might be out there.” We didn’t understand danger the way adults do. I once balanced across ice floes in rubber boots. Unable to swim, one slip away from freezing water and drowning. Another time, we found a rowboat and decided rowing toward Indiantown—with the Reversing Falls nearby—was a fine idea.

No life jackets. No understanding of tides. Looking back, that was a “what were you thinking?” moment. The answer: we weren’t. We were kids.

I must have had guardian angels—probably a whole rotating crew. But Milford wasn’t just an adventure. It was a community. Real community. Most homes had one income and one parent at home. Small stores knew your name. At eight, I worked at Russell’s store across the street, running deliveries and sometimes minding the counter. She trusted kids with responsibility, and that trust built confidence you couldn’t buy.

We lived simply: a fuzzy black-and-white TV, a party-line phone, a radio with a dial so sensitive it felt like cracking a safe. Patience was built into the technology.

The community raised you. If you got in trouble, the whole street knew. If you needed help, many doors were open and welcoming. And when Mom wanted you home, she didn’t text—she yelled your name, and it travelled like a jungle intercom. Wireless social media, 1950s edition.

That’s what Milford gave me. Not just memories, but a blueprint. You don’t build strong people in isolation. You build them in community—one day, one season, one neighbour at a time.

Story 2 · Volume 1

Family & Belonging

“Family is Where Identity Begins”

The Influencers in My DNA
“The People Who Shaped Me Before I Knew I Was Being Shaped”

Sometimes the life lessons that shape our future come from people who never meant to teach us at all. We inherit more than looks and laughter. We inherit drive, curiosity, and the courage to want more. As children, we often imagine futures that mirror the lives around us. If your father wore a hard hat, you pictured yourself in one too. If your mother ran an efficient home, you assumed that was simply how life worked: you showed up, did your part, and didn’t complain much about it.

That’s what made my own path curious. Where did my desire to be a door-to-door salesman come from? No one in my family or my parents' family (31) siblings held the title “salesperson.” Yet I became one at fifteen and remained one for life—selling products, ideas, fundraising projects, and eventually the belief that a good life is built by knocking on one more door than your fear wants you to. If I weren’t trained in sales by the job title, I was trained by something deeper.

When I look back, I don’t see a family tree. I see a family engine of risk-takers, caretakers, builders, and quiet doers. People who carried entire households through hard times without ever announcing, “Look at me. I’m being a hero.”

That kind of strength doesn’t disappear when someone dies. It leaks forward. It becomes the tone of your life. And before you know it, you’re walking into adulthood with a blend of courage and curiosity you can’t fully explain. That’s what happened to me.

My Paternal Grandfather

My paternal grandfather, Louis Hebert, was born in Cherbourg, France, in 1863 and died twenty-one years before I was born. Yet he influenced my life as if he were sitting at the kitchen table. Some people leave money. Some leave stories. Louis left a legend. At eleven, he shipped out as a mess boy on a French sailing vessel. Today, we barely let an eleven-year-old cross the street alone. Louis crossed oceans. He spoke three languages, deserted ships, survived rough seas and hard luck, and lived the kind of life that usually exists only in sailor tales. In 1886, he immigrated to New Brunswick. His final Atlantic crossing was aboard the Tikoma, earning him the nickname “Louis Tikoma.” That ship’s figurehead now rests in the New Brunswick Museum—a reminder that some lives leave physical traces behind.

After losing his first wife and child in childbirth, Louis was left with eight children and unbearable grief. He didn’t collapse. He moved forward. He married again, had 17 more children, and helped raise twenty-five children in total. That kind of life requires stamina, grit, and an unspoken belief that the work is worth it.

My Maternal Grandmother

If Louis gave me the DNA of boldness, my maternal grandmother, Mary Millinder, Gram, gave me the DNA of steadiness. Born in England in 1891, her childhood included abandonment, an orphanage, and eventually being sent to Canada as a British Home Child. She arrived in Saint John as a 12-year-old girl, indentured to a military family in exchange for room and board. What strikes me most isn’t just that she survived, but that she didn’t turn bitter. Her faith stayed intact. Her kindness stayed intact. I remember the stray cats at her back door—always hungry, always hers. She fed them as if she were feeding the world. In a way, she was. Gram taught me compassion without advertising it.

My Parents

My childhood, surrounded by my parents and the Milford community, was loud, loving, and full of lessons I didn’t recognize at the time. Dad was a carpenter for nearly forty years—dependable, loyal, and quietly generous. He helped neighbours and the church alike without fanfare. Mom ran meals for a small army and made warmth feel normal.

Dad volunteered constantly, selling church fundraiser tickets one conversation at a time. From him, I learned that community isn’t something you admire—it’s something you participate in. When he died in December 1990, the rain poured on the day of his burial on the 23rd. That Christmas remains one of the most tender of my life. Grief has a way of making love louder. Even near the end, Dad gave us humour—a reminder that dignity is sometimes overrated, and laughter is how families survive.

My Brother Doug and Some Important Uncles

Doug, fifteen years older than me, taught me how to ride a bike—and how to fall. “You’ll tip,” he said. “What matters is how you get up.” I still hear that voice most days and take kindly to that generous message of preparedness that rang loudly throughout my life.

My Uncle Ed showed me that door-to-door selling was about presence, not products. Uncle Tom showed loyalty to my country beyond the call of duty by being deaf in one ear during WWI. Uncle Frank demonstrated the quiet endurance for his country in WWI. His army boot brush with his initials knifed in still sits in my office—a small object that outlasted war and a century.

In Review

When I gather these stories together, I see the truth. A career in sales wasn’t the inheritance. Perspective was. I wasn’t self-made. I was family-made, community-made and DNA-made. If I’ve had any success in life, it’s because I was shaped by people who carried more weight than they complained about—and kept moving forward anyway. That is what I inherited. And that is what I hope my stories pass on.

Story 3 · Volume 1

Elementary School Years

“Small Desks to Fit Big Lessons”

School Days and Straps
“Grades One to Six — The Runway to Life”

Workbook image for Elementary School Years

This part of my memoir is a walk back through the school doors I opened from Grade One in 1960 to Grade Six. It’s not a list of report cards or a nostalgia tour of chalk dust and spelling bees. It’s more of a behind-the-scenes look at how school—good days, bad days, bullies, straps, teachers, classmates, and everything in between—helped shape who I later became.

Because here’s the truth: school didn’t just teach me subjects. It taught me consequences. It taught me that paying attention early matters, and that ignoring the basics in Grades One to Six can leave a person limping through life. It taught discipline—sometimes the gentle kind, and sometimes the kind delivered with a leather strap across your hands.

Today, people debate the “right” way to educate children. Back then, there wasn’t much debate. Once you walked through the school door, your parents handed the baton of authority to the teacher. That baton came with high expectations and a clear message: you were there to learn, and the teacher intended to make sure.

No Kindergarten, No Babysitting, No Boredom

There was no kindergarten at my school in the 1950s and 60s. You started school when you started school. Until then, you learned at home and in the neighbourhood—how to share, how to fight (mostly unfairly), how to run very fast, how to eat slowly, how to listen to adults, and how not to get caught doing something you knew you shouldn’t be doing.

That “extra pre-year” in kindergarten didn’t set us back. In many ways, it did the opposite. It gave us time to know our families, our neighbours, and the ecosystem of our community. Most homes had a stay-at-home parent, so school wasn’t needed as babysitting.

Television wasn’t a babysitter either. Programming didn’t even begin until late morning, and there were only two channels. TV was a reward. If you’d been outside all day, you felt you’d earned it.

I honestly don’t remember being bored. In summer, we were out by 8:00 a.m. and came home mainly to eat and sleep. The world wasn’t something you watched on TV—it was something you joined.

Even kids’ shows carried lessons. The Friendly Giant and Mr. Dressup taught kindness and imagination. Bugs Bunny taught persistence. Wile E. Coyote was the first motivational speaker I ever saw, even though an anvil dropped on his head so many times, and he fell off a cliff while trying to reach his goal in life. Pepé Le Pew taught romance with enthusiasm and zero self-awareness, which I do not recommend as a love strategy. Foghorn Leghorn taught one thing perfectly: just listen to others.

When You Entered School, the Teacher Took Over

When you entered Grade One, your teacher became a second parent—with authority to back it up. Corporal punishment was legal, accepted, and often supported at home. Teachers didn’t ask permission to correct behaviour. They corrected it sometimes immediately and publicly. And yes, for kids like me, it worked.

I also don’t remember disruptive students with special needs the way we see them today. They existed, but the system handled them differently. There was a separate school where children received specialized support. Later, integration replaced that model. The intentions were good, but the reality often meant one child could disrupt learning for many while still not getting the help they needed immediately. At times, good intentions don’t always produce good outcomes.

Pass or Fail — No Soft Landings

Failing wasn’t a conversation; it was a consequence. If you didn’t meet the grade average, you repeated the year—even if you passed some subjects. Some kids worked harder. Others grew older, frustrated, and angry. By Grade Six, some classmates were fourteen or fifteen and left school as soon as they could.

There was no talk of learning disabilities—only learning deficiencies. If you struggled, the assumption was that you weren’t trying or weren’t smart enough. That’s a harsh label to stick on a child.

My Other Education

While school taught reading and discipline, the community taught me how to belong. I was an altar boy, a newspaper boy, a delivery courier, a volunteer at a rink and youth center, a Cub Scout, and a Boy Scout. Scouting’s slogan—Be Prepared—sounded simple. Later, I realized it was a life strategy. Preparedness builds confidence. It’s what makes someone knock on a door again after rejection. It’s what helps you improvise when life throws curveballs—and it always does.

Milford School was close enough that I could leave home at 8:55 and still make the 9:00 bell—unless bullies were involved, in which case I could move even faster.

Teachers Who Left Their Mark

Mrs. Pickford, my Grade One teacher, was firm and carried a strap. I earned it twice. Once for jumping into a puddle and soaking another student. Funny to me. Not funny to anyone else. The message was simple: choices have consequences.

Grade Two belonged to Ms. Ward—kind, gentle, and safe. Nothing dramatic happened, which is probably the highest compliment a teacher can receive.

Grade Three brought Mrs. Gibson—four feet something of pure discipline—and the last time I ever saw the strap. It also brought film strips, science experiments, and my first sense that the world was bigger than Milford.

Grades Four and Five brought structure, geography, and the seed of curiosity about the wider world.

