Chapter 8

There was six inches of fresh snow on Jeremiah Jones' head as Lizzie pulled her red plastic toboggan past the wood carving. School had been cancelled and the plows were creeping along the roads trying to clear up the mess. It was the third major storm in a week and everyone was beginning to wonder where they were going to put all the snow.

 Lizzie stopped at the base of the carving to see if anything extraordinary would happen. She looked at the eyes; no movement. She took a deep breath: no smell of peppermint.

How silly of me, she thought. She resumed her march to the best toboggan hill in town, but after a few steps stopped and ran back in her own footprints to the base of the statue. She pulled off her mitten and rubbed the left boot.

"You can't win if you don't play," she mumbled out loud.

 A block down the street she waved at Mr. Livingstone as he sent a ribbon of the powdery white stuff into the air with his snow blower. The senior waved back and shouted a greeting of some kind she couldn't hear over the roar of the machine's engine.

 Lizzie wasn't alone in her trek to the toboggan hill. As she crossed a set of railway tracks near where the town's old railway station had once stood, she could see dozens of kids converging on Legion Hill. With each step, the laughing of the children already there got louder, and the bragging by the boys about who how fast they could go over a jump, got clearer.

 Lizzie had asked her sister Rejean to come with her, but she'd said she was too old to toboggan. It seemed to Lizzie her sister had become too old to do anything except lie in her bedroom and listen to music on her l-pod.

Legion Hill was not big, but it was wide, almost horseshoe-shaped, and fairly steep. Several people could start at the top at the same time, but you had to be careful as the hill narrowed at the bottom. Lizzie had seen more than one slider leave the hill in tears following a smash-up. As soon as she arrived, Lizzie joined in the sledding, shivering with delight as she hurled herself face first down the hill.

She stayed on the well-worn trails most of the morning, but was not unhappy the few times she drifted on into the deeper snow and came out the other end looking like a snowman.

 On some runs she left her toboggan at the top and doubled or tripled up with friends on their much larger sleds, but most of the time she was content to ride alone.

She was getting ready for her 15th or 16th run when she heard Dennis Borden's voice cut through the general rabble. She looked toward the annoying sound and saw him coming onto the hill from a dead end street just to the left of the top of the hill.

Crap. There goes a pleasant afternoon, she thought. Maybe if I get out of fast enough, he won't see me and I won't have to murder him.

She jumped on her toboggan and headed down the hill. Unfortunately when she looked back to see if she'd made a clean escape, Dennis wasn't at the top of the hill anymore. He had jumped onto his plastic sheet on the opposite side of the hill and was gathering speed. If she didn't change course in the next ten seconds, they would collide near the bottom of the hill.

 "Double crap," she whispered and stuck out her left foot. The red toboggan veered wildly to the right, sending her careening across the hill. She went so far right that while she avoided the collision with Dennis, she nearly collided with silver Volkswagen Bug in the Legion parking lot.

Looking back over her shoulder, she saw Dennis' toboggan flip near the bottom, sending him face first into a snow bank. She didn't try to hide her smile, especially when he got up, picked up the plastic sheet, and headed back to the top. He'd never seen her.

Excellent, she thought.

 She grabbed her toboggan and started for home, but the wind picked up and she was suddenly cold. So cold, her teeth started chattering.

 I wonder if the people at the Legion would mind if I went inside to warm up for a minute?  Why not? It will only be long enough to regain some of the feeling in my fingers.

She pulled her sled along the front of the red brick building, past its three flagpoles and the black marble monument honouring soldiers killed in battle. She left the toboggan leaning against a railing on the stairs at the main entrance and went inside.

The warm air washed over her like a wave on a sandy beach. She took offer her hat, unzipped her jacket and stomped the snow from her boots.

 The building was quiet. From where she was standing, there was a set of stairs running up to a hall and a set of stairs that ran down into a hallway that led to...she didn't know where. It smelled like furniture polish.

 Looking up the stairs, she saw that the hall door was open. If she squinted, she could see the corner of a huge mural on the far wall.  Intrigued, she looked around, and then bolted up the stairs. She stuck her head into the hall, found it empty, and wandered in.

As it turned out there were four murals on the walls, each depicting a different facet of Canada's war service. In one, a navy ship was passing under the MacKay Bridge in Halifax. In a second, airplanes of varying ages flew through the sky. In the third, Lizzie's favourite, a tank and a jeep were making their way through the charred ruins of a town at sunset. There were lots of golds and yellows that gave the horrifying scene a certain beauty. Lizzie also appreciated that in one corner, there was a woman soldier carrying a backpack.

The fourth painting was a bit confusing for Lizzie. There was a ship and man in an odd uniform that she was pretty certain wasn't military. More curiously, the man in the uniform was surrounded by several black men who looked exhausted.

She shrugged her shoulders and walked out of the gym and back to the front door. Thoroughly warm now, she put on her gloves and was heading out the door when she heard a crash from downstairs. She crouched to see what had happened, and spotted a frail grandmotherly woman bending down to pick up dozens of forks that spilled from a Tupperware container she was holding.

