Notes To Mother

Author
Jeff Berry

Edited by
George Opacic
Illustrations by
Loreena M. Lee
Cover art and book design by
George Opacic
copyright©Jeff Berry 2016

– extract –

Tremors From The Other Side

Lying in my bed in the mansion rented by Celestial Yacht on the island of Gulangyu, off Amoy, China, I stared intently at the ornamented ceiling 10 feet above my face.

How would it happen, I asked myself. How would I die in the next few moments? In an earthquake, in a fire, or maybe even by a heart attack? The late night land breeze moaned and rattled panes of ancient Italian glazing in their frames. All else was still, except for the grandfather clock ticking away my minutes. I was alone, living out the last moments of my life. There were only a few more seconds before I would find out.

Mercifully, I drifted off with a quiet snore before my fateful deadline.

The date of my demise had been predicted in 1969 by a spirit medium named Myrt. Since her pronouncements that day had turned out startlingly on target in almost all of her other predictions, I figured that a date of death from Myrt was as accurate as one could be. However, when she revealed it to me, that day was still sixteen years in the future, not tomorrow, and still far enough away that one did not think about any eventual doom on a daily basis. It wasn’t in front of mind, though perhaps it had ensconced itself back there somewhere. In retrospect, Myrt was almost right, for if I had not had eventual open heart surgery, and had not started treating the old ticker and blood pressure with more care a few years before lying tensely in the dark mansion, I could have easily dropped dead when she forecast.

Myrt

Prior to joining my first sailing ship, the Monte Cristo, in 1969, I had worked rebuilding an old steam schooner, the Explorer. She lay hulked near Bremerton, on Puget Sound in Washington State. That ship rebuilding project turned into a soul-destroying labour of love for all the volunteers, and it ultimately failed. It did, however, sharpen my skills with woodworking tools and it gave me something to do until a spot aboard the Canadian barque Monte Cristo was available. While aboard Explorer, various crew members commented that there was a truly remarkable fortune teller in town. For $10 she produced the most amazing and apparently accurate predictions.

This whetted my curiosity. It was not that I searched out the supernatural – my mind is such that I needed to have an answer to situations that seemed to confound the order of the universe. And there was that prickling barb hidden under my conscious mind that said, “You’ve looked through this mirror before and something just isn’t right with the picture!”

I met Myrt for a reading. She only had my name, knowing nothing else about me because none of the people I was associating with in Bremerton had ever met me before I walked aboard their ship to volunteer.

Now, I’m a modern 20th century man in most respects. Probably my only really unusual keen interest has been sailing ships and sea adventures under sail. Other than that, I appreciate modern communications, medical science and technology. I have never noticed a witch fly on a broomstick; nor do I go into panic attacks if a black cat crosses my path. To my logical and technical mind, most superstitious nonsense is just that, nonsense.

As Myrt probed me with small talk, I gave away no clues. And yet, when she started speaking of the future, Myrt’s predictions proved to be startlingly accurate: I did end up as master of a sailing ship that voyaged to Australia; once there, I was greeted by heads of state of several governments and by millions of cheering citizens; I would not marry for many years, and then she predicted that I would do this twice! I also went on to write a book about my adventures as she foretold. She got lots of minor points right, too.

Wow!

Since so much of this had happened as she predicted, I figured that her final, devastating prediction would be inevitable. I was scheduled to check out, go to Davey Jones’ Locker, sometime before my 43^rd birthday, which was 19th May, 1985.

Maybe this self-imposed rendezvous with mortality is what spurred me to fill the years after our talk with so many (as Mother would have called them) reckless, adventurous experiences. With little regard to what befell my father, I sailed and lived safely in the land of jungle rot in the South Sea Isles. I explored many of the less desirable, and better, parts of New Zealand and Australia. I sailed without a care into the land where cannibals were still to be found, up the Sepic River in New Guinea, and across the torturous Tasman Sea in a wooden homebuilt craft of dubious quality. I worked on a steam locomotive in the blazing hot outback of Australia.

