In A Pickle  

The impact of war lasts long after the fighting stops

The horrors of war

Photo: Contributed

My father, Jake Hagel, was part of the Canadian forces cleanup crew during WW2 in Europe.

It was a horrific job that haunted the man for the rest of his life. He was like a homicide detective in that he’d never forget the endless sea of faces of those slaughtered. The terror and pain etched in their features during their last moments of life was something my dad couldn’t unsee. That’s if they still had a face.

Though Dad seldom spoke of it, he told me about pulling bodies out of cellars in Holland. The Jews had been in hiding, waiting to be rescued by the Dutch resistance but starved or froze to death before that could happen. Then there were the Allied troops killed in battle, which I read about on Reddit. The clean-up crew members removed one dog tag to register the fallen soldier with the army and to notify their next-of-kin, leaving the other tag on the body for burial. Nazi personnel rigged dog tags with explosives, which would detonate if someone tried to take them off. The Germans also concealed land mines within the garments of the corpses.

A large proportion of them looked like boys because of many being teenagers who had misrepresented their age to serve their nation. Their lives were cut tragically short.

Often the cleaners had to roll a bloated cadaver on its front and press on the lower spine to release the gases, making it easier to remove and transport the body with the rest of the slain. To make matters worse, they sometimes encountered soldiers who were still alive but mortally wounded and begged to be euthanized, a request they granted. Afterwards, they had to return to camp and cook dinner for the troops.

When the war ended, the men returned home and tried to resume some semblance of normalcy. They all, including my dad, had PTSD, but it wasn’t a known phenomenon in those days. Instead, it was called “shell shock.” The veterans suffered in silence.

Photo: Contributed

Jack Hagel, who served in the Canadian army during the Second World War.

As a kid, I watched as Dad paced back and forth, restless as a caged lion. Hot ashes dropped from the cigarette dangling between his lips and were ground under his immaculately polished boots. In a trance-like state, he stared blankly ahead, his wide eyes seeming to see ghosts of his past. The flashbacks were likely filled with the sound of the military bugle playing Reveille, alongside the noises of war, and the lingering smell of death.

Mom came out in her nightgown and yelled at him for damaging the new flooring, but he just stared blankly. It was as though she was invisible.

With his piercing eyes, he scrutinized you, searching for any pretense or weakness, as if his gaze could penetrate your very soul. He learned that trait during his military training, essential for survival and to counter German spies. It was something that stuck with him.

He had a softer side, and I, being the youngest, revelled in it. Being a girl helped too, as he was much harder on his boys. However, he didn’t always treat me with kid gloves. After using corporal- punishment on me once, he came into my room and apologized. His eyes welled up and his voice wavered. I couldn’t help but respect and forgive him. Tears rolled down my face as I typed this.

He could not give what he didn’t have, but did remarkably well considering his lot in life. Like many European immigrants in the early 20th century, his father governed with an iron fist.

His parents, both German Russians, left Russia for Canada separately, eventually meeting and marrying here. The trauma of the two world wars poisoned generations before and after each conflict.

Every year as Remembrance Day draws closer, I pull out the photo collage my sister Pat Anderson made and display it proudly. It is a solemn reminder of Dad’s part in freeing us from Hitler’s diabolical scheme for world domination.

Had his generation not fought back, I would not be writing this piece now. In fact, most of us would not exist. He had 83 descendants, ranging from children to great-grandchildren and the number keeps growing.

Dad passed away in 1997 following a nine-year struggle with Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease. That double whammy illness robbed Dad of both his mind and his physical strength, bit by bit.

During the graveside service on a cold and overcast windy spring day, we shivered and huddled together. As the priest stepped forward and spoke, the sun broke through the clouds and a vast flock of snow buntings soared overhead, the little birds singing nearly drown out his voice as they spiralled up towards the heavens and suddenly shot northbound, headed towards the nesting grounds in Antarctica.

I knew then Dad was OK.