Lizzie rushed down the stairs and started to help retrieving the forks. It was truly amazing how far down the hall they had spilled.

The grateful senior looked up at Lizzie and smiled. "I was taking them upstairs to set up for a banquet. I guess they'll have to get washed all over again."

"We have 10 second rule at our house. If it falls on the floor, it doesn't have to go back in the sink unless it's got dog hair on it or it's been on the floor for more than 10 seconds."  She dropped two handfuls of forks back into the bucket. "This floor doesn't look that dirty. I won't tell if you won't."

The lady's smiled widened.

"Thank you for that, but it's back into the dishwasher for them. I don't want any health officer to come in and give me a hard time. Thank you, again."

"No problem," said Lizzie. She put the last of the forks into the container. She turned and headed back up the stairs, but stopped in her tracks on the third stair.  There on the wall to the left was a long, skinny black and white photograph of 250 men in uniform standing in some kind of field. It wasn't the soldiers that caught her eye though. It was the label written in pen. It read: 85th Battalion at Debert.

 That was Jones' unit.

"Excuse me," Lizzie asked, turning back to the fork lady. "Do you know anything about this photo?"

The woman glanced at it, and shook her head.

"I'm sorry dear, I don't. But go down to the end of the hall and ask for John at the bar. He'll be the one with a cup of tea. He knows everything about the pictures. He's in charge of our heritage room."

Lizzie thanked her and turned her attention back to the photograph. She searched hard for a black face, but she couldn't see one. Jones could have been in the back or blocked by the guys holding tubas or bagpipes. After a while she felt like she was doing a Where's Waldo? puzzle.

Unable to find Jones, she turned first toward the end of the hall and then to the exit leading outside. Without some time to prepare herself, she just didn't have the courage to walk down the hall and ask to see a complete stranger. She didn't really know what she'd ask him if she found him.

She put on her mittens.

"Great photo, eh?" came the question from behind her.

Lizzie nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned and saw an older gentleman with thin gray moustache and embarrassingly bad comb-over looking at the photo.

"It was supposed to be the war to end all wars. Like that has happened. We still can't seem to find enough good in one another to put down our guns for very long."

There was silence as the man continued to study the picture and Lizzie tried to figure out how this dude appeared behind her without her seeing him.

"Did you know the soldiers serving today in Afghanistan are using the exact same kind of shovel the lads used at Vimy?"

He tapped on the glass covering the photo.

"The guns have changed, the uniforms have changed, even the tactics have changed I suppose, but for the guys at the front it's still the same. It's hell." He tapped the picture again. "For these guys, Vimy, it was a nightmare. The Ridge was 50 stories high and four kilometres wide, but it was so honeycombed with craters, there were only a few paths to the top. German machine gunners in heavily protected positions were located at the top, just waiting to take a shot."

"Do you know about Vimy?" asked Lizzie. Her surprise at the man's sudden appearance was forgotten. "I'm learning about it for a class project. Were you in the war? Were you at Vimy?"

The old man smiled.

"I was in France alright, but during World War II. My grandfather was at the battle of Somme, Vimy and Passendale. Grandpa was with the 85th Battalion out of Truro. He's in this picture someplace, but even when my eyesight was good, I could never pick him out. He's probably behind a tuba or something."

"Did he serve with Jeremiah Jones?" Lizzie blurted out, barely able to contain her excitement.

The man's kind smile disappeared. It was replaced by a puzzled expression.

"I'm not sure. I don't know a lot about what he did or who he met. He didn't make it back. He was shot by a German sniper one morning on his way to the latrine. One minute he had to take a leak and the next minute he was lying in the mud, his life draining away into the earth."

Lizzie didn't know what to say, so there was silence as the man struggled to regain his composure.

"I'm sorry," she said after a few seconds. She touched his shoulder gently.

"It's okay, but thank you. It was a long time ago, but the older I get, it seems death, anyone's death, gets harder to take. There is so much needless death. I've already lost so many friends."

"I know what you mean," thought Lizzie as an image of her mother in a fancy church hat flashed across her mind. As quickly as it appeared, Lizzie pushed it away. She knew from experience that if she allowed the image to linger, she would be in tears.

By the time Lizzie recovered from her own thoughts, the smile had returned to the man's face.

"Sorry," he said." You didn't come here to listen to the ramblings of an old man. You asked me about Vimy didn't you?"

"Yes, sir," said Lizzie.

"I could tell you a little bit about it, but if you've got a couple of seconds, I think I know something that would be more useful. Do you have a couple of more minutes?"

Her father's repeated warning about talking to strangers galloped through her head.

What did this guy want to show her?

Killing time while trying deciding, she glanced at her watch without seeing the hands, and then peeked out the window to see the wind was still blowing the snow around.

"Sure, I've got a few minutes," she heard herself say. "My name is Elizabeth Paris, but all my friends call me Lizzie."

She held out her hand.

"It's nice to meet you Miss Paris," he said taking her hand. I'm John, John Saunders, but my friends call me Teabag, because I am obsessive about tea."

He saw the odd look on Lizzie's face.

