My Best 80 Years: The Lifetime Recollections of Donald Charles Buckley

By Don Buckley

Don Buckley lived a boy’s adventure tale. He grew up believing that intrigue, excitement, and even danger were waiting for those curious enough to capture them. From shooting BB guns as a boy to flying World War II bombers as a young man, he found all three.

In My Best 80 Years, Don retraces his own steps from boyhood to manhood form the early 1920s to the late 1940s. He shares his escapades growing up in English-speaking Montreal and summers at boys’ camps, on family vacations and working. Some of his greatest adventures occur after he joins the Royal Canadian Air Force in WWII. He shares harrowing escapades – in air and on land – from his time stationed in Summerside, Prince Edward Island as an Officer, pilot and bomber trainer.

Whether by design or happenstance, adventure comes to those who seek it. In this captivating autobiography, Don lets us experience it, without having to leave the comfort of our own homes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil Buckley
• Release date: Dec 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9780995003804

Don Buckley

Donald Charles Buckley was born on March 24th 1923 in Montreal, Canada. After an adventuresome boyhood, he joined the Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) during World War II and was stationed in Summerside, P.E.I. as an Officer Pilot and trainer.After the war, Don earned a degree in Mechanical Engineering from McGill University and joined A.V. Roe in Toronto where he worked on the Iroquois engine for the famed Arrow Project. He passed away on November 27th 2015, thankful for a rich life. Don is survived by his two sons, Steve and Phil.

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My Best Eighty Years

Lifetime Recollections of Donald Charles Buckley

Don Buckley

Written by Don Buckley

Compiled and edited by Phil Buckley

Cover design by Krishan Jayatunge

Photographs courtesy of the author unless noted

Copyright © 2015 by Phil Buckley and Steve Buckley

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Sweet Sixteen Publishing

7 Orchard Crescent

Toronto, Ontario M8Z 3C9

Publisher’s Note: No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without permission by Phil Buckley or Steve Buckley

Book Layout Format © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

My Best Eighty Years/ Don Buckley. – 1st ed.

FOREWORD

Donald Charles Buckley (or DCB as he often called himself) was an adventurer. He was also a dreamer, inventor, poet, optimist, dancer, romantic, friend, pilot, engineer, jokester, husband and, our dad. His lust for life and natural curiosity led him to many situations that are worthy of the written word. Don had the good or bad fortune of being at the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time.

Dad began writing his memoirs in 1999 at the age of seventy-six. He wanted to immortalize the stories he’d told us over the years. As he explained in one of his journal notes, The purpose of all this is to record some of the stuff which at some time in the life of DCB seemed of some importance or amusement to him.

Dad thought ‘big’ in everything he did. He intended thirty-five chapters for his autobiography, each with multiple stories. Though he finished only twenty tales in total, they all meet his exacting ‘book quality’ standards.

This author wondered if some readers would question the believability of his stories. He had a point, since they’re all pretty dramatic and many seem stranger than fiction. That’s the life he lived.

DCB’s autobiography only scratches the surface of this intelligent, curious and fun-loving guy’s life. And the stories are all true. Trust us; we asked him.

Phil Buckley

As you are about to discover in the following memoir, Don had made an impact on this world…literally.

One of his biggest contributions was the influence he had on his two sons. From his character he provided us with an appreciation of humour. He encouraged comradery. While most kids call their father Dad, he was Dozo to us by the time we were teenagers. He taught us skills in home repair and shaving as we watched him do stuff around the house as little kids. He was no stranger to mischief and could relate to us when his progeny got into a bit of trouble.

I have fond memories of the times when he would take us out hiking in the woods. At snack time he would relate some of the stories you are about to read. We would hang on to every word. We hope that you enjoy them as much as we did. It was a different time, so unlike what we experience today.

Steve Buckley

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

INTRODUCTION

CHILDHOOD

Halifax Tea

Notre Dame de Grace (N.D.G.)