Oh death, where is your sting? (1 Corinthians 15:54-56)

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.

Scary camping sounds and things that go bump in the night

The dark side of camping

Photo: contributed/AI generated graphic

Eerie voices, creepy crawlies, predators and the elements couldn't keep me away.

Buried under my sleeping bag during my first camping trip as an adult, I almost froze. Cawing ravens and naughty squirrels woke me up at dawn and chewed me out for being there.

Distressed by the absence of shower facilities, I complained about washing my hair. My ex snickered and told me to warm some water on the campfire and pour it over my head. Desperate, I followed his advice and experienced rejuvenation.

When my body thawed out, I enjoyed the sights, sounds and smells of nature. From the crackling fire to the trees waving in the wind and songbirds singing a delightful melody, I became hooked. The memory of shivering in the fetal position with my teeth clattering continuously the previous night escaped me.

Nothing compares to the deliciousness of food cooked on a Coleman stove in the open air.

I'd spend the next 10 years off the grid, camping in the Alberta Foothills, tracking wild horses on horseback, to photograph them and various critters native to the area.

On one occasion, a grizzly and her twin cubs hunted us and another time, a cougar stalked us. Our Akitas acted as our bodyguards and swiftly scared off any dangerous animal that threatened us.

I know what the expression means when your blood runs cold. It is a thing. A cow moose protecting her newborn calf is the most dangerous of them all. Momma bore down on us at a full gangly gallop, snorting like a steaming locomotive. Thankfully, the dogs intercepted her at 100 yards. She spun around and led the pair in the opposite direction, away from her calf. No harm and no foul, nevertheless, the encounter ended up being dreadful. The dogs proudly came back, tongues hanging out with tails wagging.

Eerie noises in the dead of night made my hair stand on end. First, a cougar screamed one night. Then, a pack of wolves encircled our camper, calling to each other on another occasion. I was appreciative that we had moved on from tenting it at that point.

After leaving my ex, I met Len, the love of my life. We bought a small holiday trailer and enjoyed some tamer camping experiences for a time.

In 2020, amidst the lockdown, I longed for a camping adventure and the tranquillity of the great outdoors. Consequently, I pitched a tent on the balcony and spent the ensuing evening hours being serenaded by the deafening chorus of a billion chirping crickets at a volume of 100 decibels each. The ear plugs proved to be ineffective, yet I resolved to wait patiently for them to stop. In a state of semi-consciousness and delirium, I wandered through the realm of limbo, exhausted from lack of sleep.

My husband remained nearby, deep in sleep, and had earlier commented, "Why would you abandon our perfectly comfortable bed to sleep in a tent on the deck?"

He, rightly so, thought I'd gone bonkers. Sheepishly I crawled out of the tent to the sounds of our neighbours conversing on their balcony while enjoying a morning coffee. They stood there, mouths agape at the sight of my dog and me slipping into the house. My fearless pooch, not impressed with sleeping in a tent either, tried to escape several times.

Len helped build a platform for the back of the RAV a couple of years later, which we then covered with a “foamy” for sleeping. I attended a women's church camp-out. If you don't have a problem with the sensation of being in an enormous coffin, then it is fine. Mysteriously, the vehicle locked itself at 3 a.m. and I panicked, as I couldn't unlock it with the fob. I saw a young man with a red flaming lantern briskly walking. Did that individual only appear human? I wondered. He seemed to patrol the place.

More recently, Len and I spent the weekend at a Drumheller, Alberta campsite in our new tent, squeezed in with a sea of campers. Kids tormented us with their flashlights screaming, squealing and tearing around until 11 p.m. When the children quietened, the adults chattered noisily.

A couple close by got busy in the dark. The ethereal sounds were the ones that jolted me awake, though. Fearfully, I inquired about the identity of the entity, and it responded, "Diana".

According to Roman mythology, Diana held the role of the goddess of childbirth, fertility, the moon and was a patron of wild beasts. However, she is renowned for being the goddess of the hunt.