"You can call me Mr. Saunders if it feels more comfortable."

The senior reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He sorted through them until he came to a large silver one.

"What I wanted to show you is right in here." He unlocked a door on the left side of the hallway that Lizzie hadn't noticed.

"We call it the Heritage Room, but it's like a museum really. It's artifacts, pictures and memorabilia donated by vets from both World Wars so that people won't forget what happened."

Lizzie didn't know where to look first. There were maps on the wall, big books overflowing with news clippings, and shelves filled with medals, guns and gear. There were plaques and awards, gas masks and uniforms, song books from various military units and pay sheets.

"Holy crap," she said without thinking.

She removes her jacket, stuffed her mitts down one arm and placed it on a cabinet top.

"Is this the uniform they would have worn during World War I?"

Lizzie was looking at a khaki-coloured jacket with a short collar and brass buttons running down the front. The buttons each had raised images of maple leaves. She ran her hand along the sleeve and quickly figured it would have been itchy to wear.

Mr. Saunders checked the tag attached to a pocket of the uniform.

"Yep, typical WWI uniform," he confirmed. "It's what they would have worn rain or shine, and at Vimy there was more rain than shine. Some snow too."

"It also says here the typical gear for a soldier in those days consisted of two days rations, a mess kit that hung outside their haversack, 120 rounds of ammunition, a respirator in the event of a gas attack, a pick, a shovel, two sandbags, a flare and a box of matches."

"That would weigh a lot wouldn't it? asked Lizzie.

"I imagine,” said Saunders. His eyes scanned the room. "Ah here's what I was looking for."   He opened a glass door and pulled out an ancient looking rifle that was as tall as Lizzie. He passed it to her.

"This is the kind of rifle they used. It's called a Ross rifle. It fired .303 calibre ammunition. It was okay for the snipers, but the men in the trenches didn't like it very much."

Lizzie reluctantly took the rifle and immediately didn't like it much either. It was heavy and cold to the touch. The pungent smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils.   A shiver ran along her spine and her feet suddenly got cold.

"Why didn't they like it?” She returned the gun to Saunders quickly.

"It just didn't work very well. If you oiled it too much it wouldn't fire. With a cool wind blowing the wrong way it would freeze up. In the mud it would block up. If you took it apart to clean it, if you weren't careful, you could reassemble it in a way so that the bolt didn't lock. The next time you shot it, the bolt came back and hit you in the face.

"And see here," he said pointing to some clips on the end. "This is where you attached the bayonet. But in the mud and the cramped conditions, the inexperienced   lads were just as likely to gash a friend as they were to stick the enemy.

"It was great for opening a can of beef soup or cutting a loaf of bread, but as an offensive weapon, it was useless. In many cases the bayonet would actually fall off when the gun was fired. Sad as it is, many of the lads at Ypres abandoned their guns altogether and used British guns they retrieved from British casualties."

Lizzie felt a little sick at the thought of men having to take a weapons from the hands of dead guys just to protect themselves.

'Now I have to go down the hall for a second to get another cup of tea. You feel free to look around. I'll be right back. Would you like a tea?"

Lizzie smiled and shook her head. No one at home ever asked her if she'd like a tea. Just by asking, Mr. Saunders had made her feel more grown up.

When he returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug in hand, Lizzie was looking at a leather flyer's cap and goggles positioned on a mannequin's head. She only knew what they were because her Dad had once worn something like them to a Halloween party.

"Not too many people realize this, but the air force played a huge role in World War I," explained Teabag, catching her interest in the cap. "They may still have been using horses to drag the big guns on the ground, but the sky was full of planes. More than 25,000 Canadians served with the Royal Flying Corps.   The planes were rickety, they had few instruments and no parachutes, but the pilots earned more than 800 decorations and awards. It may only have been 16 years since the Wright Brothers first flight, but by 1916 planes were already a vital tool of war. Sad isn't it?”

Saunders tried to lighten the mood. "Have you ever heard of Billy Bishop or the Red Baron?" he asked.

One of the names sounded familiar to her.

"Isn't Snoopy always fighting the Red Baron in the Charlie Brown comics?" She thought the answer might sound stupid, but she carried on anyway. "Yeah, he wears a flyer's cap like that when he calls himself a World War I flying ace, whatever that means."

"An ace is a really good pilot, one who has shot down at least five enemy planes," said Teabag with a laugh. "You could say Billy Bishop was Canada's Snoopy.”

“He actually started the war with a horse-mounted rifle unit, but he quickly got sick of the mud and the lack of action, so he switched over to the air side. He got action all right, he shot down 70 planes and survived a dogfight with Germany's best pilot, The Red Baron. Not bad given that the average lifespan for a new pilot at the time was 11 days."

"Dogfight?" interrupted Lizzie, lifting an eyebrow and crinkling up her nose.

"Sorry, it means fight, tangle, a shooting match in the sky."

"Did the planes drop bombs at Vimy?" asked Lizzie.