Melrose Avenue

‘Too Hoo’

Fireworks

Urban Traffic

PRE-TEENS

Swimming Lessons

Camp Kanawana

The Robin

MONTREAL WEST

Firecracker Day

The Steam Roller

The Orchard

HIGH SCHOOL

Pencil Gun

Bell Telephone

The Prom

Camp Lac Louie

RCAF

Induction

Icing

Flying Folly

ORENDA ENGINES

Hartford

LIFE HISTORY OF DONALD CHARLES BUCKLEY

OTHER STORIES THAT DON INTENDED TO WRITE

NOTES

INDEX

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTION

Intelligent and inquisitive children always used to enjoy hearing about ‘the old days’ when their parents had to ‘walk ten miles to school in the snow without shoes’…or so the stories went. Today, many kids still enjoy the long-ago tales about their ancient forefathers and how the world was so different then.

Even before my grandchildren could talk, they seemed to be comforted by listening to the wonder of fairy tales and true stories of ‘away-back-when’, as read quietly each evening at sleepy time. It was then when I gave some thought to committing to paper some of the family history.

Since the age of two I had scribbled little poems, stories and other texts. These keepsakes began the organization of my memoirs. I tried to recall all the important events which happened during my lifetime. I separated them into thirty-five categories, each of which covering a particular stage of my life, such as birth, childhood, employment, retirement, etc.

Throughout my adult years I’ve tried to be a person of some practicability in my endeavors. I realize there are many surprises in life, not the least being the date of its sudden finality. Accordingly, these writings may not be totally completed as planned. Not that I am contemplating anything extraordinary, but life and nature being what they are – frivolous, unpredictable, uncaring – a ceiling could fall, a cough could result in a torn embolism, or the author could ‘pass on’ just from the excitement and thrill of reporting upon the details of his charmed, active and, upon occasion, unusual existence.

My intention is to record all the information I can concerning my ancestors, present day relatives, friends, neighbours and anything else that has reflected upon my life or outlook. They are things which at some time in my life seemed of some importance or amusement to me. The main objective of my writing is to provide a solid account of family background for the generations that follow. They should be pleased to know they appear to have sprung from quality human stock!

I hope casual readers will enjoy at least the more lively portions of the text. Of necessity, some of the statistics may prove to be tedious and irrelevant to all but the few who are directly concerned, especially with evolutionary factors and their own heredity. But facts are facts and are necessary to complete the picture of my life.

My descriptions and allusions (not illusions) at times may appear to be contrived, but I assure you that is not so; it just happens that some of the adventures which befell me were miraculous to the point of being downright unbelievable. But all are factual. Perhaps certain unusual events were due to my inescapable passion for adventure, novelty, or just through sheer naiveté where other more conventional persons would have thought twice before jumping into unknown waters. Of one thing I assure you; at no time have I amplified, altered, downplayed, exaggerated or embellished any of the information in these memoirs. The intent has been to be honest at all times, possibly to the point of boredom to some readers. A hundred years from now I don’t want the press, descendants and historians pondering over Which parts are factual?

‘Coincidence’ seems to have been one of the more repetitive agents in my life. Being at the right place at the right time – unexpectedly meeting old friends in the most remote of airports, sixty percent accuracy during teen-age telepathy, and so on – led to many adventures. In review, I would say my life has been happy, productive and fortunate.

Donald Charles Buckley

CHAPTER TWO

CHILDHOOD

Halifax Tea

Since my childhood I have always been crazy about ‘pretty’ stones and oddly shaped rocks, contoured by nature with interesting mixed patterns and colour blends. As well, I have been fascinated by material dragged here, and particularly to the Maritimes during the era of glaciers. From the age of two I have been picking up and hoarding such stuff. Usually it has been gloated over for the moment, then hidden away somewhere easily forgotten.

Today’s tale has to do with rocks, one of my favourite subjects. More specifically, it involves tens of thousands of marble-sized stones officially stolen from the local Nova Scotia beaches...but we won’t go into that aspect just now.