With all that, my greatest pleasure was during the time I refitted and rebuilt sailing ships which I then voyaged to romantic or exotic places, to deliver them to their new owners. Somebody had to do it…

I lived life to the fullest. Never rich in money, but wealthier than most in experiences.

Was it all meant to happen? Did the Creator have a large book or some sort or a celestial computer in which our lives are pre-ordained? Myrt thought not. She told me that anyone could take charge of his or her own destiny practically at any moment. Most, she observed, did not do anything about it, and let their life proceed down the boring pre-ordained path followed by everyone else. These were easy to predict.

Since I did not know how to sit still in the shallows, I headed out into the turbulent waves to grasp life in its fullest. Eventually, that kicked me out of the rut that would have led to Myrt’s stated fate. She, it should be noted, expired shortly after her reading with me. She had told me that death predictions were the trickiest of all. Even harder, she said, the predictor could never accurately foretell their own end. She was right again.

In the Genes?

Looking back, with the clearer eyes of a long-time survivor, I think there was always a bit of the paranormal in the Berry Clan. One of my earliest memories is standing next to the kitchen table in Grandfather William and Aurinda Berry’s West Center Street house in Pomona. Grandmothers Aurie and Mildred, Mother’s Mum, were hunched over a tea cup, staring intently into it.

Naturally, my curiosity was piqued. “Can I see? Can I see? What are you looking at?”

Sombrely, they looked down at me to answer, “The future”. Of course, that was beyond my payscale at the time. I didn’t understand the concept.

I remember them discussing the meanings of what the remnants of leaves represented. This one looks like a leaf. That one is a flower. Here is a flying bird, and so on. It all looked to me like the bottom of an unwashed tea cup.

After some palaver of the type that adults engage in, and which children have no patience for, probably because they don’t understand it, they decided that the tea leaves represented an impending death in the family.

“Perhaps,” opined Mother. “Whose demise? And when and how?” Her serious questions where not welcomed by her elders. “Tea leaves do not give such details.”

A mood of ominous doom descended on the room. Both grandmothers convinced Mother that it must be Father’s dad, William Sanford. He was the oldest, having been born around 1868 or ‘69, so in 1947 he would have been about 80 years old. The spectre of the Grim Reaper loomed over him.

The adults were wrong.

I remember a little later – time is elastic when one is very young – we were back in Arlington, California. Father was building our new house on the hill overlooking Mother’s parents’ modest home. The roads had been black-topped right after the war and the area was starting to acquire a suburban California sprawl, which today encompasses most of Southern California.

It must have been Sunday, since we were all together for the main afternoon meal. After dinner, the women – Mother, Grandma Mildred (Marmee) and Aunt Marion (Mimi) – went into the kitchen to do the dishes. The men – Father, Uncle Jerry, Grandpa Cecil Riley, along with me – repaired to the Living Room. Father and Grandpa seemed to always discuss politics, which interested me not at all in those days.

Despite saying that he had a headache, Grandpa argued hard then stood up to make a point to Father. He looked at him, shaking his finger sternly. Suddenly, Grandpa paused; his eyes rolled up into his head, and he quietly collapsed to the floor. The women came running from the kitchen.

“Oh my, he’s fainted!” exclaimed Marmee.

Father felt the artery at Grandpa Cecil’s neck, and then shook his head.

“No pulse. I think he’s dead,” Dad said slowly.

They picked Grandpa up to put him on the couch.

“Get Jeff out of here right now,” somebody ordered. I don’t remember who it was, but I was to be shielded from the reality of death at my young age. I was ordered to go outdoors and play, and not to come back until they called for me.

So, I ran out of the house, still somewhat puzzled by what had happened and how the adults had reacted. I walked to the edge of Grandpa Cecil and Grandma Mildred Riley’s property, past their small fruit orchard in front of the house, their rural mailbox, and then up the road a little bit. I took a left turn up what eventually became the driveway to the house Father was building. It overlooked the road, about five hundred feet higher. I had a vista to see what was happening from there.