Grade Six was chaos under a too-gentle, first-year teacher. It taught me something important: structure matters. Discipline matters. Not to crush kids—but to give them stability. It also gave me my first swear word. One push, one moment, and suddenly I realized that growing up includes discovering you’re capable of becoming someone you didn’t expect to be.

Elementary school didn’t make me a salesman, but it built the runway. It taught me to show up, handle pressure, and live with consequences. Some kids never found their footing. Some acted out because they were ashamed. That’s why Grades One to Six matter. They aren’t “just the basics”, they’re the runway to your life's future. And later, when I knocked on doors and handled rejection, I wasn’t starting from zero. I was starting from Milford School, where I learned, sometimes painfully, that the bell rings whether you’re ready or not, and you'd better show up.

Story 4 · Volume 1

Faith and Belonging

“Before I Understood Faith, I Felt It”

My Years as an Altar Boy
“Service Taught Me Discipline, Sorrow Taught Me Empathy, and Faith Taught Me Strength.”

Most seven-year-olds would have been terrified to stand at the front of a church with hundreds of eyes on them. But for me, serving as an altar boy at St. Rose Catholic Church in Milford became my introduction to volunteerism. It didn’t pay, except for the occasional tip at a wedding, but it gave me something far more valuable: lessons in discipline, dependability, and service.

I began in early 1961, when the liturgy was still in Latin and ended in 1965 when the priest faced the people. I didn’t understand the words, but, like a parrot, I could repeat them. What mattered more were the actions, the rituals, the precision, the expectation to do things right. None of my brothers or friends joined; I suppose I just wanted to serve.

My parents ensured we never missed Mass. On stormy mornings, Dad would call out, “Coats on, everyone, we’re still going!” As we piled into the car, Mom would add with a half-smile, “If we don’t make it, at least we’re headed in the right direction.” To them, attendance wasn’t optional; it was faith in action. Photos, as they say, speak 1000 words. This is my family in this 1960 photo, gathering for church on a Sunday morning. To everyone's surprise, my brother Mike did not bring our cat.

The Demands of Service

By age seven, I was juggling church duties with school, chores, and my newspaper route. Some weeks, it amounted to a 30-hour workload plus school. We had to keep cassocks pressed, arrive early to prepare the altar, and be ready for weekday services, weddings, and funerals. Weddings were the bright spots. Once, in 1963, I earned $10 for a ceremony and even joined the priest at the reception. When the bride pressed the bill into my hand, whispering, “Thank you, young man, you did wonderfully,” I felt ten feet tall.

Funerals, however, were different. Standing before grieving families taught me early lessons in sorrow and empathy. Two or three a month was not unusual, and often they were families I knew. After one particularly heavy service, another altar boy leaned over and whispered, “I don’t know how you keep from crying.” I whispered back, “Sometimes I don’t.”

I’ll never forget Father Osborne, our priest. He was kind and respectful and never gave us any reason to fear. He even had the first colour TV in the community in 1963, inviting altar boys to watch Bonanza or Disney on Sunday nights. We’d gather around the screen, wide-eyed and in awe, to view our favourite shows in colour.

Lessons from Loss

The funerals left deep marks. These are three that made the most impression.

Charles Ferris (1963): a father of six, gone at age 44 after a failed surgery. His son, Mike, would later become my high school classmate and, much later, a key employee at my company.

Norm Doyle (1965): only 14, drowned after diving into the St. John River and striking a submerged log. His death darkened our summer. Our parents clutched us tighter.

Jim Palmer (1968): my father’s golfing friend, who collapsed on the first hole. Seeing his open casket at his home, in the same room where I watched TV with his son Blake, haunted me. I couldn’t go back to their house or TV room again.

These experiences brought me face-to-face with mortality before I was a teenager. They also stripped away stage fright. Once you can stand before a grieving crowd, you learn quickly that an audience of strangers is nothing to fear.

In Review:

Becoming an altar boy at age 7 taught me responsibility, courage, and the value of serving others. Weddings gave me joy, funerals gave me compassion, and long hours gave me discipline. It wasn’t about the money—or the lack of it—but about learning that service to others builds character. These lessons learned over four years would later shape how I approached people in sales, business, and life itself.

Story 5 · Volume 1

First Responsibilities

“When Someone Else Was Counting on Me”

A Recollection from the Paperboy
“My First Lesson in Responsibility and Service”

Workbook image for First Responsibilities

If you were around in the early 1960s, you probably remember the soft knock at your door sometime between 4:30 and 6:30 in the evening. In the winter, it was usually followed by a sharp rush of cold air as you opened the door, revealing a small figure with wind-chapped cheeks, a canvas bag slung across his chest and boots caked in slush. That was me. Your paperboy.

I started my route just after Labour Day in 1962, at the age of eight and a half. Fifty-two customers and six nights a week to serve. Every one of you waited for the Evening Times-Globe in Saint John. I didn’t just deliver a newspaper; I delivered the day’s voice. The world’s worries. The comics that made you smile and the headlines that made you pause. In a small but meaningful way, I helped keep us all connected to something larger than ourselves.

No, I didn’t throw your paper from a bike. I didn’t ride around like the kids on television, and I did not have a snowmobile. I walked every street. Knocked on every door and waited patiently for you to answer. Because back then, delivering the news wasn’t just about getting it there—it was about being there. It was about connection. It was about trust. You weren’t just customers. You were my community.

To some, it might have looked like a small job. To me, it was my first real business. I ran that route like a miniature entrepreneur. I learned how to plan my path so I could finish efficiently and still have daylight left to play in the summer. I learned basic accounting, sales, collections, customer service, and risk management—long before I knew those words. I figured out which doors needed a gentle knock and which required a firm one to rise above the sound of a loud television or a bubbling pot on the stove. I knew who wanted the paper handed directly to them and the very few who preferred it tucked neatly into the milk box. I even learned the rhythm of your homes by smell—stews, roasts, fried onions—and let me tell you, delivering at suppertime on an empty stomach was a special kind of endurance, nonetheless torture.

Some nights carved themselves permanently into memory. I still remember the day the Cuban Missile Crisis dominated the front page. The world felt like it was holding its breath. I watched my mother cry as she read the paper at the kitchen table, and that night, my paper bag felt heavier in my hands. When I knocked on your doors, I saw the same tension in your faces. No one knew what tomorrow would bring—but everyone needed to know what was happening today.

Then there was November 1963. The day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I remember it not just for the news itself, but for how you opened your doors that night. Some of you were crying. Others stood silent, staring past me as if the world had tilted off its axis. I didn’t say much. I didn’t need to. The paper said enough.

Even on the hardest days, I showed up. Like the blizzard in January 1964. That evening’s paper included a thick 32-page insert announcing the grand opening of Saint John’s first skyscraper—Brunswick House. The snowbanks were high, the sidewalks barely passable, and my bag felt like it weighed as much as I did. It took me nearly an hour longer than usual, but I delivered every copy. Because I knew you were waiting.

Winter delivery had its own quiet beauty. Darkness settled in before I even picked up my papers at 4:30 p.m. Most porches were unlit—many families were careful about the power bill—but the snow reflected whatever light existed. On nights with a full moon, the entire neighbourhood glowed silver. I found comfort in those still streets, my breath fogging the air as I went door to door, feeling both small and strangely important.

Collecting money was a lesson all its own. Each customer owed thirty-five cents a week. I kept ten cents and paid the rest to the publisher. If someone fell behind, that shortage came directly out of my pocket. My supervisor, Peter Arsenault, often reminded me, “It’s your business.” And it was. I learned quickly that timing mattered. Trust mattered. And how you asked mattered just as much as what you asked for.

Not everyone tipped—but many did. A nickel here. A dime there. Mrs. Martin’s apple turnovers on Wednesdays. And occasionally, someone would hand me a full dollar and say, “Keep the change, kid.” That generosity stayed with me far longer than the coins themselves.

Those years shaped me more than I understood at the time. They taught me discipline, dependability, accountability, and the importance of showing up—even when it was cold, inconvenient, or difficult. They taught me how to serve others quietly and consistently. Lessons I carried into every chapter of my life.

So, if you ever wondered what became of your paperboy, I’m here to tell you this:

I still remember your doors and the smells of your supper plate.

I still remember your faces.

And I still remember the weight of the news in my hands. And even now, all these years later, I still smile whenever I see a front porch glowing softly on a winter evening.

Story 6 · Volume 1

Work & Money

“Work Gave Money Meaning”

A Young Man’s First Steps into Door-to-Door Sales
“The Knock That Changed Everything”

It was the summer of 1969 in Saint John, New Brunswick, and I was fifteen years old—just stepping into high school, restless, and hungry to do something that mattered. I didn’t yet know what I wanted to be, but I knew I wanted more than standing still. Like most families in our neighbourhood, we lived on one income. There were nine of us under one roof, and money didn’t stretch very far. My mother stayed home, my father worked hard, and every dollar had a job and commitment before it ever arrived.

By then, I had already learned how to earn. At age 8, I began delivering newspapers. For four years, I added grocery deliveries and a few low-paying neighbourhood chores to my route.

Along the way, I volunteered wherever I could—altar boy, rink cleaner, hockey ice flooder, and youth centre cleaner helper. None of these roles came with a title, money or a promise of the future, but each came with responsibility and dependability. They taught me how money feels in my hand, how quickly it can slip away, how effort is tied to outcome, and how the community notices when you show up consistently.

Still, I was looking for something more permanent in the summer. Picking blueberries door-to-door helped, but it lasted only a few weeks. I needed something that didn’t depend on a few weeks in the growing season.

Then, on Sunday, July 20, 1969, at 5:15 p.m., the world watched as Neil Armstrong took one small step onto the surface of the moon. The next evening, Monday, July 21, at exactly 6:05 p.m., I took my own first step into the unknown. I stood on the front porch of a stranger’s home, holding a Fuller Brush sample case and a sales order book, hoping someone would answer the door. Someone did.

I smiled, introduced myself, and delivered my pitch. To my amazement, the woman bought something. What lit me up wasn’t the sale itself; it was the realization that I could connect with a complete stranger. I was nervous, yes, but I felt alive. That night, I set a record for my supervisor. More importantly, I discovered something about myself that would shape the rest of my life: courage.

