I
have been obsessed with the US election debacle. In my downtime I spend some of it reading the latest news
from the Globe & Mail, The Huffington Post and Salon. Somewhere along the way, in my
reading, I saw a reader comment
and the poster’s name was Joseph Whistle.
Quirky and unique. It stuck
in my mind and eventually a character started to form around the name, bones,
beginnings and then he took full shape into the man I’ve come to know on paper
as Joseph William Whistle.
I
promised myself I would get back into the practice of prose. Obviously as you can ascertain from my
blog posts, I have procrastinated.
I made a goal last Fall to write a short story. Failed. Then I made a promise to myself in the Spring, broke that
promise. It’s only now, having
stumbled over such a peculiar name that I have written and finished (perhaps
for now) and new piece of prose. I
shared it with a few friendly readers who offered kind words so I feel
confident to share it here with you now.
I
also have to thank my Mom. She
proofread it for me and served as my second set of eyes, catching little
oopsies that my familiar eyes kept missing.
Initially,
the story belonged to Mr. Whistle but as I kept writing, Caroline’s voice
became stronger and it was her POV that stood out. It was such a pleasure spending the better part of this week
with them, listening to Big Band music, exploring history and a love story
sustained by friendship and the ability to overcome hardship in the face of
adversity. Their story is positive,
passionate and spiritual.
After
reading ‘Whistle’ one of my friendly readers said that it reminded him of his
grandparents. His Grandma used to
say she looked forward to going to sleep so she could see Sam, her husband. It solidified my time spent with the
Whistles and in a very clear way, made me feel like I had done them justice.
I
hope you enjoy.
Whistle
“Of
bowlers, bonnets, beanies and berets, you my darling Joseph William Whistle,
look most dashing in the former.” My husband loved when I’d say
that to him as he pulled on his gray woolen overcoat, tied his favorite
weathered burgundy cashmere scarf around his neck and topped his thin snow
white hair with his reliable bowler hat; hard felt with a rounded crown and
small curled rim. He’d sweetly reply, “Of all the sapphires, rubies and
diamonds in the world, you my darling Caroline Isobel Whistle, shine brighter
than them all.” Faithfully, he’d kiss me softly against my cheek and be off to
take Beans for a walk.
Joseph
loved Beans more than anything in the world. Well, Beans and his big band
record collection of course. There were so many occasions where I’d arrive home
from playing bridge at the Women’s League to find Joseph sitting in that old
threadbare wing back chair, puffing on a pipe, reveling in the sounds of Dinah
Shore or Harry James with that little brown terrier curled up in his lap.
So in love they were. Man and dog, the best of friends.
We
had a short courtship, a painful and frightening separation early on and a
long, loving marriage. He was the only man I ever loved, my purpose and
my hero. The days pass slowly now that he’s gone but I use my time wisely
to remember bygone days fondly and to honour my husband’s life and his gifts to
the world.
We
met in early August, 1939. Halifax was bustling and come fall I was
slated for secretary school, a fair seventeen year-old with wide eyes focused
on the future. I spent summer days with girlfriends lounging on Silver
Sands Beach, sunning and reading. I was serious about escaping the
confines of what was expected of women then, house-cleaning, motherhood, ‘female
enslavement’ I
used to call it. I was smart, curious and nothing got past
me. Quite a quandary for my mother to have a daughter with qualities back
then that could have been considered nuisances. No man liked an
intelligent woman with a head on her shoulders, except for Joseph
Whistle. In true Joseph style, he was horsing around with a few of his
soldier buddies in the sand. I was minding my own business and he went
and tripped right over me, landing across my legs. Flustered and sweaty,
he looked up at my exasperated face and his broke into the widest of
grins. “I do believe I’ve fallen for you, little lass.” I thwacked him with my
newspaper in disbelief and he broke out in a fit of boisterous laughter.
I couldn’t help but laugh too. His face, red with comedy and his strong
handsome jaw line pressed into my leg caused a flood of dizziness through me,
but it was his eyes, kind blue eyes that made me fall instantly in love with
him.
Later
that night, we waltzed in the dance hall and when it was time to part ways, he
kissed my forehead, tipped my chin and backed away slowly, “You haven’t
seen the last of me, little lass. Isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I can stay
away from you.” We
were inseparable for the next few weeks, embarking on adventure after
adventure, kissing in corners and talking. Boy did we talk. About
our dreams, our future together, me with a good job making my own money, and
someday after his time served in the military, his writing career.
Whistle was an audacious man, gallant; spirited except he wasn’t showy or
arrogant but splendid. He was respectful, had good manners, good looks,
an exquisite wardrobe and impeccable taste. We fit. Perfectly.
In passion and in perseverance. It was a very innocent time. I
relish those early days together before the war.