A short time later, the first of a string of official cars and trucks went to the house. A police car, or maybe a Sheriff’s car (I couldn’t read at that point), came and two men got out. When they finished, a doctor arrived with his bag. He stayed only a few minutes. Then I noticed a trickle of neighbourhood women walking to Grandpa’s house. They all held white cloth covered pots or platters of food. It was the custom that one took viands for the family suffering the loss so they did not have to cook while they made preparations for the funeral. As often as not, the “parlour” of the home was where the dearly departed was laid out, leaving no room for normal cooking and eating. With our family, a black hearse was summoned to bear Grandpa to the undertaker. He didn’t need to go to a hospital, since it was too late for that.

I later learnt that he had been suffering increasingly from headaches. A few days before, Mother, Grandma Marmee and Grandpa Cecil and I had gone shopping to the Safeway in Arlington. Grandpa drove us home in their old car. It was a brown 1931 Oldsmobile Patrician four-door sedan. I liked it because it had roll down cloth curtains for the windows in the back seat. Just like we had at home. They were fun. The car was named Suzie. Mother kept me under control in the backseat.

Grandma Marmee, who was in the front seat, suddenly shouted, “Where are you going!”

Grandpa had veered into the oncoming lane of traffic. She grabbed the wheel and steered us out of danger. Then, Grandpa seemed to regain his senses and continued driving us home. This close call did not make an impression on me at the time. I forgot about it until later, when Mother talked to Aunt Mimi about what had happened.

Grandma had taken her husband to a doctor right away. A closer inspection was indicated. The physician looked up Grandpa’s nose to find an inoperable cancerous growth. This is what was to have felled him, arguing with Father. He was just 59 years old.

The next day I was washed and dressed in my best suit of clothes, to go with my parents, Grandma, and Great-Grandmother Gould to say good-bye to Grandpa. It was the traditional laying out of the body for one last time.

Grandpa Cecil Riley was dressed in his best double-breasted blue suit, white shirt and necktie. With the help of a shove from behind, I found myself overlooking the casket. Staring intently at the corpse of my grandfather, I noticed something amiss.

“That’s not Grandpa,” I announced loudly to all present.

“He doesn’t wear lipstick and put red colouring on his cheeks.”

The mortuary assistant had been a bit heavy with the makeup and it must be said that he did look more clownish than not. I was sure it was all a fake. Mother and Father shushed me up and the viewing proceeded. Several of the viewers commented to Grandma on how lifelike her late husband appeared. I suppose it was all part of the ritual.

I don’t remember the funeral. Probably I was not taken to it. Grandpa was now part of the ages, so I concentrated on the present as most kids of six do.

A few weeks after Grandpa’s death, the Widow Mildred (Marmee) Riley decided to try to contact her late husband on the other side. I don’t think this was considered especially far out since séances and other types of paranormal activities were apparently common in Southern California. It wasn’t called La La Land for nothing.

In fact, it was probably the spiritualist capital of North America, if not the world. Literally dozens of religious spiritualists and showboat business entertainer mediums practised their craft near us. Generally, religious types gravitated to mediums with a religious patter, while the rest enjoyed all sorts of séances with attendant thumps under tables and other semi-mystical falderal.

Grandma Marmee and her séance associates, which in this instance were Mother, Aunt Mimi and Father (having been enlisted as the designated recorder), used a contrivance called the Ouija Board. This consisted of a wooden board panel, about 15 to 18 inches square. On one side it had the letters of the alphabet written in an arc across the top. This took up two lines. Below that was one line which consisted of numerals: 0 through 9 or 10 in a straight line across the bottom. There was a “Yes” spot on the left side of the board, and a “No” spot on the right side. “Good-Bye” was written at the bottom middle of the supposedly mystical board. (Come to think of it, that resembles, scaled up, the modern digital keyboard…)

Father acted as official recorder during the séance. Principal questioner was Marmee. Mother and Aunt Mimi provided the psychic kick, they hoped, that would locate the spirit of Grandpa Cecil.

As I vaguely recall, the lights were dimmed to create the right mood. In my mind, there was a peculiar odour wafting from someplace. Everyone was dressed up in their Sunday-go-to-church dark clothes, and they spoke in raised whispers.

The planchette, or pointer upon which the participants laid their fingertips, was placed in the middle of the board. With this floating pointer, an apparition was to cause them to spell out words.

As each person put their hand on the planchette, together they all recited a suitably mystical prayer or poem. It was done in very solemn fashion. Whether the reading was from The Holy Bible, or from the writings of Robert W. Service, I don’t know. The recitation was supposed to aid in summoning up the spirits.

Upon reflection today, assuming that spirits exist and can be called upon to expound about the other side, they must be a well-educated bunch, since they would need the ability to read and write English, or some other mutually acceptable language. That requirement would have excluded a lot of previously arrived spirits. I don’t think this point was ever raised. Certainly not by Marmee, who so dearly wanted to contact her late husband.

I think that the Riley and Berry families had used the Ouija Board before, since they did not seem to have difficulty summoning a helpful spirit who pretty rapidly brought Cecil to their presence at the board. Before attending from his side, Grandpa might have been having harp lessons, or maybe he had been practicing with the Celestial Choir. Heaven knows, and we mere mortals may only speculate.

Marmee asked Cecil if he was happy in the new place. His answer via the Ouija Board confirmed he was, and that comforted her no end. Grandpa was getting caught up with old friends, he told her. All very predictable.

Then Cecil spelt out: “REMEMBER WHEN I WENT TO MONTREAL ON BUSINESS IN 1938?”

Marmee did. He had been an accountant for a German shipping company. Why he had gone to Canada, I don’t know.

Cecil continued: “I OPENED A BANK ACCOUNT AT THE ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND. IT HAS MONEY FOR YOU IF YOU WANT IT.”

“THE ACCOUNT NUMBER IS: xxxxx.xx. THEY WILL SURRENDER THE FUNDS TO YOU.” I don’t remember the number.

There followed some inconsequential declarations of love by both sides. Then, Cecil apparently got back to his harp lessons.

Father decided to play the information from the other side as being truthfully accurate. The nagging question, however, was: did honest Cecil Riley dip into his employer’s coffer on that trip and secret the proceeds into the Canadian bank?

He wrote to the bank in Montreal, informing them of the death of Mr Cecil Riley, and providing them a copy of his death certificate. Father told them that he was the Executor of the Estate and enquired if Mr Riley had opened an account in 1938.

In a few weeks Dad received a letter from north of the border, confirming that Mr Riley had indeed opened a bank savings account with them, and it contained the total of, wait for it, $15 Canadian Dollars. Did Father want the account closed?

The reason for the account was never answered by the spirit of Cecil Riley nor the bank in Montreal. Apparently, he never syphoned funds away from his employer. He was an accountant, so was considered the soul of probity. Marmee’s dreams of falling into a fortune remained illusory.

Father helped to maintain her and Great Grandma Gould for the rest of their lengthy lives.

Hello?

Whether this confirms the existence of a spirit world or the usefulness of the Ouija Board, is not completely clear, but I am inclined to believe in the possibility of something supernatural out there.

Many travels later, in 1983, I was given to wonder about tremors from the other side. A ship I had skippered earlier, the barquentine Osprey, had been lost in a typhoon off of Macau. All but one of the crew had perished, under circumstances that were mysterious. I thought it might be worth a try to contact the last captain of the Osprey, Bo Gary. I obtained a Ouija Board from the States and took it to the shipping agent’s office. I thought the locals would be interested in contacting the late Captain Gary.

That was when I learnt how much Hong Kong Chinese truly fear ghosts. Arranging for the séance was like pulling eye teeth. Then, the darkened room, with the very reluctant, touchy participants, became positively electric. Their fingers on the Board bounced so much from their fear we were never able to talk to Captain Gary. I often wonder what he would have told us, if indeed it would have been his spirit opining, and if he could have stopped laughing at the scene.