The 1960s were a golden era for door-to-door sales, from Electrolux and Kirby vacuum cleaners to Watkins Remedies, Avon, Amway, and Tupperware. The front door wasn’t just an entryway—it was an invitation. People answered it. They listened. And once I found my footing in that world of mops, brushes, polish, and concentrated air fresheners, I began to understand that I wasn’t just selling household products. I was learning a craft—one door, one smile, one conversation at a time.

Story 7 · Volume 1

Christmas, Easter, and Birthdays

“Holidays Were How We Marked Time”

A Time for Family, Friends and Memories
“Remembering the Celebrations that Brought Us Together”

Workbook image for Christmas, Easter, and Birthdays

Some memories from our youth don’t arrive like a photograph. They arrive like a smell, a sound, or a feeling—like the sting of cold winter air in your nose, the smell of turkey in the oven, the rustle of tissue paper around a gift, or the astonishing way a child’s stomach can hold more candy than any medical textbook says is reasonable.

When I think back on my youth in Milford, my strongest memories aren’t just about the holidays themselves—Christmas, Easter, birthdays— but about the rituals that surrounded them. The build-up. The family rhythms. The neighbourhood details. The way a child’s imagination could

turn a simple moment into something sacred.

Christmas Eve: The Fire Hall and “The Bag”

My first clear Christmas Eve memory was in 1958. I was four years old, and my father, like clockwork, brought us to the local fire hall at about six o’clock. That was the hour Christmas officially started. We lined up with all the other kids, bouncing in place like we were powered by invisible springs. Sometimes the snow was blowing sideways. Sometimes it wasn’t. But it didn’t matter. A snowstorm only made it feel more official, as if Christmas had to fight its way into Milford and we were the welcoming committee. And then there he was. Santa.

Not a mall Santa. Not a department-store Santa and not a “we’re pretty sure that’s Mr. So-and-So from down the street” Santa. This was the real Santa. The Milford Santa. The kind you believed in with your whole body, right down to your toes. The excitement was so intense it bordered on medical. The kind where you forget to blink. The kind where, well… let’s just say it was a pee-in-your-pants level of anticipation. And then you received the bag.

Not a sensible little treat bag. A large one—stuffed with candy, an orange, peanuts, and a small chocolate bar—handed to you as if you’d just completed a marathon. We walked out clutching that bag like it was gold, and I remember thinking, That’s it. I have done Christmas correctly. To this day, I don’t understand how we ever fell asleep. Sugarplums weren’t dancing in our heads. Sugar was doing cartwheels in our stomachs.

The Magic of the Ever-Growing Christmas Tree

Christmas at our house was unforgettable because Mom and Dad poured their hearts into it. They preserved the magic well into our early teenage years—trees glowing, gifts piled beneath, relatives visiting, and a feast that filled the house with the smell of roasting meat and sweet desserts.

Dad had his own way of adding magic. A carpenter by trade, he was also an artist. Each December, we drove into the countryside, where he carefully selected two trees. Back home, he drilled holes into the fuller one and inserted branches from the other, shaping a perfectly thick Christmas tree. That old drill and his steady hand could have belonged in the Smithsonian.

Then there were the lights. Dad strung colourful bulbs along the outside of the house, climbing icy ladders in bitter cold. They stayed up until spring, by which time the paint had faded and peeled, leaving a Victorian sparkle of clear glass. I thought they looked even better that way. Maybe my dad invented the Victorian lighting trend without knowing it?

A Hallmark Christmas Before the Hallmark Channel

Since I was four, Christmas felt like something my parents built. The living room itself seemed excited to see us for the holidays, as it was off-limits to us kids throughout the year except for these three weeks. Christmas morning was the main event. With four younger kids still at home, we hit the stairs like a jailbreak at five in the morning—pure chaos, laughter, squealing, and collisions, but never anger.

What I don’t remember is my older brother's joining that stampede. Doug, Peter, and Paul were much older—eight to eighteen years ahead of us. By the time I was deep into my Santa years, they were deep into their girlfriend years. They arrived for Christmas dinner, not dawn patrol.

In a way, we were two families under one roof. Mom and Dad seemed to enjoy having a second round of little kids to experience Christmas with all over again. Years later, when I became a father myself, I felt that contrast in a different way. Kelci, our only child, came down on Christmas morning sweet and polite—but without the chaos that multiplies excitement. No sibling competition. No stampede. Just… quieter. We hoped for more children. We tried and lost Gabrielle in 1996. Life had other plans.

Looking back now, I see how fragile and precious those Milford Christmases were—how much depended on timing, luck, and the effort of parents creating magic in a modest home.

Easter: Candy, Church, and Spring

Easter moved around, never quite settling on a definitive date on the calendar. March Easters were cold and stubborn, yet an April Easter felt like freedom: for Catholics, the end of Lent meant candy without guilt, church clothes could finally be lighter, and winter boots could be replaced by shoes.

I remember an Easter cowboy hat filled with candy. I don’t know who decided candy belonged in a cowboy hat, but I respect their marketing skills.

Spring also revealed winter’s hidden surprises—what I lovingly call “Barker Eggs.” Those were the gifts your neighbour's dogs deposited on your lawn all winter for you to clean up in spring. Still, Easter shifted my outlook for renewal. Even as a kid, I learned— without realizing it—to let winter negativity melt away with the snow.

Birthdays: Small Moments, Big Meaning

I remember a special birthday when I was six or seven. Dad stopped at the Fairville Mercantile and bought me a book. Not flashy. But it mattered because he bought it. A working man’s quiet love. Years later, I realized how rare and meaningful that moment was.

There were bowling birthday parties, cake, and the thrill of feeling grown-up. Photos were precious—twenty-four shots per roll, developed months later. When they came back, it was like reopening a memory.

One birthday stands out most. I was promised a new bike in June if I did well in school. Motivation disguised as generosity. When Dad brought home the bike—a gold Leader with streamers—it wasn’t the dream bike I’d imagined. I felt disappointment, then understanding. He had spent more on that gift than on any before. That’s the moment I wish I could revisit—not to change the bike, but my reaction. Love doesn’t always arrive in the shape you picture. Sometimes it arrives in gold paint and streamers, carried through the door by a tired father who wants to make you happy.

The Real Gift

When I look back on Christmas, Easter, and birthdays in Milford, I don’t see candy and gifts. I see effort. I see parents building tradition. I see a community giving a child permission to believe in magic. Those days weren’t special because we had more. They were special because we had each other. You can wipe your tears anytime. I just did.

Story 8 · Volume 1

Hard Moments, Lessons Learned

“Hard Moments Taught Me the Most”

Making a Commitment and Losing Focus
“Commitments Aren’t Measured by Our Intentions in Our Youth, But by Our Follow-Through.”

Workbook image for Hard Moments, Lessons Learned

This story recounts the life lessons and values I learned in my youth while serving daily to check on seniors living alone. I placed it here because it is tied to my paper-delivery business in 1961 and to my sincere desire for everyone to pay more attention to our senior neighbours and friends more often and on a schedule.

We could reduce the fear many home-alone seniors face today. Yet this story is more about my failure to take responsibility for my commitment to help a senior when I was young. Separating something you want to do from what you should do is challenging for a kid, and this is a good example. This is a story that is hard for me to write.

It begins when one of my newspaper customers in the early 60s, Tommy, lived alone in his large family home, which had been passed down over the years. In his mid-seventies, Tommy was frail, lived alone, and his back, bent by osteoarthritis, was making it hard for him to manage household duties.

When I began my paper route, he asked, and I often helped with small chores, fetching water from the well, carrying firewood for his stove, or running errands, and I’d stay to chat with him for a while when I delivered his paper. He tipped me well. I was the only person he connected with daily, as the mailman simply slid letters through his slot without knowing if Tommy was okay. Tommy didn’t have a telephone. My knock on the door was his one sure sign of connection each day.

After over two years of my six-day delivery of the paper, one evening Tommy didn’t come to the door. I knocked harder, then, in concern, I cupped my hands to his bedroom window. His bed was unmade. My stomach tightened when I spotted him lying on the floor. “Tommy!” I shouted through the glass, panic in my voice. Without wasting a second, I ran to the neighbour’s house, pounding on the door. “Something’s wrong with Tommy! Call an ambulance!” It turned out he had suffered a stroke. Thankfully, he survived and returned home a few weeks later. From then on, I made sure my daily paper delivery also served as a wellness check.

In Boston, his brother Jim was relieved and grateful, and he sent me a few dollars in thanks. When Jim visited the next summer, he asked if I would help paint a room and stack firewood. I agreed, and we enjoyed spending time together each day for a couple of weeks, cutting wood for the winter and painting a room for Tommy.

But the next year, when Jim came from Boston in the summer, a distraction came my way. My friend’s father was building a house nearby, and I was invited to help. It felt exciting to be part of something big. I carried wood, pounded nails, laid shingles and showed up every day like I was on a punch clock. I was fueled by the thrill of working on a real construction site.

“Hey, you’re doing good, Tony,” my friend’s father would say, handing me a soda. That encouragement kept me coming back at 7 AM each morning and staying till 5 PM. I didn’t know my friend was being paid. I wasn’t. I had volunteered without realizing it, and my pride masked my disappointment. The worst part was that while I worked there, I neglected my commitment to Tommy and Jim. I dropped by their home for only short visits of an hour or so, and eventually, Jim stopped speaking to me altogether. The sting of their disappointment cut deep. At 12 years old, I had learned the cost of making a commitment and letting someone down.

To Review

This memory of making a commitment to someone and failing to do so has stayed with me throughout my life, and I continue to write about it today as one of my greatest personal disappointments. It taught me that promises, even at a young age, are sacred, no matter how small. A dependable person has incredible power, the power to earn respect and trust. I didn’t fully grasp that truth at the time, but I never forgot it. From that moment forward, I vowed to follow through on my commitments, no matter what distractions came along.

Volume 2 · Planes, Trains & Automobiles

Choose any story. There is no required order.

Open the Complete Volume Two Workbook

Story 1 · Volume 2

Feeding My Curiosity of the Future

“The Journey That Opened My Eyes to Tomorrow”

The year 1967 probably changed the way I looked at the future. Before then, perhaps my vision had been focused mostly on the present and on the small community of Milford where I was growing up. This is not really a story about distance. It is about the feeling of leaving home on a family summer holiday and suddenly realizing that the world was much larger—and far more exciting—than the small part of it you already knew.

