Maj. Edward Collis Watson Jr. and Mrs. Watson
Uncle Eddie and Auntie Tillie . . . .
It was 1963 and I so Adored my Uncle Eddie
Auntie Tillie was my mother’s youngest sister. She was soft-spoken, someone who loved her Nescafe instant coffee granules, and her perch at the kitchen table overlooking the village’s daily comings and goings. She also loved and reared three intelligent, stalwart and thoughtful sons without injury or mishap, either to herself or to them.
Andrew, David and Lewis.
All boys and all much older than I was at the time, all six years of scrawny me.
But it was Maj. Edward Collis Watson Jr. who was my love. With every painful breath-of-a-step Uncle Eddie could muster with the help of his cane, I swallowed another lump in my throat along side him. Uncle Eddie drove a pick-up truck and his most constant of companions were his dogs. The cane was an aide. The dog, an affectionate friend and partner.
Uncle Eddie and Auntie Tillie’s yard shared a fence with the village’s high school and elementary school. I was part of the elementary school.
Every day . . . .
I’d make my way for lunch to their house on the hill. Down the school steps, veer left, big ol’ tree to the right, rope swings straight ahead. Wooden, splintered teeter totters with the red handles next to the swings, another left turn, this time across the playground. Long-jump sand pit to the right, perils straight ahead.
Every day . . . .
The high school boys played softball. I’d watch for just that right second when the ball was pitched. Strike one. Strike two. Could somebody please hit that ball, even a pop-up would give me time to dart behind the back-catcher and avoid a bonk on the head. Finally.
Dress hoisted, crinoline not-so-much (those things were pretty starchy; couldn’t even get them to fit under my desktop), white patent Mary Janes and all, I held my breath. Dodging. Careening. No helmet. No knee pads. Get the picture?
Every day . . . .
Because
I was pretty much a sickly kidlette, rheumatic fever and such. Extremely poor appetite. None to be most precise. Mother and Auntie Tillie thought it might be smart to try eating something other than a boxed lunch, or in my case, a Roy Rogers lunch kit and matching thermos filled with tepid Lipton’s chicken noodle soup.
That’s when Uncle Eddie stole my heart right out from under me.
I wouldn’t eat. He’d cajole.
I wouldn’t eat. He’d hobble out to the truck, drive down to B. Jeal’s Store and return with something I would eat. Sometimes even Smarties would do the trick.
And always with the dog. Inside the house, too. I was astonished. My mother would never allow my dog, friend and partner, into our house.
I ate.
He was so loving and gentle to that dog. And so loving and gentle to me.
We both reciprocated in kind.
Before long, I had even gained a little weight. It was working so well that my Mother and Auntie Tillie re-convened and determined that I should continue these daily visits. I was overjoyed.
Over the years, I had many more bouts of rheumatic fever, each one leaving me with a few more pounds short. And with every return to school, Uncle Eddie and Auntie Tillie were the steadfast soldiers in the war to help me regain my health.
As I grew older, I learned the true extent to which Uncle Eddie was a soldier.
He traveled where there were no Gravel Roads.
The Great War and World War II
In 1913 while attending High School in Wynyard, Saskatchewan Uncle Eddie joined the Army Cadet League of Canada, and in the following year passed the Cadet Instructor’s course. In 1914, at the age of 19 he enlisted in the Canadian Army to serve in World War I.
Uncle Eddie firmly believed that if not for the Bible in his chest pocket (mandatory-issue for all soldiers at the time), his wound would have been fatal. Instead, he was only disabled. In 1940 he was promoted to Lieutenant and three years later, to Captain.
While serving yet again, this time in World War II, while overseas he suffered a wound to the shoulder.
Despite a third promotion to the rank of Major, Uncle Eddie thought it was time to return to farming.
The Other Watsons
Edward Collis Watson Sr (Uncle Eddie’s father) was born in 1869 near Huddersfield, Yorks, England. In 1869 he and his wife Catherine Ellis Ritchie (nee Gibson} immigrated to Manitoba, Canada, eventually settling in the Wishart Saskatchewan area in 1903.
His father was an Anglican Clergyman and a direct descendant of Andrew Watson, Mayor of the City of Limerick, Ireland in the latter part of the 18th century.
Superintendent Lewis John Collis Watson (Uncle Eddie’s brother) was born in the Wishart area in 1910. He joined the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Regina Detachment in 1932. Following several promotions he was appointed Inspector Aklairk Divison, then Superintendent in 1961. His final post was of Chief Preventive Officer at H. Q. Ottawa until his retirement in 1967.
I remember J. C.’s garage in Wishart where Dad would often seek out car parts. The shop was white with red trim. Inside the length of the building, ran a well-honed work space lined with every tool imaginable. At least I thought so. And the aroma? Grease and oil and there’s nothing like it today.
James Collis (J.C.) Watson (another brother) was born in the Holmfield District of Manitoba in 1898, three years after Uncle Eddie. After farming in the Wishart area he established a garage business which he operated until his death in 1968.
And their Namesakes
Andrew joined the Anglican priesthood in the 70’s. Today he is Pastor at Shepherd’s Heart, Valley Bread of Life in Ministries in Reedley, California. Sidebar — I was a junior bridesmaid at his marriage to Verna (nee Melnychuk).
David continued on the family farm near Wishart.
Lewis became a Conservation Officer and resides in Alberta.
And Gravel Roads
Remembers those early 60’s and Uncle Eddie and the dog. Can’t seem to remember the dog’s name, though. But those early 60’s and Uncle Eddie. Packed away in long-term storage.
Note from Gravel Roads — After reading this post, I heard from Andrew (Andy), “You have succeeded in royally messing up my work morning – for which I am so thankful! Your writing is superb and I found myself very much travelling memory lane as I read your articles. What a gift you have! BTW, dad’s dog was ‘Spirit’.
Thank you, Andy. Now Spirit enters the realm of ‘packed away in long-term storage’.
How fitting a name it was, wouldn’t you agree?