Could it be she was hunting me? The following afternoon, our air mattress sprung a leak, so we departed.

Divine intervention perhaps?

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.

Spotting the games narcissists play

Dealing with narcissists

Photo: Doreen Zyderveld-Hagel

Narcissists can be wolves in sheep's clothing.

The narcissist cunningly manipulates the victim’s mind to gain control.

In order to spot their strategies, let’s look at the 11 tactics they use to divide and conquer, according to Kris Reece, a Christian counsellor, author and YouTube content creator.

What is a narcissist? The Oxford English dictionary describes a narcissism as selfishness, involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration.

Although there are several types, I’ll only discuss the ones I’ve had the misfortune of being acquainted with. The covert narcissist adeptly portrays the victim to manipulate and take advantage of their target’s sympathy. Typically, these individuals endured significant childhood abuse, resulting in the unintentional adoption of their abusers’ behaviours.

Next, we have the malignant narcissist, who derives pleasure from using, abusing, discarding and destroying their victims.

According to Reece, there are the 11 games which I have paraphrased;

1. Blame game—They survive by leeching off their victim’s need for validation, and when they cheat, narcissists will accuse the innocent party. For example, they might say “I was unfaithful because you were always working.” My ex made these accusations. He would time me while I went grocery shopping and if I took longer than he expected, he’d accuse me of getting it on with an employee. I was disgusted and said, “The person pointing the finger is usually the guilty party”. He became furious. They have a motive to manipulate.

2. Trigger game—These wolves have thoroughly analyzed you. Every single thing you say and do, can and will be used against you. At the appropriate moment, they will weaponize the information, to make you seem irrational or unhinged, which was their motive for provoking you.

3. Coercion game—If you won’t give them everything they want, watch out, or when you don’t live up to their impossible expectations, you’ll be sorry. They’ll gaslight and throw all their emotional garbage onto you. This type of manipulation keeps you under their spell, always at their beck and call.

4. Confusion game—They will distort your reality and leave you in constant confusion, so much so you will doubt yourself in every way. I reached a point where I was a shell of myself, broken and didn’t know who I was anymore.

5. Word games—Masters of doubletalk, they say one thing but do the opposite. That leaves you hooked. When their actions don’t match their words, you’re confused but emotionally invested. They do this to get your feelings connected to their words, not their actions. To make matters worse, my ex used flowery speech in public that left others amazed and me perplexed.

6. Giving game—When they give, it is to make themselves look good and to use it against you later by saying, “After all I have done for you, this is how you thank me?” Their goal is to appear generous and you ungrateful.

7. Projection games—Old-style projectors take an image and shine it outward onto a screen. The narcissist does the same but you are the wall. Shame and hate consume them because of their childish insecurities. They project their own defects of character onto you. This preemptive strike aims to divert the attention off them and onto you.

8. Humiliation—These types will embarrass you to destroy your self-worth and all-the-while maintain a pretence of innocence, making them feel superior. They derive intense pleasure from the distress they inflict. My ex enjoyed degrading others.

9. Manipulation—Using charisma, they ensnare you with flattery or play the victim-in-need card. Once they establish trust, they gaslight and distort reality to make you doubt your perceptions and sanity. They use phoney kindness to mask guilt, fear and emotional withdrawal in order to make you back down. This manipulative tactic is used to feed their insatiable need for admiration and power.

10. Mirror game—They appear to understand you like no one else does and while studying you, they mimic your ways to make you believe you’ve found your so-called soul mate. Afterwards they use a distorted reflection of themselves to manipulate and punish you for not kowtowing.

11. Apology game—Narcissists express willingness to apologize when it serves their own interests or when in fear of losing you. Yet, their contrition is both insincere and lacking in specificity. They use false resolution to begin the games anew.

These diabolical people cause a lot of grief in the lives of countless others but knowledge is power to stop them in their tracks.