As part of Canada’s Centennial celebrations and the excitement surrounding Expo 67, a special Confederation Train travelled across the country presenting Canadian history and celebrating the nation’s first hundred years. In April 1967, it stopped in Saint John, New Brunswick. There were long lineups to tour the railcars filled with displays, exhibits, images, and ideas about Canada’s past and future. Even before stepping aboard, there was excitement in the air. To me, the train itself seemed futuristic. It was not simply carrying exhibits from one community to another. It felt as though it was carrying a glimpse of what Canada might become. I even remember a moving walkway that made the experience feel as though we were floating through time.

I am quite certain that visit helped convince my mother and father that we should travel to Montreal later that summer and experience Expo 67 for ourselves. So in August 1967, our family of six packed ourselves into the car and headed for Montreal. Dad, Mom, Mike, Bonnie, Mary Lou, and I left Saint John, stopped overnight in Upton, Maine, and continued on to Montreal the following day. For a thirteen-yearold boy from Saint John, even the drive was an adventure. It was the first time I had travelled on a four-lane toll highway. The speed, the traffic, the number of cars, and eventually the congestion around Montreal all seemed exciting. No electronic maps directed us, no voice from the dashboard told Dad where to turn, and certainly no telephone sat in the car. Families travelled with paper maps, road signs, memory, and sometimes a passenger who was absolutely certain they knew the way—even when they didn’t. Mom was usually part of that conversation. The journey was not simply about reaching Montreal. It was filled with anticipation because we had very little idea what we were about to see.

We stayed with my brother Doug on Dorchester Street for several days. Each day we boarded a city bus and travelled to the new Atwater Metro station. Montreal’s subway system had only recently opened, and for the first time in my life, I rode through underground tunnels beneath the city toward the Expo islands. That subway ride alone felt like entering the future. I had travelled in cars and buses, and I had seen passenger trains, but this was completely different.

Even the creation of the Expo site fascinated me. Material excavated during construction of the Metro had helped enlarge Île Sainte-Hélène and create Île NotreDame. Something removed from beneath the city had literally helped build something new above it. Then we came up from the Metro and saw Expo 67 spread out before us.

The official theme was “Man and His World,” and to a thirteen-year-old boy, it truly felt as though the entire world had gathered in one place. Countries from around the globe proudly displayed their cultures, inventions, architecture, scientific achievements, industries, and visions of what the future might become. For someone who had rarely travelled more than a couple of hours from home, it felt like visiting the world in a single day.

One pavilion that made a particularly strong impression on me was the Soviet Union pavilion. During the Cold War, much of what we heard about the Soviet Union portrayed it largely as a political rival and military threat. Yet at Expo 67, I saw something different. The pavilion highlighted science, engineering, technological achievement, space exploration, and the people behind those accomplishments. For

the first time, I began to understand that countries were more than politics and newspaper headlines. Behind every pavilion were people who were proud of what they had created, curious about what might come next, and hopeful about the future.

Visitors could also purchase an Expo 67 passport and have it stamped at participating pavilions. Cathy still has hers today. It was a wonderful idea. Each stamp made you feel as though you had crossed another border and entered another part of the world. Sometimes the journey was cultural. Sometimes it was technological. At the Alcan pavilion, for example, you could learn how aluminum was produced. You may not have travelled thousands of miles, but by the end of the day your passport suggested that you had been almost everywhere.

What affected me most, however, was the technology. At the Bell Telecom pavilion, I encountered something called video conferencing. I could speak with my sister while she stood elsewhere in the pavilion and see her live image on a television screen at the same time. In 1967, it felt impossible. We could see one another and talk without standing in the same place. It seemed less like everyday technology and more like science fiction. Yet decades later, that same idea would become part of ordinary life. People around the world would use computers, tablets, and telephones to see and speak with one another instantly.

Expo 67 planted something important inside me: curiosity about the future. It taught me that tomorrow could look completely different from today if someone was first willing to imagine it. It also taught me that many of the things we think are impossible eventually become ordinary when imagination, science, determination, and the right people come together. Looking back, I can see that this curiosity remained with me. Throughout my life, I was drawn to new ideas, communication, technology, and better ways of connecting people. I often wondered not only how something worked, but what it might eventually become. Perhaps part of that began on those Expo islands.

But Montreal would influence my life again. My Aunt Kay and Uncle George were wonderful hosts during our visits there. Aunt Kay especially impressed me with her energy, laughter, and kindness. She seemed able to create fun wherever she went. Years later, in 1979, I returned to Montreal during a difficult period following the breakup of my first marriage. My cousins Louise, Bunny, and Guy helped pull me away from my sadness and reminded me that joy, adventure, and opportunity were still waiting beyond disappointment.

One experience from that visit has stayed with me ever since. We took a bicycle ride of nearly sixty kilometres from Pointe-Claire toward downtown Montreal along the

city’s bike paths. By the end of the ride, I was exhausted and sore beyond belief. Parts of me hurt that I had not previously realized could hurt. But emotionally, I felt alive again. That ride changed something in me.

At twenty-five, I realized that life was not simply about recovering from disappointment. It was about continuing to seek experiences, adventures, people, and moments that reminded you how exciting life could still become. Perhaps that spirit had first taken hold in 1967. A thirteen-year-old boy stood wide-eyed at Expo 67, looking toward the future and wanting to be part of it. Twelve years later, a twenty-five-year-old man climbed onto a bicycle and rediscovered that same feeling. Sometimes a journey does more than take us somewhere new. Sometimes it reminds us that there is still somewhere ahead worth going.

Story 2 · Volume 2

Freedom on Two Wheels

“The Bicycle That Made the World Bigger”

Before kids had video games, cell phones, location trackers, or social media, we had bicycles. Looking back now, I sometimes think those bicycles gave us something children today may experience differently. They gave us our first real taste of freedom. They were also one of the first signs that our parents trusted us enough to let us venture a little farther from home on our own.

When I was growing up in Saint John NB during the 1950s and early 1960s, a bicycle wasn't simply another toy sitting in the driveway. It was transportation, adventure, independence, and a ticket to a much bigger world. The day you finally had a bicycle of your own, whether it was brand new or simply new to you, in my case the boundaries of your neighbourhood suddenly seemed to disappear. Streets that had once felt too far away were now only a few minutes down the road.

I can still remember climbing onto my bicycle early on a summer morning with absolutely no destination in mind. The air was fresh, the streets were quiet, and the whole day seemed full of possibilities. There were no schedules to follow and certainly no parents checking your location every few minutes. That technology simply didn't exist. It was just you, your bicycle, and wherever your curiosity decided to take you.

Our bicycles were basic back then. They had heavy steel frames, an uncomfortable seat, a chain that would not stay on and coaster brakes that seemed to announce every stop whether you wanted them to or not as they screamed. If you happened to own a three-speed bicycle, you were practically the envy of the neighbourhood. I knew of only one. It belonged to Marlyn U, and to the rest of us it might as well have been a sports car.

Of course, every kid wanted to personalize a bicycle. Baseball cards clipped to the spokes with clothespins made them sound like motorcycles, or at least we thought they did. Some had colourful streamers hanging from the handlebars. Others proudly showed off banana seats that somehow made the rider look just a little cooler. And for reasons only a child could understand, we were convinced that if we washed and polished our bikes and put a little more air in the tires, they would somehow go faster.

Our bicycles were also our social network long before anyone had ever heard of the internet. You always knew where everyone was because there would be six or seven bikes scattered across somebody's front lawn or a convenience store. One minute we might be playing road hockey and the next someone would yell, "Let's go to the store!" Within seconds, we would all be racing down the street together like our own little bicycle gang.

We rode to the corner store for candy, to the ball field, to the harbour, to the beach, to visit friends, or sometimes with no destination at all. Half the fun was simply seeing where the road might take us. Even the woods had bicycle paths and shortcuts that only the neighbourhood kids seemed to know.

Every neighbourhood also had that one hill every kid wanted to conquer. We would pedal as hard as we could, our legs burning as we fought our way to the top. Then came the reward. We would point the front wheel downhill, stop pedalling, let gravity take over, and convince ourselves we were travelling a hundred miles an hour and driving with no hands was just something you did to improve your balance.

Looking back, I'm amazed any of us survived.

Helmets were not part of our childhood. Scraped knees, skinned elbows, bruises, and the occasional torn pair of pants were simply part of growing up. If you fell off your bike, you got back on. Usually, of course, after first making sure none of your friends had seen you fall. But when I think about learning to ride a bicycle, I don't really think about the bicycle at all. I think about my brother Doug.

Doug was fourteen years older than me, but he never made me feel like I was simply his little brother. He treated me like a buddy. He was the one who ran beside me at age five with one hand on the back of the seat, encouraging me to keep pedalling while I tried desperately to convince myself that I wasn't going to fall. Like every child learning to ride, I eventually tipped over. I can still remember Doug smiling and saying, "You're going to fall sometime. What matters is how fast you get back up." At the time, I thought he was talking about riding a bicycle. Looking back now, I realize he was talking about life.

Years passed, and life quietly reversed our roles. Doug's health began to decline in his early 50s, and eventually he lost much of his eyesight. The brother who had once guided me through those uncertain first rides now found himself needing a little help from me. Sometimes it was solving another computer problem late at night. Sometimes it was running an errand, driving him somewhere, helping him with something he could no longer easily do for himself, or simply being there when he needed me. I never thought of any of it as paying him back. It was simply what brothers do.

As I look back now, I realize that for most of our lives, Doug and I rode a kind of tandem bicycle together. Sometimes he was at the front, doing the pedalling and showing me the way. Later, I found myself taking my turn at the front. Neither of us ever kept score. We simply helped each other through whatever stretch of road life happened to place in front of us.

Today, whenever I see a young child wobbling down the street on a bicycle for the first time, with a proud parent, grandparent, sister, brother, or friend running behind, I can't help but smile. I know exactly what that child is feeling. And I know something they probably don't. They aren't just learning how to ride a bicycle. They are learning confidence. They are learning independence. They are learning that falling doesn't mean the ride is over. And if they are fortunate, they are also learning something much more important. They are learning that someone who loves them is willing to run beside them until they find their balance.

My bicycle gave me freedom, adventure, independence, and memories that have stayed with me for a lifetime. But perhaps the greatest gift it gave me was my first real lesson in trust. And that lesson came from my brother Doug.

