Memories of a Christmas Past

Christmas is supposed to be for children but during the Christmas season, we all become kids at heart. That is why the fond memories that we have of Christmas and the traditions that we carry over into our own families are rooted in our childhood and teen years.

I am born a Canadian but I was raised in a home in Edmonton where German was still spoken by my parents whenever my Grandparents were present and our family attended a German Baptist Church. 

In the church, the Christmas season began with a Christmas Concert put on by the massed German and English choirs in which it was a tradition to sing excerpts from Handel's Messiah in German as well as other Christmas music.  This was followed a week later by the annual White Christmas play presented by the young people to raise money to buy food hampers for the needy.  The Christmas Eve Service was the highlight of the festivities with the children and teens in the Sunday School taking part in a program consisting of recitations, singing, and a Christmas play put on by the teens. The evening was concluded by a soloist singing 'O Holy Night' and a brief message by the Pastor.  There was standing room only if you arrived late for any of these services.

 The church sanctuary was decorated with a huge, twenty foot Christmas tree hauled in from the farm of one of the members of the church.  The tree was set up in the orchestra pit and decorated with lights, tinsel, and glass ornaments that had been accumulated over many years.  Candy bags filled with candies, nuts in their shells, an apple and two Japanese oranges were given to the children and teens.  There was a time when even the adults received a bag until it got too expensive to maintain the tradition.

All December, my Mother kept busy baking Christmas cakes, cookies, and making the fabulous toffee that she made only at Christmas.  She would get the house ready for the holidays by sending the family to a nearby Christmas tree lot to select a tree and bring it home.  Occasionally the tree vendor had hot chocolate or hot apple cider available to ward off the cold while you were making your selection.  At home, Dad would trim the trunk of the tree and fix it in its stand before bringing it into the house.  The tree was allowed to stand for a few hours before decorating so that the branches could spread out and the tree fill the house with its fragrance.

I vaguely remember Mom using small Christmas candles to light the tree but only on Christmas Eve and later her buying strings of coloured electric lights that could be used for the whole Christmas season.  There was a hitch though; if one light burned out, the entire set went out and you would have to search one by one for the dead bulb in order to replace it and light up the tree again.  It eventually became my responsibility to put the lights on the tree but Mom still supervised the rest of the decorating.

Christmas Eve was spent making last minute preparations for the big day and by going to Church for the Christmas Eve Service.  Our family never had a car until my two older brothers were adults and had cars of their own.  There was something special about the family going to church on the bus that evening and then coming home and walking down the lane leading to our house.  The snow crunched under your boots and seemed to sparkle more in the moonlight on that night than it did on any other day during winter. 

Our family always opened our gifts on Christmas Eve.  Even now, a pastor friend of mine, who has a German background, assures me that this is the proper way of doing things.  Somehow the gifts already under the tree seemed to have multiplied while we were away.  We gathered in the living room to open the gifts and then to enjoy the goodies that Mom had ready waiting on the dining room table.  Then it was off to bed looking forward to the big Christmas dinner on Christmas Day when friends or relatives would join us.  Mother always purchased the biggest turkey she could afford, usually a twenty pounder, because she wanted left-overs.  To this day, I am fond of turkey-pot-pies!

Putting lights on the tree

The Woman Rising From a Pot of Boiling Oil

I don't consider myself to be the gullible type but as a youngster I was attracted to things that stretched my imagination.  When I saw an advertisement in The Edmonton Journal concerning a display at the annual Edmonton Exhibition that featured a real live woman rising up out of a pot of boiling oil, I was over the moon. 

"We've got to see this," I said to my brother, Harvey, as I waved the newspaper under his nose, "do you think this is for real or are they putting us on?"

"It must be a gimmick," Harvey replied, "they would never allow you to do that to a real person.  Where is this to take place?"