"No,” said Teabag. "Pilots were used largely to observe enemy troop movements and spot artillery. In fact, Bishop's first real assignment was in the days leading up to Vimy. He shot down a German spy balloon flying over the Ridge. It would have been a risky bit of business since the balloons were usually heavily protected by enemy fighters and anti-aircraft guns. I've heard that because of the information pilots like Bishop were able to relay to the men on the ground, 80 per cent of the Germans machine gun nests on the hill were destroyed before the battle began. If those guns hadn't been knocked out, Vimy may have turned out very differently."

 Lizzie couldn't say anything in response. She thought her head might explode as she tried to make sense of everything she was learning. She was looking in showcases at flasks, mess kits and medals of all kinds, but she was no longer really seeing them.

 While Lizzie wandered, Teabag put his cup aside, and began searching through a filing cabinet.

 "What was the name of the soldier you inquired about? Jones, wasn't it? Was he from Truro?"

 “Yes," replied Lizzie, suddenly attentive. "There's a wood carving of him down on Willow Street, across from the Home Hardware store."

 "Oh him. He was black like you right? Not too many blacks in the First World War."

Black like me, as opposed to black like.. ?"

"Yes, here it is," said Mr. Saunders pulling a beige folder from the cabinet. I knew we'd have to have something. Jones, Jeremiah, Private, Canadian Over-Seas Expedition, Service number 716 221."

"Really, you've got something?" Lizzie bounded over to the cabinet to take a better look.

"There's not much here, but there is a photocopy of his attestation certificate."

"His what?" said Lizzie doing her raised eyebrow, crinkled nose face.

“The form he filed out to enlist," he said. "Here take a look."

He passed her the form.

Chapter 7

At dinner Lizzie poked at her pork chop and only drank half a glass of milk before excusing herself.

She climbed the stairs to her bedroom slowly and then flopped on the bed. Outside her window she could hear the wind picking up, and rain had begun to fall. The weather forecast suggested a chance of thunderstorms, so she was a little edgy.

Lizzie hated thunderstorms. Rain was okay. She welcomed the first snow of the season with screams of delight. Windy days that sent dry leaves skittering across the lawn in an odd spiral dance were never a problem either. Lizzie didn't even mind lightning, but there was something about the way thunder made the windows rattle, and the ground shake, that sent a shiver up Lizzie's spine and raised goose bumps along her arms.

Her Dad had tried to calm her fears. He'd told her it was just God bowling, or two rain clouds kissing, but she remained unconvinced. At the first clap of thunder she would dive for cover. She never admitted it, maybe not even to herself, but the thunder reminded her of the accident that killed her Mom.

The pending thunderstorm wasn't the only thing making Lizzie anxious. It was the Jones project. It appeared there was almost nothing in the school library on him (one half of a page in one book)  and a search of the Internet after school turned up just 18 hits, most of which dealt with an American sailor who shared the same name.

The public library downtown hadn't been much better. After she summoned up the courage to ask one of the librarians for help, the woman, Mrs. Pendicott, said she'd never heard of Jones. She'd pointed Lizzie to a section of books on World War I, but they were too thick or too technical. She pulled one promising book off the shelf, and looked in the index. There was no listing for Jones.

Frustrated, Lizzie was gathering up her back pack and school books, ready to leave empty-handed, when Mrs. Pendicott appeared from an office area behind the main check-out counter. She explained the library was overcrowded and she had gone to another floor to look in a filing cabinet for newspaper clippings.

"There's not much here, but it is something," said the dark haired woman with cat glasses. "There's one old article, and one fairly recent one. From what I can tell from a quick read, Mr. Jones is a hero, but he wasn't treated fairly."

Lizzie couldn't have been happier if you'd told her she'd won free ice cream for a year at the Baskin Robbins in the Mall.

 Three hours later, looking at all her research material spread out on her bed, it didn't look like much. A couple of newspaper articles, a single photocopies page from the book Colchester Men, and a crumpled piece of paper on which she'd scribbled the words from the plaque screwed to the base of the Jones woodcarving on Willow Street.

Not much to base an essay on. Why did I have to walk past that statue anyway?  Maybe Shanice was right. Maybe I should go in and tell Mr. Thompson she'd made a mistake.

She braided, and then un-braided her hair as she thought about how she could tell Mr. Thompson she'd like to write about Viola Desmond instead. There was tons of stuff on how the New Glasgow businesswoman fought racism and was arrested for trying to sit downstairs in a the racial segregated theatre, instead of upstairs where the blacks traditionally sat.

As she sat pondering all this, there was knock on her door and her Dad poked his head in.

"You okay Pumpkin? You were quiet at dinner and you didn't eat much supper. Is that Borden boy bothering you again?"

 "Yes, but that's going to be his problem when I catch him. I've got a different problem right now."

 "Can I help?" offered Buddy, creeping into the room and leaning on the end of the bed.

"Do you believe in miracles?" Lizzie asked.

Buddy hadn't seen that coming. Questions about faith, and miracles, and almost all girl stuff, had always been his wife's area. He'd learned to deal with them over the last two years, but they still made him uncomfortable, mostly because they reminded him how she was no longer with him.