Even today, when I think about bicycles, I don't picture the baseball cards in the spokes, the banana seats, the corner store, or the steep hills we raced down. I picture Doug's hand on the back of the seat. And somehow, after all these years, I still feel it there.

Story 3 · Volume 2

The Best Seat in Town

“The Drive-In Was Never Just About the Movie”

Before multiplex theatres, giant televisions, streaming services, and surround sound in our living rooms, there was the drive-in theatre. Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if it was ever really about the movies. For our family, it was about spending an evening together, and somehow that always seemed to make the movie a little better. It was usually on Tuesday nights in the summer called “Buck Night”. A carload for a dollar and boy did we have a carload! Going to the drive-in was not something we decided to do at the last minute. It was an event. Dad packed the car as though we were heading off on a camping trip rather than to watch a movie. Blankets, pillows, homemade popcorn, potato chips, soft drinks in a cooler, and enough mosquito repellent to protect a small village all found their way into the car. Buying snacks at the canteen, at least according to Dad, bordered on financial robbery, so he made sure we brought enough food to feed half the neighbourhood. Looking back, I think we may have spent more time preparing for the drive-in than we did watching the movie. As we entered the theatre grounds, the enormous screen rose above the field like a monument to summer nights. Rows of cars slowly filled the lot as families searched for the perfect spot before darkness settled in. Beneath the screen was usually a playground where children burned off what seemed like endless energy while parents watched from lawn chairs, enjoying the activity almost as much as they would later enjoy the movie. Once Dad found what he considered the perfect parking spot, the next job was hanging the metal speaker on the partially opened window. It usually greeted us with a burst of static before settling into sound quality that could best be described as an old kitchen radio having a bad day. Somehow, none of us cared. That little speaker was part of the experience, and even today it is difficult for me to imagine a drive-in without one.

For us kids, the movie was almost secondary until it actually started. We climbed over the seats, played tag between the rows of cars, chased one another around the playground, and tried our best to avoid mosquitoes that seemed large enough to carry us away. Every so often, one of our parents would call our name, just loudly enough to remind us that they still knew where we were. Then came one of my favourite parts of the evening: the cartoons, the dancing hot dogs, the popcorn and soft drink commercials, and the famous intermission countdown. The windows would sometimes fog up, forcing Dad to start the car and turn the fan high enough that we could see the screen again, even if hearing the movie became a little more difficult. And then came the song that almost every senior can still hear in their head today: “Let’s all go to the canteen…” It is remarkable how a few words can carry someone back fifty, sixty, or even seventy years. As the evening wore on, the younger children usually curled up under a blanket in the back seat and fell asleep long before the second feature ended. The rest of us fought to stay awake, although I am not entirely convinced the adults did much better. I suspect more than one father quietly nodded off while pretending to be deeply interested in the movie. Teenagers, of course, experienced the drive-in somewhat differently. The movie often mattered less than who was sitting beside you. Cars sometimes arrived carrying more people than anyone thought possible, helped along by a few adventurous passengers hiding in the trunk. Fogged-up windows became part of drive-in folklore. As children, we were far too young to understand why. To teenagers, apparently, they were blackout curtains. Looking back now, I cannot remember most of the movies we watched, although Abbott and Costello come to mind. What I remember instead is the experience around them. I remember sitting beside my family on warm summer nights. I remember Dad proudly saving a few dollars by bringing enough snacks to last through a weekend camping trip. I remember the mosquitoes, the playground, the scratchy speaker hanging from the car window, and the slow parade of headlights as everyone tried to leave at exactly the same time. Most of all, I remember something we probably did not appreciate then. For a few hours, we were simply together. Nobody was looking at a phone. Nobody was rushing off to the next activity. Nobody was being pulled in five different directions. We sat beside one another, laughed together, shared food, watched the same screen, and spent an evening under the stars. Maybe that is why drive-ins still make me smile. It was never really about the movie. The best seat in town was the one beside the people you loved.

Story 4 · Volume 2

The Best Driver I Ever Knew

“Family, Travel & Fatherhood — The Family Car”

There was something magical about the family car when I was growing up in the 50s and 60s. It wasn't just transportation. It was our living room on wheels, our Sunday adventure machine, our family meeting place and, every now and then, our battlefield. It was where we laughed, argued, went to church, sang, sweated through hot summer afternoons, shivered on cold winter mornings, and somehow grew a little closer mile after mile. In many ways, it was a memory engine.

Our family car was a 1958 Chevrolet Biscayne. It had no seatbelts, no air conditioning, no cup holders, lots of second-hand smoke and certainly no entertainment system except for an AM radio. What it did have were two big bench seats, a car full of four and sometimes five noisy kids squeezed together like sardines, and two parents who somehow managed to keep the peace. Looking back now, I'm not sure how they did it.

The biggest battle on almost every family outing was deciding who got the window seat. That argument could begin before the engine was even started. Fortunately, Dad was the judge, jury, and Supreme Court of all family car disputes. Usually one look from him—what we affectionately called “the stink-eye”—was enough to restore law and order. Mom had her own form of discipline. Her famous warning, “Just wait until your father gets home,” had the remarkable ability to improve our behaviour long before Dad actually arrived.

Sunday mornings followed a routine that rarely changed. We piled into the Chevy and headed to St. Rose Catholic Church for Mass. It didn't matter if the roads were covered in snow or the weather was miserable. Church wasn't optional. Dad and Mom believed faith came before comfort, and somehow surviving the trip through a major snowstorm almost made us feel holier when we finally reached the church and discovered how few others had made it.

After Mass—and after finally being allowed to eat because fasting before Communion was still the rule—we climbed back into the car for what became one of my favourite family traditions. Our Sunday drive usually included visits to Gram's house and to aunts and uncles scattered throughout Saint John. Coffee was always brewing somewhere, the adults could talk for hours, and we kids found our own adventures with cousins while quietly hoping there would be one final stop before going home: Rona's convenience store.

To most people, it was just a little neighbourhood store. To us, it was paradise. A small bag of chips and a chocolate bar could make an entire week feel complete. As I grew older, I began to notice something else about those Sunday drives. I began to notice my father.

Dad worked at the Saint John Iron Works as a carpenter for nearly forty years. He worked overtime, weekends, and long hours to support our family on one income. What amazed me was that after putting in those exhausting hours, he still found time to help relatives build shelves, repair kitchens, finish basements, or tackle whatever project needed doing. I remember visiting family members who proudly showed Mom something Dad had built for them. Mom would smile, congratulate them, and then quietly remind Dad that our own house still had a few unfinished projects waiting for his attention. Dad would just smile. Looking back, I realize he never really knew how to say no when someone needed help.

One of the greatest gifts Dad ever gave me wasn't something he built with wood. It was confidence. When each of us reached about fifteen, Dad began teaching us to drive. Professional driving lessons would never have fit comfortably into our family budget, so Dad created his own driving school. Our driveway became the classroom. We learned how to back up, park, judge distance, and ease the car into the garage without taking half the garage with us.

Sitting behind the steering wheel for the first time felt like freedom. Starting the engine, adjusting the mirrors, resting your arm on the open window, driving eight or nine car lengths, and then backing up to do it all over again could make you feel like the coolest kid in Saint John.

By the time we turned sixteen, driving on the road didn't seem nearly as frightening because Dad had already given us something more important than technique. He had given us the confidence to believe we could do it.

Of course, I eventually realized Dad's driving school may not have been completely selfless. Once the boys had their licences, Mom—who never drove—suddenly had her own chauffeurs. Grocery shopping, Scout meetings, appointments, and errands became our responsibility instead of Dad's after another fifty-hour work week.

Looking back, I think Dad may have been a better strategist than any of us realized. Some of my earliest memories of that old Chevy came from family trips. One took us to Boston when I was very young. Today it would be an easy day's drive, but back then it felt like crossing the continent. We travelled the old Route 1 through Maine with children bouncing around the seats while Mom and Dad smoked cigarettes for much of the way.

Different times. Different rules. Or perhaps hardly any rules at all.

On another trip through Salem, my older brothers convinced me that witches lived there and that one of them was coming to get me. That night, lying on my uncle's sun porch outside Boston, I don't think I slept very much. It's funny how memory works. Thousands of ordinary days disappear, yet somehow you remember being terrified by a witch who never existed.

Every year, the old Chevy also carried us north to Rexton for family reunions. Dad came from an enormous family of 24, and my grandmother had well over a hundred grandchildren. You had a better chance of getting an audience with the Pope than getting a turn sitting on Gram's lap. There was laughter everywhere, cousins running in every direction, and enough lobster to convince me that heaven probably looked a lot like Rexton.

Looking back now, I realize the old Chevrolet wasn't really what made those journeys special. It was the man behind the steering wheel. Dad wasn't simply driving us from one place to another. Mile after mile, he was quietly teaching us what mattered: faith, family, responsibility, hard work, generosity, and keeping your word. He showed us that if you started something, you finished it. He showed us that family wasn't something you squeezed into your schedule when it was convenient. You made time for it because it mattered.

Today's cars are quieter, safer, faster, and far more comfortable than anything we could have imagined back then. Some can practically drive themselves. But every once in a while, when I slide behind the steering wheel, I still find myself thinking about my father. He taught me far more than how to drive. He taught me how to travel through life. And when I think about the best driver I ever knew, I don't think about the car he drove. I think about the family he carried.

Story 5 · Volume 2

The Gas Station Was a Social Event

“When Service Meant Knowing Your Name”

There are some places that quietly disappear from our lives before we realize how much we are going to miss them. For me, one of those places was the neighbourhood gas station—Art Morrell’s Shell station on Main Street, to be exact.

Today, filling your car with gas is about as exciting as standing in line at the bank. You pull up to the pump, tap your credit card, fill the tank yourself, and drive away without speaking to another human being. In less than five minutes, you are back on the road. Fifty or sixty years ago, it was a completely different experience. Back then, a gas station was not simply a place to buy gasoline. It was part of the neighbourhood. I can still remember Dad’s car rolling over the rubber hose stretched across the driveway.

Ding... Ding... Before the car had even stopped, an attendant wearing a crisp uniform and cap appeared at Dad’s window with a smile. “Fill ’er up, Harry?” Those four words probably fuelled half the cars in North America for forty years. While the gas flowed into the tank, the attendant cleaned the windshield until it sparkled, checked the oil, looked at the tires, and sometimes looked at the engine if Dad mentioned a strange noise. Nobody considered these things extras. They were simply part of the service. And if no one was waiting behind us, there was usually time for a conversation.