These uniform-sized delights caught my eye as we pulled up before the Governor General’s mansion in Halifax. The driveway was wide, U-shaped and was immaculately maintained so the narrow Rolls-Royce tires could run smoothly to the entrance. As the layer of stones was over eight inches deep, it was the perfect spot for a boy to build castles, moats and deep canals.

It wasn’t long before the two uniformed chauffeurs were glaring at me as, repeatedly, they brought out shovels to decimate my inspired creations. I thought I overheard one shoveller say under his breath, Beat it chum…er, Sir. (He couldn’t be sure I wasn’t a Prince!)

It so happened that my parents and I for several days were visiting a good, old-time Maritime friend of my father. The two families had been close for years since one of Dad’s sisters had married into the Tory clan.

The Tory family was raised in a little hamlet by the Atlantic many miles East of Halifax. Each child was indoctrinated to aspire to great things in life. There was only one problem; lack of money. This took care of itself when James C. met Cary Campbell and they married. The Campbells were known for their wealth. The marriage may have been due to mutual love but never-the-less James became a lawyer, politician and the source of encouragement for all his brothers and their progeny as leaders in business and lawyers for generations.

But I have digressed from the heart of the story I had in mind. One Sunday afternoon on what we used to call a perfect Scotian day, we enjoyed the huge billowy cumulous clouds marching slowly through a deep blue sky. There was just enough gentle summer breeze to make it pleasant for all.

It was tea time and on the large front veranda of Government House sat my parents, ‘Aunt’ Cary, James and several other mutual friends all seated in the then-popular wicker chairs from India. I was squatting at the bottom of the wide stairs making delightfully deep canals through the stones. The drivers were some distance off but they couldn’t say anything to me when their boss was so near!

Mrs. Tory was enjoying her tea while chatting with her dear friends. She was known for her generosity but never for her beauty. In fact, people never discussed it. Meanwhile I suppose I was indulging in a few seconds of brain numbness as when a child just is deep in thought with nothing particular in mind; like a zombie.

Everything was peaceful. Everyone seemed to be content. I was in a deep dream about nothing. One of the drivers was asleep. No one moved. It was an ecstasy of happiness like heaven on earth.

Suddenly the earth truly did stand still. Aunt Cary leaped up from her wicker chair. Her tea was spilled. The people gasped. You she shrilled. "Why are you staring at me like that? Tell me, boy!" The audience quivered. No one breathed. Cary was livid. James’ mouth stood open. My folks were ready to die. My heart began to beat. My world came back into focus. A hidden voice put sounds into words.

"Oh, dear Aunt Cary: it’s because you’re so beautiful!!

Well, it was that little piping voice that did it. Oh you sweet wonderful child. Aunt Cary will always remember this happy day. Turning to my parents, Mrs. Tory put her hand toward her mouth as if to feign confidence. You know, dears, I’ve been thinking of a little something to begin that child’s bank account...you know, something like five hundred dollars. Five hundred. roared James. Why that’s a fortune (He had forgotten that everything he had was due to the Campbell fortune.)

A few weeks later my Dad received a terse note from Halifax.

‘Sorry we have had to cancel all of Cary’s commitments. She has been diagnosed with problems of the mind and will be taken care of by the proper authorities.’

Notre Dame de Grace (N.D.G.)

Melrose Avenue was approximately in the centre of Montreal’s English district of Notre Dame de Grace (Our Lady of Grace), referring to the mother of Jesus. The area in the 1920s was occupied mostly be middle-class white collar male office workers. Most wives stayed at home. My parents lived on the second storey of a block-long building which ran all the way south from Sherbrooke Street, a main east/west thoroughfare, to the six busy parallel main C.P.R. railway tracks. From birth, until I was seven years old, Melrose was the centre of my world.

Renting was the usual method of paying for one’s housing. Only the rich could afford to own a house but our street of rented homes was considered to be quite respectable and a ‘better-class’ neighbourhood. My father, Charles, worked for the Sun Life Assurance Company in its head office. At the beginning of each month, like clockwork, he went down our long