 "What kind of miracles?" he asked carefully. He had learned to ask carefully.

"You know, things that happen, but aren't supposed to happen."

The answer didn't offer much help, but Buddy had an idea where the conversation might be headed. He was glad to have a chance to finally get it out in the open.

“You mean like when a basketball player tosses a ball from centre court and scores the winning basket? Yeah I've seen that kind of miracle.”

"No, not that kind of miracle."

 "Oh you mean like the kind of miracle that would lead a beautiful woman to see the macho basketball jock in the high school halls and realize he's got more to him that a hook shot that was the envy of the league?”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. She's heard the story about her parents' courtship too many times already. She was in no mood to indulge him.

No, not that kind either," said Lizzie darkly.

Buddy took a deep breath.

 "Oh, you mean like mean the kind of miracle that sees your Mom dying in a car crash that barely dented the front of the car while you survived in the back seat, even when it was smashed beyond recognition?"

Tears started to form at the corner of Buddy's eyes. As far as he knew Lizzie had never talked to anyone about the accident. For weeks after the funeral he'd heard Lizzie and her sister Rejean crying in their rooms at night, but he was in too much pain himself to try and console them.

With the help of some family and friends, he got it together enough after a few months to try and talk to them about it. Rejean coped by barricading herself in her room and listening to music. If she had to talk about her mother, she did so in a detached way, as if her passing was inconsequential. Lizzie on the other hand, never talked about her mother. If her name came up, she would find a reason to run out of the room.

But now, Buddy reasoned, after two years, her daughter was ready to talk about it.

Or so he thought.

 "NO,” Lizzie exploded. “There was no miracle there. It was an accident. A terrible horrible, miserable accident I don't remember much about it and I  don't want to talk about it.”

Buddy took a step back, shocked by the force of his daughter's response.

 "I'm talking about the kind of miracle makes trees smell like peppermint and makes carvings wink at you. A miracle that prevents you from saying anything but the words “Jeremiah Jones” in class and then leaves you with an impossible project. I'm talking about the kind of miracle I'm going to need if I'm ever going to pass Mr. Thompson's Grade 5 class."

 She was standing beside her bed now, stomping her feet and shaking her fists in the air.

"Take it easy pumpkin. I only got half of what you're talking about, but if it gives you some comfort, I do know this. Miracles happen to those who believe in them. If you believe this wood carving winked at you, then maybe it did, and there is a reason for it. We just have to find it out.”

Buddy reached out and tried to put his arms around his daughter. She resisted initially, but, quickly allowed herself to be held.

“So you don't think I'm crazy?” she asked, her head resting on his shoulder. “Shanice thinks I'm losing my mind.”

“No dear, I don't think you are crazy and I don't think you should care what Shanice believes. You've got an active imagination, but you come by those things honestly. You know you're mother was very sensitive and very emotional. She was always a talking about spirits and ESP and knowing things before they were going to happen. When any woman in the neighbourhood got pregnant, they'd come ask your mother if it was a boy or a girl. And she was always right. Maybe you got some of that gift thing from her?”

Lizzie had heard about her mother's talents for predicting the future, but she'd never thought about it as gift. She simply thought all mothers had a knack for figuring things out faster than fathers.

After a minute of silence, Lizzie started to squirm and Buddy released her.

“Why don't you show me what you have and maybe I can help?” asked Buddy.

Lizzie gathered up the papers from her bed and handed them to him, one at a time.

The first one was the photocopied page from the book, Colchester Men. It was about four paragraphs long and featured a small black and white photo of a black man in a suit and tie. He had short dark hair and a big bushy moustache. It was impossible to tell how old he was.

“It says he was born near Truro, came from a big family and had a big family himself,” she said summarizing the article. “He had to lie about his age to join up because he was really too old to join up. He went to a place in France called Vimy Ridge where he captured a bunch of Germans. I guess he captured the machine gun too.”

 “That's about it for that one, but it talks about a letter written to the Truro Daily News in 1917. Thanks to the lady at the library I have that. It is a Letter to the Editor.”

Lizzie passed a photocopy of it to her father. The headline read “A DCM for a Truro Soldier.

“I had to read this one a couple of times, but it's a letter from a soldier in a military hospital. He heard other injured soldiers talking about how Jones has captured a bunch of Germans and their machine gun. He apparently carried it back to his commanding officer.

“It says he was recommended for a Distinguished Conduct Medal and the writer hoped that Jones would receive the welcome he deserved when he got home.”

Lizzie went on to explain that there was a part at the beginning of the article where the editor called Jones a well-known, and highly respected Ford Street resident. It referred to him as a brave, powerful and resourceful patriot who was a terror to the treacherous Germans on more than one occasion.

“That's about it,” said Lizzie. “I've got another picture of him from the newspaper put in by his sister Martha and the wording from plaque screwed to base of the wood carving down the street.”

She handed her father a crumpled piece of paper. On it was written:

 Jeremiah Jones: While serving in the Royal Canadian Regiment at Vimy in WWI, he single-handedly cleared out a German dugout, captured the survivors, and saved the lives of many of his comrades.

