Bruno V. Sinosic

It was the summer of '51 and I had barely turned fifteen. After a number of months in the I.R.O. ( International Refugees Organization ) camp at Bagnoli, near Naples, Italy, we had reached Bremerhaven, our final destination prior to our departure for Canada. CANADA? The name Canada meant absolutely nothing to me; it might as well have been Mars or Jupiter. I had no knowledge of its geography, its culture or, even worse, its language.

A true adventure was about to unfold.

Our family consisted of my older brother Dante, his wife Giuseppina, sons Marcello and Walter, my younger sister Matilde and myself -- Bruno. An older sister, Tina, sailed for Australia at approximately the same time in order to find her fortune in that immense country. Eventually , she married Frank Greenwood and together raised three children; Loretta, John and Mark. In the year 2000 I had the great fortune (and a dream come true) to visit them and acquaint myself with the rest of the family. Both my parents were victims to the ravages of tuberculosis which was rampant during the war years.

The ship that would bring us to this new land was the M/S Anna Salen. She certainly was no Queen Mary, nor even her distant cousin. Perhaps more closely related to the Pinta or the Santa Maria.

For the most part, the voyage was uneventful. I remember, however, the day my faithful mouth organ fell overboard. It would be quite sometime before its replacement would be found. I also distinctly remember hearing for the very first time, on the ship's loudspeakers, Nat King Cole's original, and still one of my favourites songs: Mona Lisa.

We docked at (I didn't know it back then) the now famous Pier 21.

I said goodbye to my good friend Egidio Babudro whose destination was to be Port Arthur - Fort Williams. (presently, Thunder Bay) Egi and I would lose contact with one another for the next forty odd years. It would be through the magic of the internet that, eventually, we'd re-discover each other. I would learn that he moved to Minnesota in search of employment as opportunities for him were practically non-existent in Port Arthur-Fort Williams.

We now keep in touch at least once a year.

We arrived in Mount Brydges, a small southwestern Ontario farming community, a few days later. The Albright family, who would be our hosts, operated a tobacco farm and brother Dante, having blazed the trail for the rest of us, had signed a one year contract to work for them. Anyone who has ever worked in tobacco will agree with me when I say that it was dirty, nasty type of work.

The part that I really enjoyed most was driving the tractor. I couldn't get enough of it. I would drive that Ford tractor until it was so dark the Mr. Albright would yell at me to bring that damn thing in.

But the tobacco season would soon be over and one day I boarded a bus with Dante and headed for the BIG city of London, Ontario where I would reside for the next fifty odd years.

Awaiting us was Joe Peirone Sr., a man Dante had befriended at the London Marconi Club which, at that time, was located on Carling St. in downtown London. Through the generous effort of Joe Peirone my very first job was waiting for me at the majestic, luxurious HOTEL LONDON.

Hotel London was owned, at that time by Col. Weldon, a well known local citizen and philanthropist. That hotel was truly a popular stop-over for any member of the rich and famous who happened to be visiting our fair city. One such person who came to London in the early part of 1951 was the famous (at that time, anyway ) THE CISCO KID and his side-kick Pancho.

The job assigned to me was that of busboy, working in the dining area. For those who may wonder just what that entailed, a busboy was (is?) a server's assistant. That meant cleaning tables, making sure that a server's station was always well stocked with all the necessary utensils.

As the rest of the family was still in Mount Brydges, my primary concern was finding a place to stay. Luckily, one of the waitresses knew of an Italian family who lived a short distance from the hotel: the Masseo family who lived on York St. They were very generous in opening their door to a 15 year old kid, and a total stranger at that.

No one in our family was prepared for what I would soon learn was a typical Canadian winter. So, with that in mind, one day I was introduced to the Salvation Army clothing store. I remember very well coming out wearing a WII army coat that practically grazed the ground.

But it kept me warm, I guess.

One evening a couple of the Masseo brothers took me out to a restaurant where, for the very first time, I indulged in what eventually become my favourite dessert : apple pie with ice cream. What a treat!

My first few weeks at the Hotel London were pretty scary. I would often ask myself, "Why are all these people speaking sooooo fast?"

"When will I ever learn to speak this difficult language?"

One day, while cleaning a table, a customer called me and asked me for something. I nodded as if I understood, and quickly disappeared into the kitchen, not to return until the same customer, not seeing me anywhere within a country mile, asked one of the servers who immediately obliged. It was a fork! WELCOME TO CANADA!

One of my busboys buddies was a young man by the name of Doug Stoyle. We became good friends and remained so until the present day. A few years later, (1957) when the "independence bug" hit me, I went on my own and within a very short period of time, was adopted by the Stoyle family where I would remain until my wedding day (1966). They truly became my second family and I was blessed to have shared nine wonderful years with them.

Thank you Mrs. Stoyle, Don, Stan, Doug, Joyce, Jean and Dianne. May God bless you for your unquestionable generosity.