Most of the attendants knew Dad by name. They knew what kind of gasoline he bought, how much he might put in before payday, and often how the family was doing. Looking back, I sometimes think the local gas station attendant knew almost as much about the neighbourhood as the barber. Dad particularly admired Art Morrell and his Shell station. It wasn’t simply because Art sold gasoline. It was because people trusted him. If your car broke down, someone helped. If you needed directions, someone knew the way. If you had a flat tire, someone fixed it. If something did not sound right under the hood, someone would at least take a look. The service station was not just servicing cars. It was serving people.

The stations also had a smell all their own. Gasoline, grease, warm rubber, motor oil, cigarette smoke, and hot pavement baking in the summer sun somehow blended together into something unmistakable. It is remarkable how a smell can unlock a memory that has been tucked away for decades. Even today, walking into an old repair garage can take me instantly back to those childhood road trips. Dad’s order was often the same. “Five dollars regular please.”

It is hard to believe now that five dollars seemed capable of carrying a family almost anywhere, we wanted to go. While the attendant looked after the car, Mom might go inside to ask for directions for a future trip. Long before GPS and smartphones, service stations kept stacks of free folding road maps near the counter. Those maps often became the centrepiece of the next family discussion about where we were going and how we intended to get there. Dad usually insisted he knew exactly where he was going. Mom was not always quite as confident.

And somewhere along the road, one of us in the back seat would inevitably ask the two questions that generations of parents have heard: “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” Those questions have survived every improvement in transportation technology. I suspect the first children to ride in an automobile probably asked Henry Ford the same thing.

Gas stations were fascinating places for kids. There were shiny pumps, colourful oilcompany signs, racks filled with road maps, Coca-Cola coolers, and stacks of brandnew tires. Then there were the promotional giveaways: beach balls, fire chief hats, drinking glasses, and all sorts of things that had absolutely nothing to do with gasoline but somehow made a child excited about which station Dad chose. Looking back, the oil companies may have understood brand loyalty better than we realized. They were attracting future customers long before we were old enough to have a driver’s licence.

The repair bays were even more fascinating. Mechanics worked beneath cars raised high on hydraulic lifts. Air wrenches rattled. Toolboxes rolled across concrete floors. Greasy hands reached into engines and somehow made broken things work again. As a boy, I thought mechanics looked like magicians disguised as ordinary men.

Of course, cars today are remarkable. They tell us when the tire pressure is low, when the oil needs changing, when another vehicle is in our blind spot, and even when we begin drifting out of our lane. A voice tells us exactly where to turn. We can pay without entering the building and leave without speaking to anyone. We have become incredibly efficient but not so in admiring that human contact. I am just not sure we have become more connected. Looking back now, I think the real product those old neighbourhood gas stations sold was not gasoline at all. It was service. It was conversation. It was trust. It was community.

Every now and then, when I pull into a modern self-serve station, I can almost hear that old rubber hose beneath the tires one more time. Ding... Ding... But the bell is gone now. And somehow, I think we lost a little more than the bell. Perhaps when we pay with our credit card it would make that sound just to remind us of what service sounded like.

Story 6 · Volume 2

The Vacation My Guardian Angels Never Forgot

“When the Trip of a Lifetime Became Something Else”

In 1985, while working for Picker X-ray, I won the company’s top salesperson in Canada award. It remains one of the proudest accomplishments of my career. Fortythree sales representatives from across the country competed in a six-month national sales contest designed not only to increase sales, but also to expand market share across Picker’s full range of radiology products. Extra points were awarded when a customer switched from a competing supplier to Picker.

That kind of challenge was right up my alley as I have always enjoyed puzzles, strategy, and numbers. Rather than simply trying to work harder than everyone else, I sat down and developed a ninety-day sales plan. I studied my customers, matched the right products to the right opportunities, and concentrated my efforts where I thought they would have the greatest impact on the contest results. To my delight, it worked. I finished first in Canada. It was just a numbers game.

The prize was extraordinary. Picker rewarded Cathy and me with a trip to London, where we would visit the company’s headquarters and MRI manufacturing facility. From there, we would join a guided tour through Portugal, Spain, and Morocco. The three-week vacation also included a gold Picker Presidents ring and $2,000 in spending money.

It sounded like the vacation of a lifetime. And it was. Just not for the reasons we expected. Our adventure began before we ever reached Europe. On June 23, 1985, Cathy and I boarded a Wardair flight in Toronto bound for London. That same day, Air India Flight 182 had also begun its journey from Canada toward Europe.

Very early into our flight, the captain announced that we would be making an unexpected landing at Mirabel Airport near Montreal. As soon as we stopped, RCMP vehicles surrounded our aircraft. Nobody told us what was happening. Nobody explained why we had landed. Passengers stared through the windows trying to make sense of the police presence outside. Cathy and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, pulled out our little backgammon board, and started another game while we waited. We thought it was a last-minute dignitary that had to get to London right away.

Looking back now, I can smile at how completely unaware we were. At the time, we had absolutely no idea what was unfolding around us. Canada was a very safe place. When we finally arrived in London, it was about five o’clock in the morning by our body clocks. A few hours later, we called home to let everyone know we had arrived safely. Instead of excitement, we heard relief and tears.

Our families had been following news reports of a passenger aircraft travelling from Toronto at 7PM toward London had exploded over the Atlantic after a terrorist bomb. They knew we had left Toronto that evening. They knew we were flying to London. And because the early reports did not immediately provide them with all the details they needed, for several terrifying hours they feared we might have been on that aircraft. Only then did we begin to understand why our own flight had been diverted and surrounded by police at Mirabel.

For Cathy and me, it was a frightening realization. For our families back home, it had been hours of uncertainty. And that should have been enough excitement for one vacation. It wasn’t. That incident became only the first of seven unsettling experiences that followed us during those three weeks. By the end of the trip, it began to feel like the aviation version of that children’s song, “The Song That Never Ends.” Every time we thought the adventure was settling down, something else happened. That should have been enough excitement for one vacation. It wasn’t.

The trip had barely begun when arriving in London at Victoria Station we were welcomed with a private taxi ride that cost about eight times what it should have. We thought the driver was being kind when he “discounted” the fare. The hotel staff later explained that we had been taken for a very expensive ride when we told them it took us 45 minutes for a five-minute fare. It was our first lesson that sometimes the danger on a trip is not in the air. Sometimes it is sitting behind the steering wheel.

The next day, we joined our Trafalgar tour and met a tour director who had been called back from holidays at the last minute due to another tour director calling in sick. She was clearly not happy about it, and for the next sixteen days she made certain the rest of us understood exactly how she felt. Fortunately, we made our own fun with the people on the tour.

Then came our flight from London to Lisbon. Halfway through the flight, passengers on our side of the aircraft noticed a black liquid running off the wing. The flight attendant gasped, the pilot came back to look, said nothing, and returned to the cockpit. For the rest of the flight, we sat there imagining every airplane disaster movie we had ever seen. We landed safely, but I would have appreciated a small announcement such as, “Everything is fine.” Apparently, silence was considered reassuring.

A few days later in Madrid, we stayed in a hotel beside the British Airways and TWA offices. The next morning, we checked out and left for Granada. A couple of hours later, a terrorist bomb exploded in those offices and damaged the hotel killing one person and injuring twenty-seven others. By this point, Cathy and I were beginning to wonder whether our guardian angels were travelling with us or simply trying desperately to keep up. This was Cathy looking over the balcony of our room. Behind her is the TWA sign.

We were shaken enough that we decided to skip the planned excursion to Tangiers, Morocco, and travel ahead to Seville instead. When our tour friends rejoined us, they told us their Tangiers hotel had suffered an electrical fire at 12:45 AM. They had been forced to carry their luggage down six floors in the dark and move to another hotel late at night before leaving again the next morning. For once on this trip, deciding not to go somewhere turned out to be an excellent travel decision. Surely that had to be the end of it. Not quite.

On our flight home, severe thunderstorms near Toronto kept our 747 circling for more than an hour. The aircraft rose, dropped, and swayed so much that it felt like an amusement-park ride no one had volunteered to take. People were using the airsickness bags, and the rest of us were too frightened to bother. Then came the grand finale.

Our last flight from Toronto to Saint John arrived in dense fog. The pilot announced that he would make two “attempts” to land. I did not particularly like the word attempts. The first one failed and we climbed sharply back into the darkness. On the second approach, we still could not see the ground. Suddenly the front wheels slammed the runway, followed by the rest of the aircraft coming down hard behind

them. It remains the first and only time I thought my spine might leave my body by an entirely unexpected route.

By the time we finally arrived home, Cathy and I had survived the aftermath of the Air India tragedy, a taxi scam, a leaking aircraft wing, a bombing beside our hotel, a hotel fire we narrowly avoided, violent turbulence over Toronto, and a foggy landing in Saint John that I still remember far too clearly. And somehow, we had also managed to have a wonderful vacation. That may be the real lesson.

Travel does not always give us the stories we planned to bring home. Sometimes it gives us the stories we never expected—and occasionally makes us wonder whether staying home and looking at the travel brochures might have been safer. But perhaps that is why these stories stay with us. Looking back, Cathy and I have often joked that our guardian angels must have needed a vacation after ours.

Story 7 · Volume 2

The Retirement Dream That Ran Off the Road

“Sometimes a Dream Needs a Test Drive”

One of the greatest gifts of retirement is the freedom to dream again as time is no longer dictated by your employer. After years of working, raising a family, and putting responsibilities first, Cathy and I finally had the chance to think about all the things we had always wanted to do. One of those dreams was travelling in a motorhome. We thought that if we liked it, perhaps we might even buy one. Well… let’s just read the story.

Like so many people, we pictured ourselves parked beside quiet lakes, enjoying campfires beneath the stars, and waking each morning to a different view. Every television commercial and motorhome dealer made it look like the perfect retirement lifestyle. Fortunately, before spending a small fortune buying one, we decided to do something sensible. We rented one for a week.

Looking back now, that may have been the smartest decision we ever made next to deciding against skydiving without a parachute. So on August 10, 2018, I arrived at the rental company excited to pick up our twenty-eight-foot motorhome. They went over an extensive list of inventory in the motorhome including every knife and fork and at one point I thought they would count the toilet paper squares. After signing what felt like enough paperwork to buy a house, a service employee gave me a quick orientation. In about ten minutes, he pointed out the propane controls, explained the black and grey water tanks, showed me how the slide-out worked, demonstrated the awning and handed me the keys. Then he smiled and wished me good luck.