“So now what do I do Dad? That's everything I could find and I looked hard, honest.”

“Well,” began Buddy holding onto the papers. “If it was me, I'd be looking for clues in the information you've already collected. You might not be able to learn a lot more about Jones directly, but if you learn about what it was like when he was living, you might get a better idea of what he was like.”

Lizzie looked perplexed.

“Clues? What kind of clues?” she asked.

“Well, look at the first sheet here. It says he was fighting at Vimy Ridge when he captured the German machine gun. If you get an idea of what it was like at Vimy Ridge, you might get an idea of what it was like for him. And it says he used to live on Ford Street. Maybe you can ask some people in your class if they have any grandparents that remember him?”

“Interesting,” said Lizzie taking back the papers. “Look at it like a television detective. Search for clues. That might even make it fun.”

Chapter 6

 “What? Wait, I didn't say I wanted to DO Jeremiah Jones, I just said I lost my notes by his statue."

 In a corner of her mind, Lizzie thought her words sounded funny, but she pressed forward. "I don't even know what he's famous for. I...I...well..."

 Her protest didn't seem to have any impact on Mr. Thompson who kept on moving down his list of names. She tried two three other times to interrupt, but it was like he, or anyone else in the class, couldn't hear her.

As the selection process was wrapping up (there were only five people after Lizzie), Shanice caught Lizzie's eye. She had a strange expression on her face and she was grabbing her throat.

Jeez Louise. Right, I'm miserable, I've got such a stupid topic my life is over, and now my best friend is continuing to make fun of me. This has been one bad day.

 She glanced back at Shanice again. Her friend was still focused on Lizzie. She was wide-eyed and moving her hand from her mouth then pointing to her ears and shaking her head.

What is she tying to tell me?

Lizzie found out later, almost as soon as class was dismissed.

"Jeremiah Jones? What were you thinking?"

It was Shanice calling to her as she stormed across the parking lot.

"He's just a big black dude in a bad suit. And he's been dead for what a hundred years? Two hundred years? Girl, you’re crazy. And what was with your mouth opening and closing and nothing coming out? That was freaking me out. Were you cursing at Mr. Thompson in silence like?"

Lizzie stopped and faced Shanice.

"I never even thought about doing Jones. I tried to tell Mr. Thompson that I lost my list of subjects BY the wood carving of Jones, but apparently all that came out was the Jones part."

"That's weird. How's your voice now?"

"Duh! You're talking to me now aren't you? And you heard me in French class last period during the Halloween skit. It's like there's no problem at all."

"So what are you going to do? Why don't we go back inside now, and you can tell Mr. Thompson there was a mistake and you want to do someone else?"

"No way, he already hates me," said Lizzie turning away from the school and heading down the sidewalk toward home. "Besides I thought about it, and I can't think of anyone good that I could do. All the good ones are gone."

"Or ruled out," added Shanice catching up. "What's up with you and Dennis Borden anyway? He loves to torment you, doesn't he?"

Lizzie eyes became black dots of furry as the moment replayed in her head. "I'll show you torment next time I see him in the playground. There won't be any doubt about what I have to say. They'll hear me calling him down way across town in Victoria Park.

The girls walked along Willow Street in silence. The wind was chilly.

Anyone going out for Halloween on the weekend will have to wear a jacket under their costume or they'll freeze to death, thought Lizzie.

Shanice must have been thinking the same thing.

"Have you got you costume finished? My Mom sewed me a cat costume. It's a little lame, but if I put on enough make-up no one will know it's me."

"My Dad says I'm too old to go trick-or-treating,” Lizzie replied sadly. “I've got to give candy out at the door."

"Bummer. Does he know like everyone in the class still goes out? It's free candy."

"I've told him, but he gives the old I-don't-care-what-everyone-else-is-doing speech. It's old, but at least it's not about basketball."

Within a few hundred steps they were at the foot of the Jones carving.

Lizzie looked up at it. It was at least four metres tall and painted with some kind of yellow protective coating. Lizzie studied the man's long forehead, his bushy moustache and the sharp lines of his uniform while Shanice fidgeted with her backpack and applied yet another layer of lip gloss. She noticed once again that the paint on the right boot had been rubbed away by those looking for luck.   There was a brass plaque bolted to the base of the tree. It was much smaller than the one honouring Portia White plaque in front of  Zion.

"Can I tell you something? she asked Shanice without looking away from the carving. "You have to promise not to tell anyone. Pinky-swear?

Shanice, always anxious for some kind of gossip, nodded and moved closer to Lizzie. The locked pinky fingers.

Lizzie held her breath and blurted out what she had been thinking all afternoon. "I know it sounds crazy, but I didn't choose him. It's like he chose me."

"Say what?" said Shanice, pulling her pinky away. She grabbed Lizzie's shoulders and turned her so she could look at her. "What do you mean he chose you? In case you didn't notice he's just wood."

She knocked hard on a pant leg.

Shanice continued, "It's a wood carving. It can't wink and it can't choose. It can't come to life. Have you been reading Pinocchio and you now think you're Geppetto?"

