The small things

The last time we spoke, Ralph was a bit cross with me. I had failed to follow up on an incident on Melville Road. Ralph was disappointed. If the story wasn’t told there would be no remedy. If there were no repercussions today, the cost would be greater tomorrow.

Ralph Margetson wrote letters to this and other newspapers because he believed small injustices, left unchecked, led to greater injustices. Ralph knew better than most the danger of apathy, of looking the other way.

Ralph died peacefully last week, just a few days shy of his 98th birthday, at his home on Melville Road. He will be remembered for many things. His farm. His military service. His family. His service to the community and the development of North Beach Provincial Park. Readers of the Times will likely remember Ralph for his letters. Often witty, sometimes sarcastic, always brief and on point, his letters to the editor were piercing reminders to the rest of us to remain vigilant and awake to the small mercies, kindnesses, duties and wrongs scattered before us in our daily lives—each a little test of our humanity.

One week he would rail against administrators and bureaucrats for cuts to the local hospital. Another week he would give thanks to the ladies at the Women’s Institute for the cookies they dropped by his house at Christmas time. He often wrote about our collective responsibility to remember the terrible cost of war.

His memories of landing in France as part of the D-Day invasion remained vivid and troubling to his final years. Readers may be surprised to know he didn’t like talking about those days. He got no pleasure or release in sharing his experiences of those dreadful days—the horror of watching men and animals dying all around him. Of his friends falling beside him. Long nights shivering in the cold darkness. The roar of aircraft overhead. Ever fearful they would empty their payload upon him.

When recalling these events, he would say that unless you were there, you could never fully understand it. He told these stories out of a sense of responsibility to the friends he left behind—those who did not make it home. Reliving those moments always elicited a flood of emotions. Yet he had to tell their stories. It was his duty. And ours to remember, to reflect on the cost.

Ralph’s letters and interests varied far and wide. He cared deeply for his cattle in the pasture, but equally so for the raccoons and skunks that prowled the nearby woods. He worried about a reckless provincial government and the fate of endangered turtles and birds in Prince Edward County. He had spent many years on the farm, and later on North Beach, with time to consider the natural beauty that enriches Prince Edward County. He wanted us to know it too. He wanted us to see what he could see.

He worried about an insensitive federal government seemingly indifferent to the challenges of veterans. He didn’t complain for his own sake—he always considered himself unusually fortunate—but rather for those who, through no fault of their own, struggled to find basic comfort and peace in the world around them.

He cherished old barns and their majestic presence on the rural skyline. He was thrilled when a nearby winery decided to salvage and move the deconsecrated Christ Church on Closson Road. He insisted this scribe record the entire project. Today the building has been impeccably restored and stands nobly on a hilltop on Chase Road. It pleased him mightily to see that small piece of heritage preserved for the benefit of another generation. He worried that it was too easy to discard the old and tired as we fixate on efficiency and convenience. He challenged the rest of us to see the beauty and possibility in enduring landmarks. He believed these things helped define who we were and what we could be.

Ralph remained feisty and combative to the end. He wrote letters to remind us that we must be present in the moment. That we must cherish our gifts, and resist faceless and soulless bureaucracies entangling our daily lives.

Whether he was walking along a fence line toward the familiar roofline of his barn, strolling on the beach or simply gazing out the window across the fields as they rolled in and out of the valley draining into Consecon Lake, Ralph rejoiced in the gifts of peace and tranquility his life had given him. He wanted others to have that feeling too. He knew better than anyone the cost of peace.

So he wrote letters. In doing so, he wanted to alert us to the small things. Things that could help us, and things that could hurt us. Ever watchful. Ever mindful, Ralph wanted us to share in the joy of his life on Melville Road.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca