Courage of the Early Morning Dawn:

As a young Aviator, I read voraciously.  The Owen Sound Public Library was the pinnacle of peace and solitude for a 10 year old boy who wanted more than anything to learn how to fly.  The edifice, a manicured brown, sandstone building, harboured at one end of the Eight Street Bridge and totally accessible by bicycle was the keeper of “the books” that would become the singular source of dream weaving available to me.

I had read them “all”, of course, literally.  However, the most noteworthy were those dedicated to telling the tales of a young pilot, a Victoria Cross winner whose youthful exuberance and thirst for adventure were carefully chronicled in the exploits of a “daring” associated with a time dedicated to the First Great War.  World War I.

His name was William Avery Bishop.  Most have forgotten him, of course, and kids today can Google their hearts out gleaning what they wish from the world of Wikpedia.  But the subject and material relating to the name of “Billy Bishop” has shown, by last count, that in a world of over six and a half billion living on the planet, the information relating to his biography and life force, has received a mere few thousand “hits”. 

Billy Bishop was born in Owen Sound.  My Dad and I used to paint the original family home on Third Avenue West, since turned into a Museum dedicated to the life and times of the greatest of all Allied Aviators.

“Courage of the Early Morning Dawn” was a phrase most associated with Billy Bishop.  Flying into the face of a formidable foe and even more formidable odds.  You see, I learned that the life of an Aviator fighting for the Allied forces, or for the Axis for that matter was counted in hours to days and perhaps mere weeks, if he was “lucky”.  His exploits are well known to me.  His stories were indelibly etched in my young mind and were to be firmly entrenched in my being as a reminder of “the hallmark” of those whose abilities and courage to achieve, sustain and persevere bore no limitations.

Truth is, and the fact of the matter was, that I was surrounded by my heroes. 

I was related to them. 

I would sit in awe and anticipation waiting for a pearl from my Uncle Jim on waxing for various snow conditions relating to the crystalline nature of the “white gold” as our Uncle Louis would call it. 

I would sit in awe and anticipation waiting for a pearl from my Dad on not breaking your focus as you relentlessly locked onto the “birdcage gates” still yet a dozen turns away on a precipitous Slalom course.

The photograph attached is extremely well known to me.  I secreted it from my Aunt Freda’s album, stolen if you will, from the bottom drawer of an extremely large and looming China Cabinet located in the front sitting room of my Ya Ya and Papoo’s home.  The House.  As it was known.  I have carried it with me for decades in a scrapbook that continually re-surfaces as a reminder when times are tough.

This picture was taken at the Base of the ski run, on a course known as The Dieppe, carved into the Niagara Escarpment in the Blue Mountains of Southern Ontario.  Hacked out of the Maples and surrounding Alder bushes by these two snow devils along with the vision provided by yet another mystical character found in the name of Joso Weider.

This was the site of “The  Downhill Event” at the Ontario Championships, aptly named after a war torn beach on the coastline of France, where so many were taken during the battles fought in Europe.  Won by my Uncle Jim, #24 and second place to my Dad, Bill #10.  Together they were formidable opponents to the rest of the skiing world.  Gorgeous Georgas boys as they were known on the Canadian ski racing circuit.  My Dad taking first in yet another Downhill event.  Uncle Jim taking first in yet another Slalom event.  It was a crap shoot as to who would place First overall in the Four Way Event coupling x-country racing with Jumping and the Alpine events of Downhill and Slalom. First. First. First. First.  They were unbeatable and unbelievable.  Really!

Their courage was literally insurmountable.  Their eyes as keen as those found on any bird of prey.  Their physiques honed to a strength and mettle that a Tarzan would have thirsted after.  You know they never ever, ever, gave up. 

And my god, they were handsome men.  Missing my Dad and My Uncle Jimmie.  Thank you.

Nephew Chris