The Other Book of John

This is the tale of three persons – all of them me. It is about the person I was, the person I wanted to be and the person I became. While the tale is autobiographic, from time-to-time it may be a drama, a comedy or even a tragedy. How will it end? I’m not there yet! Now I could say that it was the indominants of the human spirit that propelled me, the son of an impoverished dirt farmer on a hilly fifty acres, littered with boulders, to achieve what many would consider a life of comfort and security. Perhaps I just lacked the intuitive senses to comprehend the consequences of failure. Perhaps I should have realized that I could not be the person I was never meant to be, but in truth, much of my success in life was due, not to my own efforts but the efforts, or oversites, of many others. I have had a wonderful journey taking me from my sheltered preschool life to the here and now. In short, I have been blessed. June 6th, 1933. Canada was in the depths of an ongoing depression. On that day the burden of a third child thrust upon struggling farmers must have been disheartening. I was that third child. My brother, six years my senior and sister five more beyond that were both helping hands around my parent’s horse and hayrack farm. It makes me suspect that I was not a planned addition. If that was indeed the case, it was never ever mentioned in my lifetime. My parents fulfilled my needs and responded to my desires for attention, but I do not recall being held, cuddled, and cared for to any great extent. As I explored the world around the place of my birth, I felt secure within the four walls of our old, whitewashed stone house. My father, John Ritchie Geen farmed at the foot of Gravel Pit Hill, a poor farm on the fourth concession road of Huntington Township in Ontario, Canada. The year was about 1921. He was a dairy farmer in a land where the cheese industry was the source of survival. He did, in fact, become president of the Moira Cheese factory in 1926 and eventually the president of Acme Cheese. This company united a patchwork of community cheese factories that permitted many farms to survive during the years of financial correction. Those were the years when businessmen became beggars and beggars became numerous. At this tender age the terms poor and poverty were unknown to me. I did not understand why people came to the door looking for work, food, water and sometimes shelter in the barn. Sometimes it was an entire family. I have watched them approach the house with cautious reluctance, having much respect for the dog, and knocking on the door gently, seemingly with reservations. Mother would answer the door, speak with them, and tell them to wait outside while she prepared sandwiches of homemade bread slathered with homemade butter and thick sliced chicken or salt pork. This she would place in a brown paper bag with a sealer of milk. Many walked away to consume it elsewhere, others would stop outside the front gate and consume it with gusto right there. When I asked why they did that I was simply told – they were homeless, hungry, and poor! Some faint recollection of those days probably conditioned me to never be homeless, hungry or poor! At what age does one begin to remember life’s occurrences? Which ones are most often remembered? Do we tend to remember the times of glory and glee and reject the incidents of fear and frustration!? Not really! Even during these preschool years, I remember the elation of getting candy from Santa Clause while walking behind a logging sleigh in a Christmas parade. I also remember the opening of Christmas presents that were few. I have crystal clear memories of fright when being assaulted by a tyrant rooster while playing in the yard. I still feel the terror of once being surrounded by a heard of monstrous cows when I tried crossing the barnyard, and the calming relief when the collie dog came, and they scattered. I even remember people chuckling in church because my father could blow his nose louder than anybody else. When we left that farm in 1937, I was but four or five years old. Could such memories still be stored among the treasures of my mind? They have!