THE HITCHHIKER

When Dante's contract was over, the rest of the family moved to London and I moved in with them. A short time later he found an apartment a good twenty km north of the city.

One evening Dante was going to give me some good down to earth driving lessons. We took the old 1939 Ford on the main highway and headed north towards the town of Lucan. (yes, of Donnelly fame) So far - so good, Dante was doing the driving.

On the way back it was my turn at the wheel. We had travelled but a few kilometers when we spotted a hitchhiker. "Let's give him a ride as far as we can", said Dante; and so we stopped.

Once again, we hadn't gone very far when, in the rear-view mirror, horror of all horrors, I noticed the familiar flashing light of a police car. "Pull over" Dante ordered, "or we're both in deep trouble". No sooner had we stopped, that he commanded me to jump in the back quickly seat while he was practically climbing all over that poor hitchhiker in order to reach the front seat.

All of this in the nick of time before the police officer approached our car.

After the required showing of Dante's driving license, he promptly warned us that one of our rear lights was out of order and to have it repaired as soon as possible.

In less than a flash, the hitchhiker bolted out of the door and the last time I saw him he was running down Highway 4 with both his hands touching the side of his head.

The entire scene must have been quite a sight and, in retrospect, who could have blamed that poor guy from getting as far away from us as possible.

As time went on, my English did improve and I noticed an unusual thing: people seemed to speak considerably slower than a year earlier. Amazing!

Eventually, the position of busboy would be replaced with that of parking lot attendant, which would be followed by bell-hop and , finally, doorman. By now it was the year 1955.

It was time to move on. It had come to my attention that the well known and respected Bell Telephone Co. was hiring and an entrance exam was required.

Full of confidence I accepted the challenge and wrote the exam. A few weeks had passed by and, as yet, no one from "Mother Bell" had contacted me. I decided to place a call to their employment office only to hear the bad news that I had failed the exam. During my previous visit, I had taken note of the employment manager's name and decided to give her a call enquiring if there were any positions at all available. "No", I was told, "not at this time". I was not going to give up that easily.

Within the next few weeks that employment office learned that they were dealing with a pretty determined young fellow. I kept calling, and calling and calling.

Eventually, out of pity perhaps, I was told to report because a position of custodian was opening up. It was now early 1956. It wasn't much and it didn't pay well but, at least, I had a job. Eventually, I would become a darn good custodian.

Little did I know that my life was about to become somewhat more interesting.

Approximately six months later, during a routine x-ray check-up, a rather small shadow had been noticed on one of my lungs. A second x-ray was soon scheduled . Its conclusion left no doubt: onset of tuberculosis. The medical officer gave definite instructions that I was to report immediately to the Beck Memorial Sanatorium, a specialized facility for the treatment of that possibly fatal disease.

My supervisor at Bell, Bill Hall, reassured me that I needn't worry about my job; it would be waiting for my return. But when? How long? HOW ABOUT TEN MONTHS!

The first few weeks at the sanatorium were dedicated towards discovering the extent of the disease. When all pertinent tests were completed, I was informed that , in my case, I was very fortunate as the T.B. had not progressed beyond the initial stage. What luck!

Daily shots of streptomycin (a special drug for the treatment of T.B.) would, eventually, take care of it.

My ten months stay at the sanatorium were a mixture of bad luck and blessings. Under the watchful eye of my teacher, Mrs. Nisbett, my English showed considerable improvement. As time went on, I was given the opportunity to host a closed circuit radio program that I called, "The Western and Popular Hour." It consisted of a mixture of country and popular music.

Considering the fact that many patients were bed ridden, I became their paper - delivery service, in addition to delivering countless necessities of life as well. My room-mate, King Terry, had a wonderful sense of humour and we became good friends. Each year we exchange Christmas cards and a promise to visit, "one of these days". We both agreed that 2004 would be the time we would make it happen. It's only August, so there's plenty of time. Or is it?

In the spring of 1957 I was finally discharged and immediately returned to my previous position of custodian at Bell. In 1959, a position of Mail Car Chauffer became available was working in the internal mail dept. of Bell. I met some very fine people during those eleven years with that company. However, opportunities for advancement were rather slim. I was told that my age (31) was a mitigating factor working against me. OLD AT THIRTY-ONE?

"On the road again", as Willie Nelson reminded us a few years ago.

This time it was the Ford Motor Co. which had just opened a new assembly plant near St. Thomas, Ont. I was assigned to a section of the plant known as the "wet deck". The job consisted of wet sanding each car frame following its undercoating application. The work was obviously wet and dirty. Ten hours a day for ten months. I must admit, Bell Telephone was a piece of cake in comparison.

As the months dragged on, I was -- and felt --- thin as a rail.

Friday evening was our night out. Steak dinner at the old Brass Rail in east London. That was a treat!

My body kept reminding me that this, certainly, would not be my job until retirement. I don't believe I would have survived. My immediate supervisor was an unnamed assembly line dictator. No amount of effort was good enough for him. Why is the turn - over so high in those assembly lines? You guessed it!

