Keep in touch, p.3
Keep in Touch, page 3
No family photographs remain from the Silcox family’s brief residence in little Bourlamaque, but Phil’s reminiscences state that the family resided in a substantial “management home.” With his accustomed energy and dedication, Reverend Phil fervently threw himself into leading his new church community. Marjorie, no doubt overjoyed to be liberated from the prairie drought, its insects, and its isolation, turned her attention to her sons and her new neighbourhood.
David, age five, revelled in exploring his new surroundings in a safe and protected environment. In a brief memoir written late in life, he recalls his interlude in rural Quebec, particularly deep-woods blueberry picking: “I would say that I was an excellent blueberry picker,” he proudly announces. “One day I brought an 11-quart basket to my Mother and our family. And the berries were cleaned nicely to eat for dessert.”7 Nor it seems was the lad’s on-again, off-again brush with medical emergencies limited to the Prairie Dust Bowl. Phil noted that his oldest son had contracted whooping cough while living in the town.
The stay in Bourlamaque would be a short one for the young family. In July 1942, Reverend Phil enlisted in the Canadian Army Chaplaincy Service. Before seeing active duty in Europe, he would report for duty at No. 24 Basic Training Centre, outside the growing town of Brampton, Ontario, northwest of Toronto. David, now five; Graham, four; and Ken, two, supervised by the “moss never grows on a clergyman’s wife’s feet” Marjorie lived in rental accommodations near the base. David began his schooling in September at the local public school in Brampton. Few of his written memories, penned late in life, mention this interlude, save these: “Spanish Cream — a favourite dessert of youth,” “jumping in a creek,” “Ken on the railway trestle,” and, notably, “soldiers on parade.”8
When her husband departed for Europe in September 1943, Marjorie Silcox uprooted her family once more. She and her boys would live, at least until further notice, in a rented two-storey frame home along Highway 7 outside the hamlet of Greenwood, north of the present city of Pickering. Marjorie prayed this would be the last relocation for a while.
After the dust bowl conditions of Saskatchewan, the isolation of Bourlamaque, and the temporary barracks of No. 24 Basic Training Centre in Brampton, the mother of three could not have been more pleased. The rural property came with a large garden, and Marjorie was delighted to supplement Phil’s military pay with growing her own vegetables. No flash freezing in those days; from dawn to dusk, during harvest season, the windows of the Silcox kitchen steamed the message “Mom’s canning again.” For David, the rural setting was surely an adventure seeker’s dream. With a fast-travelling stream running adjacent to the family home and the deep woods just a stone’s throw away, the explorer was unfettered, free to roam the wide-open spaces. Late-life reminiscences about Greenwood are few but evocative: “Pascoe’s pony — 3 or 4 on her back; sling shots; the Fuller Brush salesman; beaten by big boys; the Sandwich — brown sugar, raspberry jam and mayonnaise …” Imagination, too, stands tall in these memories: “Germans invading our skies,” “lions coming out of the picture on the wall,” and “our preacher jumping out of the second room window …”9
David began grade 2 at the one-room Greenwood Public School in September 1943. It was a place of some renown. In 1899, the future Prime Minister John Diefenbaker had attended Greenwood School while his father William was employed as a teacher.10 Four decades later, the beleaguered Miss Keene ruled over close to forty students, ranging from grades 1 to 8, collected from the nearby villages and hamlets of Greenwood, Brooklin, Claremont, and Brougham.
Supervising the learning of youngsters ranging from six to fourteen years old and with widely varying abilities and developmental growth, Miss Keene surely found that the assignment tested her abilities. The precocious ones were no exception! One David Silcox, small of stature, mature of thought, reading by the time he had entered grade 1, was keen to learn more. In a late-in-life (and nostalgically fanciful) reminiscence, David recalls the following:
What most intrigued me was watching the upper grades, 5, 6, 7, 8, learn mathematics, poetry, and the uncertainty of music. These peculiar forms of writing were still very mysterious and I watched with fascination and uncertainty realizing how these forms of mystery were growing into things already known about. And music was already bars ahead of the notes I heard. But most of my pleasure was gazing out of the windows at the sunshine and the falling snow and rain.11
Recess and lunchtime were no doubt free-for-alls, with little or no playground supervision. High-energy David Silcox was surely in the thick of things outside the classroom. And with a history of accidents, there is little doubt there were bumps and bruises. Or more. In his adult reminiscences, he relates one day’s turn of events:
I was playing outside with classmates when I was struck by a wayward bicycle. My head apparently took the brunt of the blow as the handlebars of the bike struck me just above my left ear. I was knocked unconscious and several of my classmates carried me inside. Miss Keene, my teacher, then carried me the short distance home. My poor mother — without a car, and managing life on her own. Frantic, she located a neighbour with a car who drove me first to a doctor who then set out with me for the hospital in Oshawa. Apparently I was unconscious for a period, but gradually, I began to recover and returned home.12
It was head injury number three (at least) for the young daredevil. Medical records, kept by the vigilant Phil Silcox (with his son’s accident having been relayed to him in a letter from Marjorie), reveal a more worrisome outcome. The report reads, “Skull fracture, with trepan (drill hole to relieve pressure on the brain) over the left temple.… Result of a collision with bicycle in schoolyard of Greenwood.”13
Marjorie Silcox, single parent and mother of three active sons, surely earned her general’s stripes in the weeks to come as her eldest son recovered from another serious head injury. And while further memories of the schoolyard mishap remain clouded, David’s later recollection of his recovery is warm: “Mother had set out a chaise longue in the garden and that’s where I spent many of the days of my recuperation. Surrounded by a fence of tall cedar trees, among Mother’s beloved hepaticas and petunias, I could watch the birds that came to our little healing spot. My favourites were the hummingbirds which came regularly to visit.”14
Chapter Six Phil Rubs Shoulders with the King
After completing his military training in Canada and England, Padre Phil Silcox was assigned to serve in Europe as Chaplain to the 29th Canadian Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment (the South Albertas). His designation would be Honorary Captain and Chaplain. In the volume South Albertas, A Canadian Regiment at War, Padre Silcox is recalled as a “caring and compassionate pastor,” as well as “a soldier displaying a remarkable … bravery and dedication.”15 And no ordinary “bravery and dedication,” it seems. The remarkable story is retold by Phil’s youngest son, Louis Hubert Ross Silcox:
As I recall being told, the South Albertas were driving along a road near the village of Trun in Normandy when two British Spitfire airplanes appeared overhead. To the horror of the Canadian soldiers below, these Allies lined up to dive at the line of vehicles and then began strafing. The troops, which included my father, took cover on both sides of the road in ditches and under trees.
It was clear the British had mistaken the soldiers and their vehicles as the enemy. While the Spitfires were turning to make a second run, Dad got out from under his truck, grabbed the Union Jack which he carried with him for burial services. He spread the flag on the road to identify themselves to the British as Allies. Then taking cover again under his own vehicle he was dismayed to see the wind blowing the flag away. Not hesitating a moment, Dad ran back to the flag, spread it out full and lay across it. Immediately the Spitfires saw their error and the planes broke off their attack.16
Padre A.P. Silcox, MBE, Honorary Captain of the South Alberta Regiment, 1944.