The
beginning of the Second World War fell on September 1st, 1939 when
Germany invaded Poland. Six days after war was declared Joseph joined his
brothers of the 1st Canadian Infantry Division and landed in
Britain on January 1st, 1940. Every day he was gone was a
struggle. Our tearful goodbye left a giant hole in my chest. It was
so difficult to stay focused on my school-work, worrying and wondering if he
was ok, praying, and I prayed so hard, for a quick resolution and his safe
return. We wrote letters, I more than him. Once in a while I would
find his handwritten assurances waiting for me in the mailbox, messages of hope
and strength and sometimes desperation. In every letter he would
muse, “Your sweet face keeps me safe, my darling Caroline. Wait
for me.”
I’d always reply, “I’ll wait two lifetimes for you if must, my
darling.” And
I would have.
My
Joseph returned to Canada, one of the 540,000 wounded in the war. Severe
leg injury. They told him he may lose it but managed to save it.
They told him he’d never walk without some kind of aid but he refused to
believe it and worked tirelessly throughout his therapies. He said to me one
particularly trying day while trying to go without his leg brace, “Cazzy,
as soon as I’m steady on both feet, I’m going to marry you and we’ll dance
every day after.” I held back my tears, encouraged him and said I looked
forward to being his wife. “We make a good team, little
lass.” We
certainly did.
He
didn’t talk much about the war. About combat or the things he did or saw,
especially not about his brief incarceration in a German POW camp. I’d
sometimes ask him questions when he’d wake up in a cold sweat from night
terrors. Hoping that perhaps talking about it would help alleviate some
of the trauma he bottled up inside. Those efforts were always
unsuccessful and often my queries angered him. I would wake to a heartfelt
apology and a wash of sadness when he would say to me, “I don’t want to
share the horrible things with you, Cazzy. I need you to look at me with
loving eyes, not fear or loathing. The way you look at me is how I
survive.”
I decided it was best to honour his wishes. He lost so many comrades
because of the war, the pain that invaded his eyes was too much for either of
us to bear so we devised an unspoken agreement to leave the past behind us and
work at moving forward.
Joseph
trumped them all and was successful conquering the leg brace. We were
married at Christ Church in downtown Dartmouth, scattered family and friends
present. I wore a simple v-neck shaped neckline, with bust and waistline
emphasized by soft shoulder gatherings, the veil was hip-length and scalloped
with modest embroidery. Underneath the veil, my tresses were coiled in tight
twists, the rollers were carefully removed so the curls would stay firmly in
place which proved to be an arduous task. Joseph, much to his dismay but
at the urging of his over-bearing mother, wore his service uniform. He
had his heart set on wearing his recently procured bowler hat with a tuxedo
style suit. At his mother’s insistence though, he denied his own wishes
and fulfilled hers.
There
he was, my darling husband, gracious and sincere, mingling with our guests,
raising the roof with his witty jokes and shenanigans, sweeping the dance floor
with his mended leg, so agile you’d never know he'd suffered devastating
injuries.
And
so it began, finally, our life together. I committed myself to a man with
a startling eye for beauty, for intricacies, an untapped reserve for patience,
someone who was emotionally sophisticated despite his time overseas. I’d
often tell him he was an old soul full of new life. He’d quip with his prominent
Whistle chuckle, “I’ve got eight lives left, little lass and I’m
spending them all with you.”
I
was doing well working as a secretary in the office for Woolworths, Joseph
spent his days in our little house around the corner from the church we were
married in, writing. He had always intended to write long epic stories
based on the history books he loved to read but when he sat down to write all
that came to him were limericks, poems and children’s tales. He wrote
non-stop. I’d arrive home for dinner every day and find him clacking away
at his Underwood typewriter, pages strewn everywhere. He delighted in his
children’s writings and a publishing contract followed. Joseph was a
natural born story-teller, he’d visit schools and share stories with the
children. He loved their lack of pretension he said. Joseph’s foray
into children’s literature came from the fact that his war injuries hindered
the ability to have children of our own. There were no visible scars but
the ones you can’t see are always the worst of them all. To
compensate, he’d throw his wild and colourful imagination into stories of
dragons and fairies and far away lands full of adventure, puns, poems and
prose. Illustrated of course by his skilled hands. “Publish
or perish.” He’d
always say with a twinkle in his eye.
Children’s
literature led Joseph to a venture that we both made handsome profits
from. Publishing. He branched out from writing to
publishing and mentoring young writers. I left my well-paying post
at Woolworths so that I could work along-side my husband. I answered
his telephone, took his messages, organized his calendar, calculated his books
and before long, Whistle Publishing was a full-fledged
success. Started off in our kitchen then grew so big we had to rent
space in Halifax to accommodate our needs. Every Christmas he and I
would dress as Mr. and Mrs. Claus for our in-house Christmas
party. Whistle could ho-ho-ho better than the real Santa they all said and
those precious children would climb into Joseph’s lap and tell him what they
wanted for Christmas. They had no problem listing their wishes, a
new bicycle, a doll, one boy even asked for a new nose because he sneezed too
much! Goodness, those parties were delightful. One little
girl looked up at Joseph and said in her small gentle tone, “Santa, do
you have any children?” He hesitated a moment too long, I saw him blink away
a tear that sprung to his eye and replied, “All of the good boys and
girls in the world are my children, dear heart.” The tiny child in his
lap nodded and added, “You’re the best father, Santa. You
take care of all of us pretty good. For Christmas, I wish for my Dad to be just
like you.” As
he undressed out of his Santa suit that night in the bathroom, I’m certain I
heard him weeping behind the door. Crying for the children we’d
never have, the ones he so desperately desired.
