MEMOIRS OF A NOBODY IN PARTICULAR

by Edward James Hammond

Introduction

This won't be memoirs in the accepted sense of memoirs. For some people, it might not make any sense. It's really a collection of anecdotes with which I amuse my friends. Some of my friends. Not all find them amusing. So this is for the few that do find them interesting enough to listen. I am old enough to have memoirs. I was born in 1929. My father often reminded me that I had brought on the depression and the lean years of the dirty thirties. All by myself. Quite a burden to carry through my early childhood. No wonder I was a serious youngster. I can remember a priest picking me out in class. It was grade 4. He was a monsignor no less, whatever that meant. He drew the class' attention to my sour puss. He would never want to look at a complete class of faces like mine. Then he said " Don't you dare glare at me like that" . Not one of my fond memories. Maybe this explains my attitude to authority figures that has coloured so much of my life.

Now for the title. We are all nobodies. Even the most conceited of us. Only a paltry handful of us are somebodies. And this doesn't last for very long. But I digress, with which you will become used to. One day my wife, Johanna and myself had parked our car in the good old days when I was allowed to drive. The lot was vast and tbere were many cars. Suddenly, we came upon one of the most impressive limos I have ever seen complete with a chauffeur in full regalia. A young girl clutching what seemed to be an autograph book was trying to peer into the car hoping to catch a glimpse of who was inside. Obviously someone famous. The chauffeur said with complete distain, "Don't get excited. They're not in there. Calm down. They're nobody in particular. Believe me. They're nobody. They hired this thing and me for the day. They're nobodies. Take your book and beat it." So much for the title. But it couldn't be half bad. When it took me so long to never get past the title, someone offered to buy it from me. A friend said that I'd better register it to protect it. Another friend , a woman, payed me one of the rare compliments that I get these days, She said " I hate it. You are too bright to be calling yourself a nobody. " So much for the title. And I should have more friends like that. My faltering ego needs it. Old age is not easy.

My youngest daughter, Linda, who is a professional photographer in Montreal has spent time trying to get me interested in the computer and accept the 20th century. I have had a computer for a number of years but have never regarded it as much more than a sophisticated typewriter, I can wipe things out and store things. Convenient but not something you would take seriously. She has tried to interest me in a web site and the internet. I have never been on a chat line. It took me months to get around to downloading my few messages, all from her. I have always regarded the internet as the people's press. Though this era is passing. The big boys take things over fast when they scent the smell of money. Then I thought that I would never interest a publisher in this. Why not publish it myself on the web. The other day I read a well-known author was bypassing his publisher and doing just that. So I better hurry. So here I am. Wish me luck. I'll need it.

Ed Hammond 1999

Early Years

I was born in March, 1929. Not a good year. My father frequently insisted I had brought on the depression. This might explain the dour nature of my personality. Even on the most joyous occasion, I rarely smile. Now this was fine on team sports like football. You should look tough. Maybe even display a little ferocity. Which I couldn't even if my life depended on it.

Now there is a subject. My appalling career in sports. Mr.Ed the athlete. It all began well. When I went to grade school, it was to a school taught by nuns. We had a field which was part of the school property. I think I invented this game though I might be stealing someone else's thunder. Though I can't imagine there will be a host of candidates seeking the honour.. Anyway, this is how the "game" went.

One guy in the class stood in the middle of the field. You'll notice the word, "guy". This was back in the dark ages before the feminists charged across the stage. His objective was to run through this eager horde. You didn't play tag. You tackled your victim who then became your partner and would stand in the middle of the field with you. The game would continue until there was only one poor soul left with the unenviable task of breaking through the entire howling horde. This is how we learned to tackle. Later it would pay off. This evolved into toss up teams that played against each other.

One day our big chance came. The local high school was run by wily Jesuit fathers, famous since the 16th century for various tricks and scholarship. We were now in Grade 8 and on the cusp of high school. We were challenged to a game with another Grade school. Catholic, naturally. Now for the final temptation. If the temptation were any more severe I would have to go to confession. We were to wear equipment for the first time. Helmets, shoulder pads, pants. Wow. And we won. How good can life get? Also on the opposing team was a player who would become a very good friend in high school. I would spend many pleasant hours with him and his family. This was a taste of the good life. I was captain of the football team and the baseball team though they wondered why someone would be chosen captain who could strike out so many times.

The answer came in Grade 7. Myopia. I was as blind as a bat. I would not accept it and refused to wear glasses. They were prescribed and lay in a drawer. When I had exams I would wait until the teacher had written the test on the board with chalk and ask for the paper from which she had copied the test. Then I had to rush before the time for the exam was up. Nobody caught on. Though some of the kids must have thought the answers were on the paper. Not the questions. My mother knew how bad it was. I used to pass her on the street. She would reach out and say, "Son, it's your Mother."

But I wander. The subject was athletics. When I caught punts, the ball was a blur until the last minute. In Grade 10, I went out for the senior team which should have been a hopeless quest. The devious brothers had done it again. In the North end of the city was a high school whose team had won the city championship the previous year. They gave sports scholarships to almost the entire first string. A band of rugged Ukranians if there ever was one. They brought names to the school you rarely heard in this rarified Anglo environment. Bobo Sikorski. Orest Yakamischuk. Johnkupskay, Zakala and so on. This was 1945. (The Second World War had recently ended with the two bombs few could grasp. Also to the relief of our family as my brother had just shipped out of San Francisco aboard an American Warship.)

The new coach had taught physical fitness in the navy. Everyone was soon in top shape. Even myself. All 129 pounds. At one point during the training and weeding out sessions, he'd divide the aspirants into two groups. They would be about 40 yards apart. One man in one group would be handed the football. He was to run full tilt toward whoever was first in line in the other group. The other man's job was to head on tackle him and drive him back and down on his derriere. Too many times I would like to remember, the man facing me was Bobo who played tackle or guard. A formidable sight

to be continued...