Good luck? Those two words should have been my first warning. There was no instructional video, no driving lesson, no supervised test drive, and no opportunity to get comfortable behind the wheel. Apparently, driving a fourteen-thousandpound apartment on wheels required about the same amount of preparation as borrowing your neighbour’s lawn mower. The rental office sat beside the TransCanada Highway, so getting onto the road was easy. Staying on it was another matter.

Cathy followed me in our Jeep. It suddenly seemed tiny. The motorhome weighed more than three times as it, stretched twenty-one feet longer, stood nearly eleven feet high, and caught every gust of wind like a giant sail. The first transport truck that passed me nearly ditched my retirement plans altogether. The blast of air pushed the motorhome sideways, and for a brief moment I wasn’t sure whether I was driving or simply negotiating with the laws of physics.

From that point on, every passing transport truck became an event. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly that I probably left fingerprints in it. There was no gentle learning curve. One minute I was signing rental papers; the next, I was piloting what felt like a seven-ton condominium through highway traffic at 110 kilometres an hour. I honestly couldn’t understand why no one had suggested a supervised practice drive before sending customers on their way. Bus drivers and truck drivers spend weeks learning to handle vehicles that size. Apparently, all I needed was a valid driver’s licence and a credit card.

Even before leaving home, I had already spotted another problem with the dream. If we wanted to drive from the campground to buy groceries or do a little sightseeing, we couldn’t simply jump into the motorhome and go. First, we would have to disconnect the water and sewer hoses, roll up the outdoor carpet, store the lawn chairs and barbecue, retract the slide-out, secure everything inside, and then reverse the entire process when we returned. All that effort… just to buy milk and a loaf of bread? Having Cathy bring the Jeep along was a good idea.

Our first stop was Fundy National Park. When we arrived early Friday afternoon, everything looked exactly like the television commercials. We found a beautiful campsite surrounded by mature trees, enjoyed the fresh air, and sat outside thinking that perhaps we had discovered our new retirement lifestyle after all…. for about three hours. Then Friday evening around six o’clock arrived. Children now ran through the campground laughing and screaming. Music drifted from nearby campsites. Someone organized what seemed to be an endless game of Washers, where heavy metal washers slammed against wooden targets every few seconds. Clang. Clang. Clang. If you have never heard the game before, imagine someone banging two frying pans together until quiet time at ten.

At our next campground in Sussex a couple of days later, another neighbour decided to entertain everyone with a guitar at eight o’clock while his friend up the road joined in on harmonica. I am sure they were having a wonderful time. The rest of us became unwilling members of the audience till quiet time at 10PM. To make matters worse, the motorhome was not sitting perfectly level. Sleeping felt less like lying in bed and more like spending the night on the side of a gently sloping hill headfirst.

By the fourth morning, with three rental days still remaining, Cathy and I had both reached the same conclusion without saying very much. We had had enough. We packed up three days early and headed home. There would be no refund, but by then our peace of mind was worth far more than the money we were going to lose. Unfortunately, the adventure still had one final chapter. Before returning the motorhome, I had to stop to refill the propane tank, just as the rental agreement required. After paying the grand total of $2.37 for the gas, I pulled away from the refill station. That was when I discovered something the rental company had apparently forgotten to mention. Rear swing. As I turned, the back corner of the motorhome swung outward and scraped against one of the concrete safety posts protecting the propane tanks. More than seventeen hundred dollars in damage. When I returned the motorhome and explained what had happened, one employee looked at me and casually said, “You have to remember there’s a dragon tail behind you.”

A dragon tail? Now there was a piece of information that might have been useful four days earlier. Preferably before they handed me the keys. By the time we added up the rental fee, campground costs, propane, insurance deductible, and repair bill, our four-night adventure had cost nearly $4,300. It was undoubtedly one of the most expensive lessons I had ever purchased.

But here is the interesting part. I do not regret a single dollar. That four-day experiment probably saved us tens of thousands of dollars, perhaps much more. For years, Cathy and I had imagined ourselves owning a motorhome. Four days behind the wheel taught us something we could never have learned from brochures, commercials, or walking through a dealership. The motorhome lifestyle simply was not for us. Sometimes life does not give you the vacation you expected. It gives you the education you needed.

I have always believed in the power of wanting something badly enough that you are willing to work hard to achieve it. That belief has opened many wonderful doors throughout my life. But every now and then, the smartest thing we can do is test a dream before investing in it.

Ours did not end beside a peaceful lake. It ended beside a concrete post. And strangely enough, that was one of the best investments we never made. So if you are ever tempted by those beautiful television commercials showing smiling retired couples sitting around a campfire beneath the stars, do yourself a favour. Rent one first. You may discover exactly what we did. A really comfortable hotel room with room service can suddenly look awfully good.

Story 8 · Volume 2

The Journey That Changed My Understanding of Freedom

“When History Became Personal”

When Cathy and I began planning a thirty-four-day vacation through England, France, Belgium, Scotland, and Ireland in the summer of 2014, we expected it to be like many of our other trips. We looked forward to seeing famous landmarks, meeting interesting people, enjoying local food, and filling another photo album with memories.

We had no idea that one part of the journey would leave a far deeper impression than anything we could have imagined. This was supposed to be a vacation. Instead, it became an education in supreme sacrifice—and in the freedom we enjoy today.

Growing up in New Brunswick during the 50s and 60s, Remembrance Day was one of the most meaningful days of the school year. We coloured paper poppies and crosses and proudly taped them to our classroom windows. Veterans visited our schools, ceremonies were held before we went home for the holiday, and teachers spoke to us about courage, sacrifice, and service. At the time, I doubt many of us fully understood what those words meant. But our parents and teachers made sure we understood one thing: Freedom had never been free.

As I grew older, I learned that the story of Canada's wars was not simply something found in history books. It was also part of my own family's story. My Uncle Tom and my Uncle Frank had both served during the First World War. Like so many Canadian families, ours quietly carried the legacy of service and sacrifice from one generation to the next.

I had always been proud of that connection. But pride and understanding are not always the same thing. By pure coincidence, we arrived in London while Britain was preparing to commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of the beginning of the First World War. One afternoon, we visited the Tower of London, where an extraordinary art installation had transformed the historic grounds into something almost

impossible to describe. Surrounding the Tower were 888,246 ceramic red poppies. One for every British or Colonial serviceman who lost his life during the First World War.

I had seen photographs of the installation before leaving home, but nothing prepared me for standing there in person. The sea of red seemed to flow across the grounds like rivers of blood. Thousands of visitors walked quietly through the display, many speaking only in whispers. It wasn't simply beautiful. It was overwhelming.

For the first time in my life, those enormous casualty figures stopped being numbers in a history book. Each poppy represented a son, a husband. a father or a brother. Someone whose family waited for a letter that would never bring him home. That image stayed with me as we continued our journey through France and Belgium. We visited Normandy, Juno Beach, military cemeteries, and the small towns where Canadian soldiers had fought to liberate people they had never met. Each stop seemed quieter than the last.

You found yourself speaking more softly, walking more slowly, and thinking more deeply. Then we arrived at Vimy Ridge. I had read about the Battle of Vimy Ridge many times over the years, but reading about history and standing where history happened are two very different experiences. The monument rises from the landscape with a dignity that almost demands silence. It does not celebrate war. It honours sacrifice.

A few years earlier, while researching my family's history, I had discovered something I had never known. According to his military records, my Uncle Tom fought at Vimy Ridge and was seriously wounded there on April 10, 1917. Somehow, he survived. Standing on the very ground where my uncle had fought changed the entire meaning of that day. History was no longer something distant that had happened to strangers in another time. History had suddenly become personal.

As I looked across those fields and later went below ground into the tunnels, I could not help wondering what had been going through his mind. Was he frightened? Was he thinking about home? Did he ever imagine that nearly a century later, one of his family members would stand in the very place where he had risked everything? Of course, I will never know the answers to those questions. And perhaps that is not the important part. The important part is that he went.

Like thousands of other young Canadians, he answered a call that asked more of him than most of us will ever be asked to give. He left behind his family, his future, and the comfort of home to protect freedoms that people like me would one day enjoy

without ever having to earn them ourselves. There was another detail in Uncle Tom's military records that stayed with me. When he was wounded, his medical records noted that he was deaf in one ear. The truth was, he had been deaf in that ear all his life. He simply had not told them when he signed his sign-up papers. And it had not stopped him from going.

We also toured the preserved trenches and underground tunnels. As our guide described the conditions, it became impossible not to imagine the fear those young soldiers must have lived with every day. They fought only a few hundred yards from the enemy, surrounded by mud, noise, exhaustion, disease, and uncertainty. It was difficult to comprehend how anyone endured such hardship, let alone found the courage to keep going.

When we left Vimy Ridge, I realized I was not bringing home another vacation memory. I was bringing home a different understanding of freedom. Before that journey, freedom was something I appreciated because I had been taught to appreciate it. After that journey, it became something I understood because I had stood where its price had been paid. That understanding has stayed with me ever since.

When we arrived home, people asked me what I had enjoyed most about our European vacation. They expected me to mention the castles, museums, beautiful countryside, or wonderful cities we had visited. Those were all memorable, and I am grateful we experienced them. But they are not what I remember most. I remember standing before hundreds of thousands of red poppies. I remember walking through the trenches at Vimy Ridge. I remember going below ground into the tunnels. I remember thinking about my Uncle Tom and Frank. And I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude for every Canadian who wore our country's uniform—not only during the First World War, but in every conflict and every peacekeeping mission that followed.

That journey also made me think differently about the responsibility we have to tell these stories. My generation grew up hearing veterans speak in our schools. We saw them at Remembrance Day ceremonies. Many of us knew someone in our own families who had served. But with each passing generation, those direct connections become fewer. That makes preserving their stories even more important. A name in a military record is history. But when a young person discovers that the name belongs to an uncle, grandfather, great-grandfather, neighbour, or someone from their own community, history can suddenly become something else. It becomes personal.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts one generation can give another: not simply the facts of what happened, but the stories that help someone understand what those facts meant. For that reason, this is the longest story of my memory program This journey taught me that freedom is one of the few gifts we receive that was paid for by someone else. Before that journey, freedom was something I appreciated. After that journey, it became something I understood. And understanding the difference changed me forever.