Joseph’s
inability to father any children of his own is why Beans became so important to
him. He was never much for animals but one afternoon he came home
carrying a kennel and when he opened the grate this yappy little puppy poured
out. He took great care to train the dog, heck, in the beginning he paid
more attention to Beans than he did to me! I didn’t mind too much,
his furry companion made him happy and that was all that mattered. I
did however insist that Beans not be allowed in the bed. He agreed
but as even I grew fonder of him, the rule was broken more often than not until
Beans weaseled his way between us nightly. Joseph always used to say
that human beings are prone to secrecy and he wasn’t much for secrets as they
spur on lies and hinder authentic and true human connection. That’s
why he loved children and Beans so much. He said, “No matter
what, a kid is always gonna tell you the God’s honest truth. And your dog,
well, you won’t find loyalty anywhere else like it. Rare commodities in
this world, honesty and loyalty. And of course there’s you, my
darling Cazz.” He
was always right.
I
believe in Heaven because of Joseph. He was such an intelligent
gentleman and sometimes he talked to God. From this place on earth,
he was certain someone was listening in heaven, even before he became ill.
I
was always moved by his vulnerable nature, often hidden to the world, even in
sickness but he wasn’t afraid of weakness. He embraced
it. Even in all of the tragedy he endured during his time in
service, he used every nightmare to propel his reality to new heights of
happiness. He continuously flourished. He was content to live in the
world and allowed every event to play out as nature intended. He’d
say, “No time to cry over spilt milk, little lass, I’m one of God’s
soldiers, he never gives me anything I can’t handle. It’s all part
of the master plan.” That
was his philosophy.
When
he got sick he said, “Don’t worry, my darling Caroline, I’m
invincible. I’m going to live forever.” It was Whistle’s way
of masking his fear of the cancer that invaded his body and settled in his
bones.
Our
days were full of medical appointments, people poking and prodding and sticking
needles in him. Joseph would say, “I feel like a human
pin-cushion.” The
vibrant man I loved for most of my life slowly started to weaken and take the
shape of a stranger, even to himself. The pain became intolerable
but right up until he couldn’t stand it any longer, he walked Beans each day.
Joseph
visits me in my dreams and together we take long languid walks. His
bones are strong, there’s a spring in his step yet his hair is still white as
the driven snow. He shares with me the architecture of Heaven, its
colors, its denizens and that only in Heaven can you learn to truly love the
world and only in Heaven are you privy to the true path to enlightenment and
afforded the privilege of beautiful celestial music. He says to me, “Listen
carefully, my darling Caroline.” And when I am still, standing with his warm hand in
mine, eyes drinking in the golden sky above us, I can hear it. A
chorus of Angels, the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. I
smile and say, “I wish I could stay with you here forever, my husband.” He squeezes my hand
and whispers, “It isn’t your time yet, little lass. You
still have work to do. Give us a smile.” I hold him close
feeling daylight drawing me from my dream. “Greet the day, my
love. I am with you always.”
Those
moments bedside in his final days remain some of the saddest I’ve lived and
I’ve endured war, the loss of both brothers to the Germans, Joseph’s injuries
and is long road to recovery and then the death of my parents, one right after
the other to poor health. Our conversations were silenced by the
unpleasantness of pending loss yet our deep affection for one another indicated
otherwise. Hands clasped together, loving whispers spoke volumes, he
said even though I would be the one left behind, he knew in his heart of hearts
we were both at ease with death. It was peaceful sitting together
quietly allowing our unconditional love and the air we breathed in compose the
end of our earthly story. And even now that he’s been gone for some
time, it’s the stillness I appreciate most. It feels like Joseph,
sounds like him.
It’s
just me and Beans now. Sometimes I sit in Joseph’s worn wing back
chair, stroking the dog’s little head, he blinks sleepily and I talk to
God. I pray in thanks, that my journey intertwined with
Joseph’s. That such a strapping, handsome dare devil fell across my
beach blanket and took such a shine to me. I give thanks he returned
to me from a war that claimed so many. I offer gratitude for our
good fortune, for our successes, for our failures and the lessons we learned
from them. But mostly, I pray that Heaven is just like my dreams and
that when I am finished my work here in my humble human form, Joseph will be
there waiting for me in the light, fashioned in his trusty bowler hat, arms
open, welcoming me to our eternity together; his ninth life. He did
promise to spend them all with me.
**
In propinquity,
Nic