My eyes wandered down the newspaper page and I answered, "In the display hall underneath the Grandstand at the race track at Exhibition Park.  It will be presented on the hour until ten o'clock each evening.  The sponsor is Imperial Oil."

A few days later, we took a bus to The Edmonton Exhibition and upon arrival we headed directly to the location announced in the newspaper.  The hands of a large clock sitting on the edge of a curtained stage announced the time of the next show.  We were early but a small crowd was already standing around the stage waiting with anticipation for the event and so we joined them.  An attendant made sure that no prying hands would try to pull back a corner of the curtain for a sneak peek.

At the appointed time, the curtain parted revealing a huge transparent cauldron filled with  bubbling ESSO motor oil (at least it looked like motor oil).  The cauldron was large enough to contain a person but, much to my disappointment, it was empty.  Momentarily a figure began to emerge from the pot of bubbling oil causing a hush to fall over the crowd.  The attractive young lady, obviously chosen for her looks, did not appear harmed by passing through the oil and the white dress that she was wearing was not soiled in the least.  She stood absolutely motionless as she rose to her full height from the cauldron.

"It's just as I thought," my brother whispered, "she's not real.  I'll bet that she is a store mannequin."

"But the newspaper said a real live woman," I reminded him, "let's wait and see what happens."

At that moment the woman sprang to life.  She smiled at the audience and stepped down from the cauldron onto the stage and began to extol the merits of using Imperial Oil products.  When she was finished, she stepped back into the cauldron, assumed the mannequin-like pose and slowly sank back down into the boiling oil.

Fortunately, the curtain was not closed immediately after the performance thus giving us a chance to see how it was done.

"Look," Harvey said, "It's an elevator platform surrounded by clear plastic tubing made to look like a cauldron and filled with something that looks like oil."

"Then the only danger that woman faced was in losing her balance on the platform as it moved up and down," I rightly observed.

"She is probably a professional model and knows what she is doing," Harvey replied.

"Even so, you've got to admit that it was well done!  It looked like she was rising out of the bubbling oil."

"Grudgingly!" Harvey replied.

It was done well enough that I went back several times to see it again.

The Toboggan Run

One of my favourite places to visit as a child was my Uncle and Aunt's farm at Lamont, Alberta.  It wasn't a large farm and they did not earn their living by it but they kept a few head of cattle, some pigs, a flock of chickens, and they grew hay.  In the spring, they planted a huge vegetable garden that produced a bumper crop of vegetables especially a sweet, yellow corn of a variety no longer available and buckets of cucumbers for making dill pickles.

The farm was sadly lacking most of the amenities that modern farms now have but there was electricity and running water . . . you ran to the well to get it.  Somehow that fascinated a 'city slicker' and I liked the novelty of pumping water from the well.  Whenever my cousins came to town, the fascination was reversed and one of them, in particular, would spend the entire visit in the bathroom turning on and off the tap in order to watch the water come out.

What was especially nice about the farm was that parts of it were hilly.  That meant that in the winter, my cousins could build a toboggan run that would provide enjoyment for them through the long winter months.  They always chose the same spot high on the brow of a hill above one of the pastures that curved steeply and then more gently downward taking you into the farmyard past the barn and stopping short of a pig pen.  They firmly stamped down the snow thus forming a grooved track wide enough for a toboggan and sprinkling it with water until it turned solid and gleamed like ice.  A snow bank carefully built up along the outer edge of the run kept the toboggan on track so that there was no danger of veering off sideways and ending up in the pasture or in the trees on the other side of the run.

On one visit, three of my cousins, my twin and I were having a great time on that toboggan run.  We had a three person toboggan and a two person sled and we would take turns using them.  I preferred using the sled because you could steer it whereas with the toboggan you hung on for dear life and hoped for the best although it seemed to me that the toboggan always travelled faster than the sled.  After several runs, some of us wanted a break so I decided to take the sled for a run by myself.  Forgetting that only one person on the sled allowed it to go faster, I barrelled down that run at a break-neck speed having the time of my life.  When I got to the bottom and passed the barn, I discovered that I couldn't stop in time to avoid the pig pen and scooted under the fence and got mired in the muck.  The old sow in the pen was as surprised to see me as I was to see her and my cousins had a good laugh.

