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| American Can Company, 611 Alexander St., Vancouver |
On Remembrance day today, I'm
remembering a strange incident with my grandfather.
When I was about 4 years old, my grandmother one day said to my grandfather, "show Sean your scars." We were all standing on the stairwell going upstairs in their old house. He lifted up his shirt and slowly turned around. Running the entire length of his ghostly pale back, from below his belt line to the base of his skull, were long fissures and thick wavy ridges of scar tissue. It looked as though he'd been filleted like a fish and then crudely stitched back together.
When I was about 4 years old, my grandmother one day said to my grandfather, "show Sean your scars." We were all standing on the stairwell going upstairs in their old house. He lifted up his shirt and slowly turned around. Running the entire length of his ghostly pale back, from below his belt line to the base of his skull, were long fissures and thick wavy ridges of scar tissue. It looked as though he'd been filleted like a fish and then crudely stitched back together.
A couple of months ago, I was thinking of him again while sitting
in the archives here in Vancouver working on another project. My grandfather spent his life in New Brunswick but I knew that he'd lived here briefly
before enlisting in the army in 1916 for WWI.
With this in mind I reached over to some old city directories shelved
near the table where I was sitting. To my surprise, I found
his name and 2 addresses. He lived at the West Hotel, still located
on Carrall street, and worked as a labourer at the American Can Company, whose long
white building still stands on Alexander Street. In its day it was
the largest industrial building in Vancouver, producing cans for
salmon canneries up and down the coast.
I was in the renovated post-factory version of this building once a
few years ago, but knew nothing of this history. It was during a quiet afternoon field trip with a U.B.C. grad seminar class for a group critique with some S.F.U. visual
arts students. I now know that my grandfather worked in that same
space surrounded by the noise of heavy machinery manufacturing tin cans in 1916. One day he left his job and visited a nearby recruiting station to join the Canadian Expeditionary Force. Within a year, in 1917, he was in France fighting for his life at Vimy Ridge.
My grandfather was a very old man by
the time we met and it was mainly through visual incidents, such as the scene on the stairwell, that I knew him. He spoke very little. However, I am
extremely grateful for his extraordinary perseverance. After being critically wounded by shell shrapnel, machine gun fire, and mustard gas
at Vimy Ridge, his prognosis was grim: he was not expected to live. He spent the next 2 years of his life slowly recuperating in
various European hospitals before finally returning home to Canada in 1919.
My entire family owes its existence to the fact he did return.
As I think of him today, I'm aware that my family and I will never know the full story of the scars he revealed when he lifted his shirt. That's probably for the best. However, what we do know is worth remembering. This history is very much alive.
As I think of him today, I'm aware that my family and I will never know the full story of the scars he revealed when he lifted his shirt. That's probably for the best. However, what we do know is worth remembering. This history is very much alive.
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| Charles Hinson Alward |