160 Year Old Boy

Our clan has had a few brushes with the spirit world, however ethereal. I have a distinct memory of one thanksgiving dinner we had at a farmhouse in, I think, Long Island, N.Y. while we were living in New York City. I was probably seven or eight years old. Sister Jennifer would have been three or four. The farm house was pre-Revolutionary War vintage, at that time probably 160 years old. The proud owners and our hosts showed us around and pointed out what they had done to restore the old dwelling to its best incarnation in years. They explained how they had replaced the upstairs floors, which were now slightly lower than the original. In this way, the rooms had more headroom. At the Thanksgiving Dinner they gave Jennifer and me each Indian costumes with feathered headdresses. We were ecstatic over this, showing it, if I recall, by running around the house that, to our minds, had turned into the wilds of Montana. That night, we shared the same bed in an upstairs room. Mother and Father had another room, and the host and hostess had the master bedroom. Exhausted, we went to bed and were soon asleep.

Sometime later, how long I’m not sure, I was gently awakened by a flickering light coming from the foot of our bed. I opened my eyes to behold a little boy, about my age or slightly younger, standing just beyond the bed, staring intently at us. I nudged Jennifer, but at first she didn’t want to wake up. The boy was dressed in a child’s nightgown from ages past. It was white, covering him all except for the head hole and sleeves. He was holding a single candlestick, the type with a ringed handle.

I said something to the boy, but got no reply. I think I asked him, “Who are you?”

I then noticed that he appeared to be floating about four inches above the floor. This would put him at the level of the original floor. Actually, I didn’t think much about this at all until the next day.

Sleepily, I told the strange boy in his nightgown and flickering light that he should go away so I could get some sleep. Jennifer had already shut her eyes again and was deep in the arms of Morpheus. Soon, we both slept the night away.

The next morning, our hosts asked us if we had slept well. I asked who the boy was. Our hostess listened to my description and told us we had been honoured to meet the farmhouse’s resident spirit. He had apparently been the son of the owner and had died of some 18^th century illness. They gave me his name, but I have forgotten it by now.

I have the impression that Mother was unnerved by this occurrence and hustled us out, into the car for our hasty return to New York City. Since Mother never mentioned this ever again, I wonder if it even happened, but am convinced it did. Otherwise, I would not have remembered such a tale. I think she was deeply shaken by the whole affair.

Jennifer and Sandy, my younger brother, are both convinced that the Berry quarters in Naha, Okinawa, were haunted. Probably by the ghosts of fallen Japanese soldiers, and almost certainly by civilians who died in the fighting. The building was built right at the site of some of the worst fighting. Jennifer maintains she could hear the sound of a silk kimono rustling as someone walked down the hallway past her bedroom. Several times a week, she noted this occurrence.

To my deep disappointment, I have never yet seen a ghost ship like the Flying Dutchman or the Marie Celeste or any Hoodoo apparition.

The closest I have come to that was when we in the crew of the Canadian barque Endeavour II were sailing over the same stretch of ocean that harboured sunken Allied and Imperial Japanese warships. A great battle had been fought in that exact spot 26 years earlier.

It was a dark, ominous night. On watch, I noticed a light show making up to the north of us. With what appeared to be one salvo every 45 seconds being fired. Then, to the south of us, another series of salvos appeared to be fired at the ethereal fleet. Neither fleet was really there – at least I couldn’t see them – but their gun flashes were timed, it appeared, to be exactly what they would have been had there been actual vessels. Two ghostly battle fleets going at it hammer and tongs, a quarter of a century after the actual event. Was this just tropical lightning and thunder? Maybe, but it did not have the random quality of merely natural discharges.

Then, there is the final poser of a question. Why am I alive? Why have I survived when so many others have not? I have been shot at and missed, bombed and hit but not personally injured. I have been thrown overboard and have treaded water until, mercifully, I felt that I was standing on the top of a coral head in the middle of the sea. It shouldn’t be there, but it was. And it saved my life. Why did this happen? I’ll probably never know.

Until I become a tremor from the other side, myself.