The Newspaper Route

A newspaper route was likely a boy's first taste of the working world when I was a lad.  The pay was nowhere near that of a young person just starting out part-time today at say a MacDonald's but when combined with the small allowance earned from doing chores around the house, it provided some pocket money.  I could indulge in my favourite hobby of building model air planes.

Being a newspaper carrier required two things: commitment and responsibility.  Commitment to the job was necessary to deliver the newspapers on time and in good condition especially when the weather was bad.  More than once, I had to deal with newspapers made soggy by rain or snow.  Under those conditions it was easy to keep the newspapers in your sack from getting wet but not those dropped off by truck half-way along your route.

It was the carrier's responsibility to collect money from the subscribers each week and to take it downtown Saturday morning to the newspaper's main office.  After paying your bill, the remaining balance was your pay.  You learnt quickly that monies not collected came out of your pocket and not the newspaper's as did the cost of unsold newspapers or twenty-five cent fines imposed for legitimate complaints lodged against you.

My first route was with The Star Weekly, a newspaper originating in Toronto but sold across Canada.  Recruiters came to the schools to sign up  carriers.  Each week the bundle of newspapers arrived at the house ready for delivery.  This route was spread out over several city blocks and I used my bike to pull a wagon thus making the job easier.  The Star Weekly was bulky and heavy to carry but it had the biggest and best comic section carried by any newspaper.  The heaviest edition of the Star Weekly that I remember carrying was the edition covering the coronation of Queen Elizabeth 11 in 1953.  Extra copies were greatly in demand.

My second newspaper route was with The Edmonton Journal.  These routes were hard to come by and I took one over from a friend who was no longer interested in delivering newspapers.  Hazing of new carriers was allowed and experienced carriers routinely initiated the new ones by walloping them on their backside with a rolled up newspaper sack.  Each carrier enthusiastically administered one blow on the hapless new comer while the adult supervisor pretended to look the other way.  The time eventually came round when you were on the giving end instead of the receiving end.

I had some interesting subscribers.  One gentleman smoked a pipe.  When I delivered his newspaper, I had to place it on a table in a glass enclosed porch.  Whenever I opened the door to the porch, the pungent, sweet smell of pipe tobacco filled my nostrils.  I think that the reason I found the smell of the pipe tobacco so exhilarating was that my parents frowned on smoking.

Another subscriber was an elderly blind lady who had her grandson come and read the newspaper to her each day.  I had to roll up the newspaper and place it in a special box so that she could find it.  She always paid her subscription on time.  To pay me, she would open her bedroom window near the porch and hand me her purse so I could take out the required amount.  She trusted people and the previous carrier warned me to not take advantage of her blindness, something I would never think of doing.  She often offered a tip or a foil wrapped chocolate medallion as a treat.

The 'subscriber from hell' best describes a person known to me only by a nickname, 'Alkie'.  As the name implies, he had a problem with drink and when he was inebriated, he became mean.  His place was filthy and his favourite garment was a pair of dirty gray long-johns that he never buttoned up properly.  When he was sober, he was pleasant enough but those times were rare.  I eventually refused to deliver a newspaper to him because I could never collect the money.

I delivered The Edmonton Journal for about three years.  My family's moving to Edmonton's West End necessitated my giving up the route.  I was in grade eight and had one more year to go before entering Senior High.  Business were beginning to hire students part time and I found a job working in a dry cleaner's but that is another story.