"I didn't think you'd understand," said Lizzie sadly, her head lowered. She waited for half a second and then turned and walked away.

She didn't see Shanice throw up her arms and stomp away, but her nose caught the faintest smell of peppermint.

Chapter 5

“I'm telling you Shanice, he winked at me."

Lizzie was in the coat room next to the Grade 5 classroom changing her rain boots into her indoor sneakers, "I know it sounds impossible, but it's true."

"It sounds like you've been reading too much of that Harry Potter stuff," responded Shanice, tying up her own shoes. "Next you are going to tell me there's blast-ended screwits scurrying around your basement."

"Blast-ended screwits can't scurry, they don't have legs. But that was a book. This was real."

"And we're going to be in REAL trouble if we don't get into class before the bell rings."

Shanice paused at the doorway.

"But don't worry your secret is safe with me. I'm not going to tell anyone that the town’s wood statues have started winking at you."

She chuckled and continued into the classroom. "That might make a good movie title "Revenge of the Winking Wood Carvings."

Lizzie was ticked off. Shanice was supposed to be her best friend. They wore each other’s friendship bracelets, often switched shoes and did each other’s hair. But now that something strange had happened, Shanice was dissing her. It was not shaping up to be a great day.

She was right. It went downhill from there. Mr. Thompson started the day with a pop quiz that required students to name the different phases of the moon and the way they impacted tides.

The lesson had been taught less than a week ago, so the answers should have been fresh in her mind, but they weren't. Lizzie confused waxing and waning and came up with just three of five impacts. When it came time to turn in her paper, Lizzie was near tears.

Dennis Borden, wearing his baseball cap on backwards because he thought it made him look cool, saw her distress and set out to make it worse.

"Aw, little Lizzie is upset because she doesn't know the phases of the moon," he whispered loud enough for everyone in the two closest rows to hear. They all turned to look at her. "I would think someone who howls at the moon, would know all about it."

The boys tittered. Lizzie blushed, and then got mad. Sticking with the moon theme, she said: "Houston, we have a problem. His name is Borden and he's a loud-mouthed jerk."

"Houston isn't the only one with a problem Miss Paris," came a booming voice from the front of the class. "I do not tolerate name calling in this class. Apologize immediately or there will be detention for you after school."

"But he said..."

Mr. Thompson cut her off. "No buts. Apologize now or see me after class."

Lizzie bit her tongue so hard she thought it was going to bleed.

"Dennis, I shouldn't have called you a jerk... you're a moron."

The class exploded with laughter.

"I hope you enjoyed that Miss Paris. You'll now be spending recesses with me all week, cleaning the white boards."

Lizzie lowered her head onto her desk. Her Dad was not going to be happy about this. Still, she couldn't help but smile a little bit.

Later in the morning, as the math lesson on multiplying fractions was coming to an end, Lizzie started to get anxious. There had been no free time to recreate the list of potential P-Day subjects that had disappeared over the fence. Worse still, she realized she couldn't remember a single name on the list, except Portia White.

"Miss Paris," came Mr. Thompson's voice unexpectedly." What is the rule for dividing fractions?"

"Urn..invert and multiply?" she offered trying to refocus quickly.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" challenged Mr. Thompson.

She paused.

"Invert and Multiply. Final answer."

There were some giggles from behind her at her game show response.

"Is she right?" asked Mr. Thompson turning to the rest of the class.

There were lots of nodding of heads and a general murmur of approval.

"Correct. Thank you Miss Paris. Now everyone please put away your math books. It's time to choose subjects for the year long research paper."

While students shuffled books and papers around in their desks, Mr. Thompson passed out a photocopied page outlining the details of the project.

The sheet indicated the project had to be about a Canadian hero. Research had to include at least four different sources, two of which had to be books or articles from newspapers or magazines. Internet research was permitted, but Wikipedia COULD NOT  be used as a source.

A rough draft of the project was due in January and the final submission was to be handed in on May 15. The project could be in the form of an essay, but it should include visual aids. In addition to the written material, each student had to give a six-minute oral presentation to the class on their chosen hero.

Any research carried out for the project could also be used in the Historica Fair slated for the end of the year. The fair was a day long regional competition for Grade 5 and Grade 6 students from across the county. It was like a science fair, but for history, with winners earning the right to go to provincial, and possibly national competitions.

The final note on the page was the one that worried the students the most. It said the project would be worth 40 per cent of their final Social Studies mark.

"Any questions?” asked Mr. Thompson after the student had a chance to read the sheet.

Billy Kaiser's hand shot up.

"If we interview someone in person, does that count as a source? I want to do General Lewis MacKenzie. He's from Princeport and my Dad knows his brother."

"Who is Lewis MacKenzie?" whispered Geoffrey Carter to Mike Turner, who was seated directly in front of Lizzie.

"That would count as one source, no problem," said Mr. Thompson. "Just make sure you take good notes, or better still tape the interview. That way you can go back and check it, if you forget something."

Geoffrey's hand went up.

"Who is Lewis MacKenzie? I've never heard of him."

Mr. Thompson looked toward Billy to give the answer.