Flying With White Eagle

author: Ben Nuttall-Smith

-extract

FLYING WITH THE FLEDGLINGS

In the spring of 1910, when I was seven years old, I listened to Colonel Coote talking with my dad about Charles Hamilton and his flying machine travelling through the air like a bird from Lulu Island, (Richmond) to New Westminster and back, a distance of 20 miles in only 30 minutes. The colonel was interested because he told my dad he considered flying machines would be very useful if ever there was another war. That same year, 1910, William Gibson of Victoria began experimenting with his own flying machine but people were laughing at him and saying he’d never get anywhere although he actually flew several times the following year.

Then some fellows in Vancouver built their own flying machine with an engine from the United States. They lost their machine in a fire. In 1911, Billy Stark, a Vancouver auto racer, went to California to learn about flying from Glenn Curtiss, who built airoplanes and was giving flying lessons. Billy returned to British Columbia with a pilot’s licence. In April, 1912, the Daily Province printed a story about flying with Billy Stark in his Curtiss “Flyer”. Father expressed some interest until Stark was injured late in 1912. At about that time, I sprained my ankle jumping from the hay barn into a pile of hay. I wanted to see what it would be like to fly through the air like Billy Stark.

Father told us boys, flying was far more dangerous than jumping from barns and we should stay away. Still, I knew the day would come when I too would fly, maybe even in my own flying machine.

By 1919, William E. Boeing and Eddie Hubbard were carrying international airmail between Vancouver and Seattle using a Boeing-built C2 seaplane while Captain Ernest Hoy, a former RAF pilot had flown from Vancouver to Calgary that August. Ten years later, with the start of the Depression, many pilots who had flown with the Royal Air Force during the war were now flying around the province enticing people to go for rides in their flying machines. Because they often used farmers’ fields and paid farmers a small part of their proceeds, the activity became known as “barnstorming”. Although, apart from one short jaunt in a Curtis JN-4, I had not been able to afford the luxury of flying, I had certainly developed the bug.

After Father returned from Europe, I heard how aviation had progressed during and since the First World War. I became increasingly fascinated with flying. I watched for hours as eagles and hawks glided high above our Fraser Valley farm, and imagined what it would be like to fly freely with them.

For years, I continued to read everything I could find relating to aviation. I knew flying would soon become a very important method of transporting goods and people. We were living in a vast country with great distances between most communities. Roads were unpaved and frequently not fit for travel. The aircraft was capable of rising above the deep mud and potholes, and cutting straight across the many switchbacks of those early highways. If aircraft were going to be the mode of transportation, it seemed wise for me to investigate the possibilities of becoming a pilot.

Since finishing my days at school, I had logged cottonwood while scrimping and saving every penny to eventually be able to fly. Now, at last, I had some money saved up and could finally join the Chilliwack Aero Club. The year was 1927. Membership was $25.00, still a lot of money in those days.

I took two hours of instruction with Ginger Coote in a “Golden–Eagle” and was determined more than ever, flying would be my future. It would take me another seven years before I’d really be able to start flying. I’d have to save enough money to buy an aircraft of my own.

Russell L. (Ginger) Coote, 1900-1970, was the second son of Lt-Col. Andrew Coote, commanding officer of the 47th Battalion of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Russell left Chilliwack in 1916 to join his father and his older brother Ian. He enlisted in his father’s battalion as a bugler at twelve years of age and eventually fought in the trenches at fourteen. Toward the end of the war, Russell learned to fly with the Royal Flying Corp., which became the R.A.F. In 1920, he returned to Chilliwack where he sold the family farm to buy his first airoplane. He soon began flying as a commercial aviator throughout British Columbia.

Among the pilots who flew for him were Russ Baker, Sheldon Luck and Margaret Rutledge. He also partnered with Grant McConachie. During the 1930s he began regular air service to the Gold Bridge and Zeballos gold fields.

Famous for his many mercy flights, it was reported by one newspaper that Ginger Coote had saved more lives than had been lost in all B.C. aviation accidents throughout the 1930s. At the outbreak of the next war in 1939, he sold his airline to serve as a volunteer with the Canadian Air Training Plan.