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Raymond Hathaway Wilson. You’re 22. It’s 1974 and you’ve been dead 30 years. It’s tough. And you don’t like it. If you were alive now in 2014 you’d be 92 and that’s old, but if you’d made it it’s quite possible you could still be around because longevity runs in your family. Your dear mother lived to be 104. Even if you didn’t see it.

It’s possible, Mr Wilson, you could be creaking around even now and making a mess of things in your kindly old man way, but they’d only be small messes and no bother because you’re an old man. You’re ancient. And you were in the war. Everybody loves you because you’re so cool.

We don’t know that much about you. We know your kid brother. He’s not getting any younger, but neither are you. Both of you are from Peachland, BC. It’s a nice little town. Been there. Nice little obelisk war memorial on a nice patch of grass right in front of the lake in downtown Peachland. The Cenotaph. Your names on it, Raymond. Pounded into the white marble. I know you’re thinking, “Why would my name be there?”

They’re still making movies about your war. I know. It wasn’t your war. It was just a job you were doing. You were attached to 51 Squadron flying out of Snaith, Yorkshire. Snaith? What’s that? It was an RAF squadron, but you were in the RCAF, Hathaway. How come? You’re very good at what you do.

Handley Page Halifax Mk III. Good plane. Sturdy craft. Liked by all. Four Bristol Hercules XVIs. Lots of power. Seven guys and the plane. It’s ten after ten on a Thursday night and you’re airborne. Your mission is bombardment. The Fatherland of mirth. It’s Nuremberg, wherever that is.

As the bomb aimer you’d be up front with a fine, unobstructed view through the Perspex of all below. Except you were flying at night. How did that work, Raymond? What a job you had to do. It’s absolutely stunning. Good show.

There wasn’t much to do in Snaith. If it wasn’t for this war it’s unlikely to be a place you’d ever pass through. These days nobody can even find Yorkshire, much less Snaith. Disappeared off the map they have! Up above the hump somewhere there near the east coast and a good line east to the target. There’s always a reason. It’s the Air Force.

It’s one o’clock in the morning. Flying on and on.

“Five minutes to target, Skip.”

“Five minutes.”

Then something happened.

If none of seven guys get out obviously catastrophic things have hit. All that training. All that camaraderie. The resolve and casual, unobtrusive bravery because it’s your job. A big wipe out. The entire crew. It’s just as upsetting now as it was then.

It’s a remember moment.

November

That’s right. Just like last year. And every other year. Always the same. Always November. November had a rough childhood. That’s why she’s the way she is. Or he as the case may be. She or he, makes no difference. Kind of grumpy, dark, dangerous and irascible. But how would you feel if you were the eleventh of twelve months and all the good things have been taken? And all you’re left with is this stuff. November’s stuff.

You might feel pretty good. You might be happy with it.

It really doesn’t matter any more. November can’t roll back the clock and be some other month. You have to live up to who you are! Go for it! Be dark and so what if your siblings think you’re a disgrace? At least December has Christmas, is the logic. What’s November got? It’s hopeless.

Of course it isn’t hopeless. When November starts the days’ll keep coming and before long you’ll be looking at the end of this crappy month! Hallelujah!

But wait. November is also lovable. Sure it is. It’s a fine month and it’s there for you no matter what you’re doing. You’ll get there. Impressive rain. Wind. Fog. Mist. On and on. Cold enough to turn the temperature up. And now, at 3:20 pm, the sun. For ten seconds. So it’s lots of variety. What’s wrong with that?

Someone piloting a vehicle drives right over the sign suggesting drivers move to the right around the little traffic calming circle right down here at the intersection. Shears the steel post the sign’s on clean off. And leaves a bit of vehicle to kind of lie in state beside the massacred sign. Long gone. Dude! You forgot your fender liner!

It’s too dark! It’s only 5 o’clock in the afternoon! How do you expect me to see anything? Darn November anyway. Darktown.

4:15 pm. The day after next. It’s the hour of the fox sparrow. He or she, as the case may be, or descendants of, have shown up here on the upper deck at this time of year every year for years. A lot of years. Word gets around. Pecking around in the potted plants for the good stuff. Yum. There she is again. Or he. I better look this up. Every November it’s the same. There’s also a lot to be said for consistency.

November’s been around for a long time. It isn’t going anywhere so hop on.

500

Looks like it’s all about the numbers now. Five hundred can be a tough slog. 500. How many things do you do 500 times? One right after the other? Never, right? What, you’ve kept track? Counted them all? Maybe you should think about that. Think about what you’re doing keeping track of it. But it’s okay. It’s the last chapter. The struggle with numbers is over.

I was on the floor and I wasn’t lying down, but I should have been. Or he should have been. It was 500 and I wanted to kill him and would have except I’m not a killer. I went to get my jacket and walked out of the damn place. Sounds a bit overblown. Maybe it was. The hick, the slovenly white man in shorts with the fat gut, stood there with his mouth open. You hear it everywhere in this town. The sound of silence. Means nothing. It’s night and it’s Vancouver and the testosterone’s flowing.

What a night it’s turning out to be. I’ve never counted 500 of anything before. Certainly not the last time I was doing anything of consequence, and it went on for years. How many 500s is that? 500 + 500 + 500? On and on. Ridiculous. Things you’ve done. Forget it. Not worth remembering. At least not right now.

I wasn’t counting because I didn’t care, but time is shorter now. It’s worth remembering. I’m interested in what I’m doing and how many times I’m doing it. Especially the grind this is, that I thought was behind me. Wally the grinder. He found me again. I hate that guy.

Something like being in prison and waiting to get out, even if you don’t know what prison is like because you’ve never been. Not that one, anyway.

500 times. 500 miles. Galaxie 500. Fortune 500. Indy 500. 500 Episodes. That’s the one I’m always worried about. The 500 episodes of my life and what that’s going to look like.

‘If I’ve said it once I’ve said it 500 times.’ The actual quote is, ‘If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a 1000 times.’ Blab on. It’s over.

It’s just a number. I had to go back to my high school Latin text because I couldn’t remember, and I used to love Latin, what the numeral is for the concept, the number 500, and I wanted to include that. D. It’s D. It was disappointing. I thought 500 meant a lot more than ‘D’. I dumped that idea. Roman numerals are making a comeback. Just see.

Everybody knows MMXIV. It’s a very good year. Sure it is.

500 means something. You first learned it back in arithmetic, probably your best course back then. If you counted enough numbers you got to five hundred. Loved arithmetic. A lot of it was on the back of your old scribblers or note books that they used to hand out, or they magically appeared from your parents or something. Maybe you were forced to buy them yourself. ‘Hilroy’. The tables. All the tables on the backs of the notebooks.

Not only was I unsure if I’d ever find another job, I never wanted any job ever. Not supported by the evidence, tough guy. Same goes for interviews. Despise interviews, but who doesn’t? Everybody’s tough and interviews are something you have to tough out. Why wouldn’t you? Resumes especially. Loathe them. But I had one, sort of.

Honestly. When you start out you can’t conceive of something as huge and ridiculous as 500. That it’s going to happen to you like that.

More important things are at work here, like this special day. Happy birthday!

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