"He was the leader of a peacekeeping mission in a part of Europe where they were trying to blow each other up. He was supposed to be good at his job and his picture was in the newspaper a lot."

"But don't the projects have to be about dead people? This is a history project after all," said Geoffrey.

"Yesterday is history," said Mr. Thompson. "Some people call a newspaper the first draft of history. Lewis MacKenzie is a fine choice."

Turning to the class, Mr. Thompson adjusted his tie and continued.

"I trust you've all have made equally interesting choices. You are going to be spending a lot of time getting to know this person between now and May. Any more questions?

"Okay, let's get started. Cassie Allen?"

"I'd like to do Agnes MacPhail, the first female Member of Parliament in Canadian history. She was elected to the House of Commons in 1921."

Cassie was the short, sporty blond in the third row.

"Fine," said Mr. Thompson. "Dennis Borden?"

"I was going to do Willie O'Ree, the first black to play in the NHL, but since he's an athlete, I've decided to do Gideon Sundback.”

"Who?" Lizzie heard Geoffrey ask again.

"Do you know who he is Mr. Thompson?" challenged Dennis in what Lizzie called his Mr. Know-lt-AII voice.

Without hesitation Mr. Thompson responded.

"Gideon Sundback was a Swedish-born Canadian who worked as an engineer at a fastener plant in St. Catherines Ontario. He was married to the plant manager's daughter. When she died, he buried himself in his work and in 1913 he designed the modern zipper. I'm not sure why that makes him a hero, but I look forward to reading about it in your paper."

Dennis looked stunned and Lizzie tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. She was so unsuccessful, she ended up spraying a fine mist of spittle across her desk. She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe it up.

And so it went, alphabetically, with students taking Sir. John A. MacDonald, Canada's first Prime Minister, Corrine Sparks, Nova Scotia's first black judge, astronauts Marc Garneau and Chris Hatfield and Metis leader Louis Riel.

When Eric MacKinnon tried to choose Rick Hansen, there was a heated discussion about whether fundraising efforts by the likes of Terry Fox and Hansen trumped their position as athletes. By a vote of hands, the students agreed it was an athletic endeavour that allowed the pair to do something heroic, therefore they were excluded. Eric reluctantly settled for Frederick Banting, the co-developer of insulin.

 Lizzie was surprised and relieved that when it came to her turn no one had taken Portia White.

"I'll do the famous opera singer, contralto Portia White," she said when Mr. Thompson called her name. “She was from Truro and sang in some of the finest concert halls across the world."

"Fine," said Mr. Thompson. "Mr. Robertson?"

 "Wait a second," interrupted Dennis Borden from his corner of the class. "You said no entertainers. Portia White was a singer."

Lizzie's cheeks flushed and her throat tightened. What was Dennis trying to do?

 "An interesting point Mr. Borden. What do you have to say Miss Paris? Or rather, what do you have to say that won't result in us spending more recesses together?"

Lizzie's head was spinning. She had been so focused on Portia as a historical figure, she didn't really think about her as an entertainer.

"When you said no entertainers I thought you meant TV stars or glamour queens like Avril Lavigne or Britney Spears. Portia isn't like that. She's an opera singer who travelled the world in the 40's and broke all kinds of racial barriers. You wouldn't find her on MTV."

"Opera singer, rap singer, disco diva, they’re just singers," whined Dennis. "Josh Groben is an opera singer. I bet if he was Canadian Mr. Thompson wouldn't let anyone do him. Right, Mr. Thompson?"

Lizzie lost it.

"Why don't you take a hint from your precious Gideon Sundback and zip it," Her eyes flashed angrily as she turned to stare at Dennis. If looks could kill, he'd be a goner.

The attention in the classroom turned to Mr. Thompson. Seated behind his tidy wooden desk, the students were anxious to see how he would react to the latest breach of the classroom rules.

 He was obviously in no rush to dispense justice. He watched the students watch him, and moved in the silence from leaning on his desk with his elbows to leaning back on this chair, his fingers linked behind his head.

"When I said no entertainers," he began slowly, "it was really because I didn't want to have to read about scantily-clad pop singers or actors that already get way too much attention. They can get their 15-minutes of fame on shows like E-Talk and Canadian Idol.

"See," said Lizzie turning toward Dennis and sticking out her tongue.

"But," Mr. Thompson continued, "that's not how I relayed the instructions. I was perhaps, imprecise, and will have to work on the wording for next year.  As for this year, the rules say no entertainers and I have to stick with that, no matter how old, or how significant their contribution. I'm sorry Miss Paris, Portia White is out. Do you have another choice?"

Lizzie could not believe what she was hearing. No Portia, and still the other names she'd written on the list wouldn't surface in her mind.

"I had a full list of options," she stumbled to explain, "but they blew away as I passed the Jeremiah Jones wood carving this morning. My back pack fell, and everything was on the ground."

Lizzie was near tears.

 "Jeremiah Jones? An excellent choice, Miss Paris," said Mr. Thompson. "I look forward to reading it. Mr. Rutherford, your choice?"