A position as mail sorter with Canada Post seemed like a Hawaiian paradise. Good-bye Ford ------ hello Post Office.

However, a reminder of my days at Ford would be a constant companion for the rest of my life. In 1967, I was operated on my right hand as a direct result of ten months on the wet deck.

I never did apply for any form of compensation from Ford. In retrospect, an unwise decision.

Sorting mail on the night shift was definitely much better than the previous position. I began to regain those few pounds which I had lost on the assembly line. My shift began at eleven p.m. and ended at eight a.m.

I would be arriving home just in time to say good-bye to my wife. One evening , before setting off for the Post Office, we actually worked out the total length of time we saw each other. It worked out to approximately, two months out of twelve. To whom was I married?

Once again, it was time to discuss the situation with my wife.

Maria and I had met in the fall of 1963 during a skate and dance event in the town of Lucan, a rather short distance from London. She actually did "save the last dance for me". On the way home, in my old Volkswagen, she volunteered to scrape the ice from the windshield as the defroster didn't work properly. I was very impressed, to say the least.

In any case, during our discussion, she suggested matter-of-factly, that perhaps I should return to school. I had arrived in Canada with a Gr. 6 education and I assumed the authorities didn't insist that I return to school due to my age: fifteen. After all, I could legally have dropped out a year later. Perhaps my wife was suggesting that I return and work on my high school diploma.

Oh no, that's not what she meant at all. Her idea was to apply at our University of Western Ontario as a mature student. My initial reaction was one of surprise -- than fear. Did she really expect me to graduate from a university? I told her I was too old and didn't know how to study at that level, but to no avail. I finally caved in and in the fall of 1969 enrolled full-time at U.W.O.

I wanted it to remain a secret and, a surprise; so I kept the news from Dante and the rest of the family. One day, as I went from one class to another, I happened to run into a custodian who was an old friend of our family. Well, so much for surprises! In very short order, everyone knew what I was up to.

And so, in the spring of 1971, with the entire family present and proud, received my B.A. in Psychology. It was also a very proud moment for me as this certainly was a major milestone in my life. Never in my wildest dreams had I envisioned such a possibility.

The same fall, again at my wife's suggestion, entered London Teachers' College. A year later, I was looking for a teaching position at the elementary level.

My very first assignment was a split Gr. 7 - 8 class in the town of Dorchester, a few km east of London. That first year was not a very memorable one at all. There were a few times when I would be asking myself whether or not I had made the right decision.

I quickly discovered a major truth: in order to teach I had to learn - first. What was base two? Integers? Geometry?

Year two was definitely much better as I was slowly learning the "art of teaching". It also dawned on me what a great privilege and a tremendous responsibility it was to stand in front of 25 or 30 students while attempting to instill some knowledge --- but, primarily, a love of learning.

I began to believe that I had discovered my true calling in life. I truly loved what I was doing.

For the next fourteen years the elementary panel was my home. In the late summer of 1986, I received a call inviting me to an interview for a position in the Religious Studies Dept. in one of our high schools. I accepted the challenge and was welcomed in that position. I have never looked back.

In the summer of 1995, after a career spanning nearly a quarter of a century, I decided to take an early retirement. After all, more than forty-three years had elapsed since a 15 year young man was cleaning tables at the old Hotel London. Again it was time -- time to move on; time to reap a well deserved reward.

And so today, as I turn the corner toward my 70th birthday, I am overwhelmed with feelings of deep gratitude.

Grateful to God for the gifts of perseverance and resiliency for they have been my constant companions throughout my Canadian adventure.

Grateful for our wonderful children Brian and Christine. Brian is a chemical engineer and lives in the U.S. with his wonderful wife Carrie. Christine is our special angel who possesses those unique gifts which keep us focused on those things which matter most in life.

Grateful to my wife Maria for recognizing certain gifts; for encouraging me to reach beyond my grasp, and for believing in me long before I learned to believe in myself. She was definitely instrumental in recognizing the making of a teacher within me.

I owe a debt of gratitude to my older brother Dante and my sister-in-law Giuseppina for their sacrifices in adopting my younger sister Tilde and me when they had already two young boys to care for.

And I will be forever grateful to this wonderful country called Canada for affording a 15 year old immigrant boy with the opportunities to succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

Those of us who arrived during more difficult and trying times, cannot help but feel a sense of dismay when we read about some recent immigrants' great disappointments because (in their views) insufficient resources are made available to help them integrate in Canadian society.

Little do they appreciate just how fortunate they are. Perhaps they were hypnotized with stories of the Klondike Gold Rush of years gone by. Interestingly enough, the "gold" is there but it requires some "elbow grease" in order to reach it.

For, you see, it is covered with a layer of ----------- sacrifice.

Many immigrants came to this country, made numerous sacrifices, prospered and, in the process, made this Canada of ours somewhat better. Those new arrivals will do the same ------- eventually.

Bruno V. Sinosic (2004)