Phil Silcox’s tale of heroism (and ingenuity) was not overlooked. Louis completes the story: “Several months after my father’s bravura performance, his Commanding Officer came to him with a message. ‘You’ve been recalled to London,’ his superior said, with a straight face. ‘The King wants to see you.’” At Buckingham Palace, in June 1945, Padre Albert Phillips Silcox, Honorary Captain of the South Albertas and their company Chaplain, received from King George VI the Member of the British Empire medal. His citation read as follows:
On 19 August 1944, the 29 Canadian Armoured Reconnaissance Regiment was ordered to seize and hold the village of Chambois. At about 1800 hours the Regimental Headquarters and one Squadron with infantry mounted on the tanks were halted in the village of Louvieres-an-Auge while one squadron was reconnoitering forward. One squadron of spitfires of the Royal Air Force commenced to engage Regimental Headquarters and two flights bombed and strafed the headquarters and set fire to a vehicle from another formation a few yards away. In spite of the fact that vehicles with allied markings were in the open and yellow smoke was thrown out, the attack was continued by planes diving as low as two hundred feet. Captain Silcox, realizing the very great danger the force was in and that some means must be adopted that friendly troops were being attacked, ran to the medical vehicle through the fire of four Spitfires diving a few seconds apart, got out his Union Jack, and waving it returned to the centre of the attack. Then because the strong wind would have blown the flag away, he remained, holding it down, instead of getting under cover, while another flight formed for attack and during the attack of its first plane. The remainder of the flight, on seeing the Union Jack, did not fire although they dove on the position. The gallantry and complete disregard for personal safety shown by Captain Silcox undoubtedly prevented further mistaken attacks by the Spitfires and was an inspiration to personnel in the area.17
Albert Phillips Silcox was on repatriation leave in Canada when the Pacific War ended in August 1945. But his return to home and family was not immediate. After demobilizing in Petawawa and Fort Frontenac, Phil Silcox, MBE, retired from the Canadian Armed Forces on September 11, 1946. He returned home a decorated war hero. Shortly thereafter, he also resigned from the ministry. New adventures were on the horizon.
Chapter Seven Great Fun in the Lock-Up
Returning to home and family in Greenwood, Ontario, in 1946, Phil Silcox encountered three young sons grown past recognition. David, now nine, was enrolled in grade 3 at the Greenwood Public School; Graham was in grade 2; and Ken had begun grade 1. Within a year, the family added another member. Louis was born in Oshawa General Hospital on July 8, 1947.
Phil now saw his future outside the ministry. Prison reform was his new direction. He enrolled in eight months of postgraduate studies in history as part of the University of Toronto’s extension program. On graduation, he was hired by the Department of Reform Institutions of the Ontario Civil Service as a Parole Officer. Phil would be the first Ontarian in that role. Posted to the Burwash Industrial Farm (a prison) south of Sudbury, Phil departed for duty shortly after the birth of baby Louis. Marjorie and her sons followed as soon as they could.
One can only imagine the strain on Marjorie, now with four sons under her wing and a (still) absent husband. She surely counted the days until the family’s reunification. The reaction of her eldest son, David, then age ten, to his father’s departure was less restrained. He wanted his father, and he wanted him now! Accompanied by Graham, eight, the brothers plotted to take matters into their own hands. Packing a lunch and taking bicycles, the boys set out with a plan to join their father in Burwash, a distance of almost 350 miles (500 kilometres) from Greenwood. Phil and Marjorie Silcox’s eldest sons never had a shortfall of ambition!
The story goes that after some time, noting her sons were missing, Marjorie began to scour the neighbourhood. With no sightings reported, the worried mother contacted the local constabulary. A search was mounted, and a report of missing boys was announced on the local radio station. Louis continues the tale, as reported in handed-down family folklore: “Someone who had heard of the missing boys on the radio found them the next morning north of Brooklin, 11 miles away on Highway 12. It seems that my brothers had slept in a ditch overnight. Putting two and two together, the Good Samaritan put the boys’ bikes in his truck and drove them to the police station in Brooklin. From there, they contacted Mom.”18
Bicycle falls, head injuries, runaway sons, and now Phil in the bush, hours to the north! When would Marjorie’s family be whole again? In April 1948, six months after Phil’s departure to Burwash, mother and sons (David, eleven; Graham, ten; Ken, nine; and baby Louis, nine months) finally departed the community of Greenwood to rehome themselves in deep northern Ontario bush. Still, after the man-eating insects and tainted cow’s milk of dust bowl Saskatchewan, the isolation of northern Quebec, and life on her own in a small village, the future looked promising to the young mother. Sainthood rested easily on the shoulders of Marjorie Emily Cecilia Walter Silcox.
* * *
The origins of the Burwash Industrial Farm go back to September 14, 1914, and an order-in-council by the Ontario government. It was based on the radical premise that low-risk inmates (sentenced to less than two years) would benefit more from exercise, skills learned while working outdoors, and meaningful tasks than traditional incarceration.
The site chosen for the sprawling Burwash farm complex covered thirty-five thousand acres (141 square kilometres) of northern Ontario bush and scrubland, thirty miles (forty-eight kilometres) south of Sudbury. Originally only accessible by train, it was designed as a self-contained settlement incorporating inmate barracks, as well as staff housing, a hospital, church, school, power station, hospital, and post office — even its own cemetery. And while prisoners were watched by prison personnel and housed in guarded barracks, the community was based on manual work, not containment. Prisoners, supervised by staff, ran an extensive mixed farm, a tailor shop, a logging operation, and a sawmill. At its peak¸ the Burwash Industrial Farm housed up to a thousand prisoners, making it one of the largest such facilities in Ontario.
In 1933, prisoners began the grinding task of blasting granite and felling trees to construct a road to connect the farm to Sudbury. Predictably, prison escapes now became more frequent, and signs were posted along the highway warning travellers not to pick up hitchhikers.19
* * *
By the time Assistant Superintendent Phil Silcox had arrived to take up his duties, approximately a hundred staff lived on the sprawling compound. Most, including administration, guards, maintenance, and medical staff, were married with young families. They resided in around a hundred furnished, government-provided houses. Primarily duplexes arranged in “neighbourhoods,” they were in walking distance from the prisoners’ housing and work areas. Staff and their families could freely travel the short distance from the residential area to the commercial zone, which housed stores, offices, health care facilities, including physician and dentists’ offices, and churches. The one-room Burwash Continuation School welcomed students from grades 1 to 10 and was the town’s focal point.
A two-storey frame duplex greeted Marjorie and her four sons on their arrival at Burwash. Phil had been in residence for several months and had tried to make the house welcoming for his young family. There were three bedrooms on the upper floor and a kitchen, pantry, and living room on the ground floor. And while Marjorie’s reaction is lost to time, it is certain that for her, an avid gardener, the real prize was just outside the modest home: There was ample space for vegetables and fruits. Flower beds for Phil to tend at his leisure completed the property.
And for the Silcox lads? Untold miles of wilderness, streams, creeks, and adventure. Burwash was, indeed, sheer heaven.
Chapter Eight Ramblin’ ’n’ Rollin’ in the Bush
Far from being restricted, life for staff and their families at the Burwash Industrial Farm was relaxed, and a feeling of safety prevailed. The security risk of most incarcerated inmates was so low that they were employed as “trusties” for maintenance and gardening and as cleaners in staff members’ homes. One regular helper in the Silcox residence presented Marjorie with a carved coconut shell before he was released. When the family left Burwash several years later, the shell travelled with them.
For the children of Burwash employees, life presented unrestricted freedom. George Pearson, whose father was a prison guard during the 1950s, fondly recounted his boyhood years at the massive property: “There were lots of kids. It was a great place to grow up. We were completely isolated and of course, we learned to hunt and fish. Kids on bicycles roamed the compound and across streams into the surrounding deep bush.”20
The independence and curiosity shown by young David Silcox only blossomed in his preteen Burwash years. The adventures offered by untold acres of northern Ontario bush were irresistible. In a personal journal written over three decades later, he recalls returning home from the bush with a new family pet. It was an immature wolf cub, separated from its family. David delightedly relates the story:
I’d describe the cub as curious rather than frightened and eventually he let me pick him up. He was quite beautiful with a thick black coat and white fur around his eyes. I named him Remus right then and there and made plans to take him home as a pet. Originally, I’d hoped to hide him from Mother and planned to make a bed for him under my bed. I’d scrounge food for him from the kitchen, thinking he’d probably take cereal and bacon. But of course, as soon as I arrived home and Graham and Ken found out, there was no hiding it from her. “He’s a wild creature, David, and you’ll never tame him,” she scolded me. Undeterred, my brothers and I rustled up a leash for him and decided to show him off to the neighbourhood. No support there either.21