However, they waste no time moving on and latch onto someone who’s oblivious to their tactics. Sadly, I’ve known too many men and women like this, in church too, a wolf pack dressed in sheep’s clothing.

But, as Reece also states, “There will be justice eventually, you reap what you sow.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.

Remembering a friend who took his own life

Dealing with suicide

Photo: vecteezy

My friend was funny, intelligent and outgoing, not someone you’d think would end his own life.

His wife and stepson found him on the garage floor. Many people loved the guy, including me. Hundreds of folks attended his memorial service. I chose not to go as I came down with a terrible cold and the mourners had enough to deal with.

Melvin’s death was a mystery, leaving us asking, “Why did you do it Melvin?” He hid behind a comedian’s mask and appeared happy-go-lucky. We all have a persona we display in public and Melvin was no exception. Overall, he was a goofy, fun-loving guy. The middle-aged man was also kind and generous, helping those who weren’t as fortunate.

Back in 2016, while I fought for my life in a hospital for nine weeks, Melvin often phoned and texted, telling me to hang in there. I wished he could have done the same, but Melvin was beyond help. Recently, we had a brief chat on Face Book Messenger and he seemed out of character. At the time, I thought he was having a bad day and let it be. After, I chastised myself for not reaching out.

Prior to that, over the years, we exchanged wildlife photos on our phones or he’d tell me some off-colour joke. In return, I serenaded him with my cringe-worthy rendition of Elvis’s I’ll Have a Blue Christmas, which I recorded on my iPhone along with some other silly antics like 4x4ing with my mobility scooter.

While reminiscing about the past, it made me wonder if there some sort of force that compelled Melvin to it. The human tendency is to find someone or something to blame—perhaps an internet troll? I am aware he suffered from depression and that was likely the true culprit. Perhaps we’ll never know.

Men rarely seek help for their mental health struggles and I wish he would have contacted someone about his despair. He seemed to have it all together and was living the dream, so it was a shocker.

During my teenage years, many moons ago, a few of my peers died by suicide before they had a chance to live. That irreversible decision would haunt their families indefinitely and it perplexed me. Years later, it occurred to me maybe some of them were abused at home and saw no other way out of that nightmare.

Nonetheless, those deaths had a ripple effect that threw our small community into a tailspin. There was no such thing as counselling at school for any tragedies. Melvin also had close friends who ended it, including one who shared his first name. The other Melvin chose the same method more than three decades earlier. It seemed like some kind of curse was on their hometown, or perhaps just a terrible coincidence.

According to Stats Canada, 12 people die by suicide each day. That’s nearly 4,500 deaths by suicide per year. Suicide rates are roughly three times higher amongst men compared to women.

It is the second leading cause of death of youth people aged 15 to -34 years old.

Those sobering statistics made me more aware of the problem. And behind every number is a person, who, for whatever reason decided to leave this world behind. The complexity of suicide made me wonder how to support Melvin’s widow and her family, whom I didn’t know well and also live quite far away from.

I phoned her and gave my condolences and later sent a card in the mail. It seemed so inadequate. Later on I found a helpful suicide prevention website,

As I wrestled with more sensitive terminology and a desire to be helpful, I read the lack of suicide language and avoiding the conversation is harmful and a major contributor to the stigma, leaving those bereaved feeling abandoned and ashamed. Obituary type language to white wash it doesn’t help either.

Using the word “committed” usually refers to a crime and has underlying negative connotations causing the grief-stricken loved ones even more pain.

Not every culture sees suicide in a negative light. In Japan, according to Wikipedia, “The general attitude toward suicide has been termed ‘tolerant’, and on many occasions suicide is seen as a morally responsible action.”

In times of war, both young and old have taken out numerous enemies along with themselves while saving countless others in the process.

I don’t know what war was waging within Melvin but his battle is over and may he rest in peace. And may his family find comfort and unconditional love in their community.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.