From Photo… to Memory… to Story

A Gentle Memory Companion Idea:

Using Photos of Your Past to Assist in Memory Recall

Start Here

You don’t need to remember everything. You don’t need the right words. You don’t need a perfect story. Just begin with one photo… and let it do the talking.

Step 1 — Choose a Photo

Pick any photo that means something to you. There’s no such thing as the “right” photo. It could be:

A family moment

A place you loved

A celebration or holiday

A quiet, ordinary day

Step 2 — Sit With It

Before trying to explain anything… just look. Let the photo bring something back. Take your time. Ask yourself gently:

What do I notice first?

Who is with me?

Where am I?

What feels familiar?

Step 3 — Let the Memory Arrive

You don’t need to “search” for memories. Even a few words is enough. Let them come to you. You might begin with:

“This reminds me of…”

“I remember…”

“Back then…”

Step 4 — Use a Few Gentle Prompts (If You Need Them)

If the memory feels stuck, try one or two of these. You don’t need to answer them all. One is often enough.

What was happening just before or after this photo?

What sounds or smells do I remember?

What kind of day was it?

Who mattered most in this moment?

What did this time in my life feel like?

Step 5 — Say It, Write It, or Share It

There’s no one right way to capture your memory. Every memory counts. You can:

Say it out loud

Write a few lines

Share it with someone

Or simply sit with it

A Gentle Reminder

This is not about getting it right. It’s about feeling something real. Sometimes one small memory opens the door to many others.

A Final Reflection

Our lives are made up of moments we often didn’t recognize at the time. A neighbour waving from a porch. A job that paid a dollar. A winter storm; you somehow made it through. A simple knock on a door that led to something more. At the time, they felt ordinary. Looking back, we begin to see they were anything but. The small things were never small. They were the moments that shaped us. The quiet turning points that led us forward—sometimes without us even knowing it.

This experience is not just about remembering the past. It is about reconnecting with who you were, what you felt and the people and places that helped shape your life. And perhaps something more: a reminder that what carried you through those years—your courage, your humour, your kindness, your heart- is still there. It may be quieter now. It may move at a different pace. But it is still there.

As we grow older, memories don’t disappear. They return in their own way. A feeling. A moment. A familiar sense of something once known. One Memory at a Time was created to honour that. This is not a book about remembering everything. It is not a test. Not a timeline. Not something to complete. It is an invitation. To pause. To reflect. To reconnect with the moments that shaped your life — one memory at a time. Each story is designed to feel familiar. Not to ask for answers but to gently bring something back. A place. A voice. A moment you thought was long gone. There is no right place to begin. No expectation to finish. One memory is enough.

This memory experience workbook was created for individuals, families, community groups and care and retirement settings. It respects pace, welcomes silence and values feeling over perfect recall. Because memory is not about getting it right. It is about: Connection, Dignity, Being heard and Being remembered

And most importantly, a life is not remembered all at once; it is remembered one memory at a time.

Thank you for taking part in this experience. Whether you shared your stories, spoke a few words, or simply listened, it all matters. Because your memories matter. Your stories matter, and the life you’ve lived—one moment at a time is worth remembering. Sometimes the smallest memories are the ones that stay with us the longest. And if this journey brought something back for you, there are more stories still to come. I am already writing it for release later this year – “Planes, Trains and Automobiles - the journeys that shaped our lives”.

Volume 2 Planes, Trains & Automobiles cover

More stories still to come.

Volume 2: Planes, Trains & Automobiles — the journeys that shaped our lives.

About the Author

Tony Hebert is a community volunteer, business entrepreneur, author of three books, and social entrepreneur whose lifelong commitment to community service spans more than six decades. Beginning with early acts of volunteerism at age 7 as an altar boy in his church, he went on to play leadership roles in major fundraising and community initiatives, helping raise millions of dollars for organizations such as United Way, the YMCA, the Boys and Girls Club, the Seniors Information Center and numerous other community non-profits and seniors’ programs. For more than thirty years, he owned and was on the advisory board of a Level III senior care home, eventually becoming its majority shareholder before its sale.

Tony has served on multiple boards, led large-scale capital campaigns, and created and financed innovative platforms to strengthen community engagement. He is the founder, financier, and innovator of social entrepreneurial initiatives, including the Hands Up! Volunteer Expo, BesideMyDesk, MyCommunityCalendar.ca, and YouthLink.ca. All were designed and invested in to connect people, especially our youth and seniors, with meaningful opportunities to participate and contribute.

Today, he is the creator of One Memory at a Time, a free, national volunteer-driven initiative gaining national attention for helping seniors recall, write, share, and preserve their life experiences. Through his writing, mentorship, and ongoing philanthropic work, Tony continues to inspire others with his belief that even the smallest memory—or act of service—can create lasting impact.

THE OMAAT LIBRARY

A Library of Stories, Guidance and Possibilities

Choose a shelf. Tap any book to open it. The Library now includes program resources, training, sharing materials and media coverage.

GET STARTEDA quick and easy place to begin.

5-Minute Introduction

The Bird Feeder Story

Complete User & Partner Guide

READ & EXPLOREWorkbooks, books and the ideas behind the methodology.

One Memory at a Time Volume 1 workbook cover

OMAAT Workbook · Volume 1

One Memory at a Time Volume 2 workbook cover

OMAAT Workbook · Volume 2 Planes, Trains & Automobiles · English

How Stories Want to Be Found

The Knock That Changed Everything

BECOME A MEMORY COMPANIONTraining and practical tools for listening and preserving stories.

Training Manual

Memory Companion Quick Guide

How to Preserve a Story

OMAAT Presentation

Presentation Speaker Script

Why Is One Memory at a Time Free graphic

Why Is OMAAT Free?

One Memory at a Time promotional poster showing computer, tablet and phone and Available as a Free APP

OMAAT Promotional Poster · 8×10

OMAAT Media Release · September 2026

Stories Across Generations media release

Primetime article Every Memory Begins with a Door

Primetime · Every Memory Begins with a Door

Times and Transcript story about One Memory at a Time

Times & Transcript · Everyone Has a Story

Just tap a book.

Each resource opens in its own viewer. The core OMAAT app works offline after its first successful load. Use KEEP OMAAT ON THIS DEVICE on the Home screen to save essential Library resources too. Larger books will also remain available offline after you have opened them once while connected.

MEMORY GAME

Try a Memory Moment

Reminiscent of the flash cards many of us knew in school — only gentler, and made for memories.

This is not a memory test. There is no score, no timer and nothing you have to remember.

Choose a theme

Read slowly. Pause. If a memory begins to arrive, follow it.

Read. Pause. Listen. Follow.

If a memory arrives, the screen has done its job.

FROM THE OMAAT LIBRARY

The Knock That Changed Everything

For a free copy, please contact:
Tony J. Hebert
Creator, One Memory at a Time©
hello@onememoryatatime.org
www.onememoryatatime.org

EMAIL TONY TO REQUEST A FREE COPY

If the email button does not open your mail program, copy the email address above and send your request from your usual email app.

Help Us Share OMAAT

A simple share can put a memory doorway into another family, classroom, residence or community.

HELP & SUPPORT

Help & Support

Most OMAAT questions can be solved here without waiting for assistance.

Activation or access

Already registered? Please do not register again. Use I’ve Registered Before to request a secure return link. If you are waiting for first-time activation, use Resend Activation Email. Allow up to 5 minutes and check Spam or Junk.

Using OMAAT on your device

For the most reliable experience, open OMAAT in Chrome, Edge or Safari rather than inside an email app. Use Keep OMAAT on This Device if you want the core program available when an Internet connection is weak or unavailable.

Updates

When you are online, refresh or reopen the app so OMAAT can check for the newest version. Your saved Memory Box notes remain on your device unless you choose to copy or share them.

Still need help?

If the steps above do not solve the problem, use Contact in the menu and tell us what device you are using and what appeared on the screen.

CONTACT US

How Can We Help?

Questions, beta feedback, partnership ideas and media enquiries are welcome.

Copyright & Use

Copyright, Program Identity & Permitted Use

How Stories Want to be Found©, One Memory at a Time©, Stories Across Generations©, Faith Across Generations©, Memory Companion©, and The One Memory at a Time Guided Storytelling Methodology© are program names, copyrighted, created and used by Tony Hebert since 2025. All rights reserved.

The publications, guides, presentations, workbooks, forms, graphics, and other original materials associated with these programs are also protected by copyright.

Reasonable adaptations may be made to address curriculum, accessibility, language, cultural, and local program needs, provided that the purpose and guiding principles of the methodology are preserved, attribution and copyright notices remain visible, and the materials are not sold, commercially licensed, rebranded, or represented as an independently created program.

Commercial use, republication, substantial modification, incorporation into another program, or removal of the One Memory at a Time programming and book identity requires prior written permission from the author.

For permission requests, contact Tony Hebert at tony@tonyhebert.com.

Welcome

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Register for Your Free Access

Activate Your OMAAT Access

Check Your Email to Activate Access

Terms of Use & Privacy Notice

Free personal access

Your information

What we do not ask for

Your memories

Phone, tablet and computer use

Activation on this device

Choice and control

Before You Begin

Choose a Volume

Volume 1 · Our Youth

Our Community Memories

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Family & Belonging

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Elementary School Years

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Faith and Belonging

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

First Responsibilities

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Work & Money

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Christmas, Easter, and Birthdays

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Hard Moments, Lessons Learned

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Volume 2 · Planes, Trains & Automobiles

Feeding My Curiosity of the Future

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

Freedom on Two Wheels

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

The Best Seat in Town

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

The Best Driver I Ever Knew

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

The Gas Station Was a Social Event

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

The Vacation My Guardian Angels Never Forgot

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

The Retirement Dream That Ran Off the Road

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

The Journey That Changed My Understanding of Freedom

Core Memory Prompts

Memory Box

From Photo… to Memory… to Story

A Final Reflection

About the Author

A Library of Stories, Guidance and Possibilities

Choose a theme

The Knock That Changed Everything

Help Us Share OMAAT

Share with Friends, Families & Communities

Introduce One Memory at a Time©

A Quick Way to Share

Help & Support

Activation or access

Using OMAAT on your device

Updates

Still need help?