Going Christmas Shopping

The air was nippy and there was a dusting of fresh snow on the ground as my Mother, twin brother, and I boarded a bus for downtown.  We were going Christmas shopping - Mom was doing the shopping and we were tagging along just for the fun of looking at all the Christmas displays.  We got off the bus on the corner of 101st Street and 102 Avenue just across the street from Eaton's and Woodward's, two of three of the then largest department stores in downtown Edmonton.  Eaton's was famous for its Santa Clause Parade (which we attended every year) and Woodward's for its windows filled with animated Christmas displays of nostalgic Winter scenes and the preparations going on in Santa's workshop getting him ready for his big night.

Mother looked at the clock as we entered Woodward's.  "It's just two o'clock. You meet me downstairs on the Food Floor at the Ice Cream Bar at four and we'll have a strawberry sundae before going home (Woodward's made the best soft ice cream strawberry sundaes this side of heaven).  I want to be on the bus before they get too crowded going home.  Have fun and don't get into trouble."

We were off in a flash and headed back outside to gaze at the wonderful displays in the windows.  Then we went up to Toyland on the fourth floor.  Santa had a castle there where you could visit and sit on his knee and have your picture taken.  Being twelve, we were no longer interested in sitting on Santa's knee and headed straight for the electric train display.  The trains were magnificent and expensive.  We would never think of asking for something like that but there was no reason why we shouldn't enjoy looking at them.

Eventually, we took the elevator back down to the main floor.  The camera department was right next to the elevators.  Much to our delight, there we saw our Mother standing at the counter and a salesperson showing her a portable movie screen.  We had asked for a screen to use with our View Master projector so that we could project our View Master reels so that more than one person could see them at the same time.  Money exchanged hands and Mother must have arranged to have the screen delivered to the house because she didn't have it with her when we met up later.

This chance occurrence gave us an outrageous idea!  We would follow our Mother around and see what else she was buying us for Christmas - we were not disappointed.  Mother always claimed to have eyes in the back of her head so that she could see all that was going on around her.  That was one day when those eyes failed her and it was two happy boys who met their Mother for a strawberry sundae before getting on the bus and heading home.


                                                                               

  

 My old-fashioned Christmas Tree laden with gifts

The Entrepreneur

He was young in years when my brother, Kenneth, became aware of the need to succeed in life.  Coming from a modest background, to be successful became the driving force in his life.  This determination was well rewarded and he became the President and part owner of a large company.  He started out driving a truck for Liquid Air delivering bottles of oxygen to hospitals and other institutions and then working briefly at a car dealership in Edmonton. Next, he became a travelling salesman for Scott National Foods and criss-crossed The Province of Saskatchewan on a regular basis.

One of his first attempts at salesmanship was in his early teens.  It arose out of necessity as he and a buddy of his wanted badly to go to the movies.  They had no money and since they were not supposed to be going to a movie, they could not ask their parents for money for the tickets.

His friend, Wilbert asked, "Where are we going to get the money?  You know that we can't sneak in because, if we'd get caught, we'd be in big trouble with our parents."

"Give me a minute," Kenneth replied, "I'll think of a plan."

Kenneth went back into his house and came out again with a big bulge showing in the front of his jacket.  He looked behind and said, "Let's go before my Mom sees us."

"What's under your jacket?"

"My brown Sunday suit," Kenneth grinned, "we'll go to a second-hand shop and sell it.  Then we will have money for the movie and maybe more."

"You are going to sell your only suit!   What will you tell your Mom when she finds out?"

"I'll worry about that later but let's see if we can sell it first.  We'd better hurry if we want to catch the movie."

Off the boys went but they did not meet with success.  They tried four second-hand stores and the response was always the same.

"Sorry boys!  There is no market for this sort of garment.  Don't you know that every boy in Edmonton has a brown Sunday suit," a shop-keeper reminded them, "they ask you what shade of brown you want when you buy it.  Brown seems to be the only color for boys your age to wear."

The boys were disappointed and now Kenneth had to find a way of sneaking his brown suit back into the house without his mother catching him.  Apparently he succeeded.

On another occasion, having both turned sixteen, Kenneth and Wilbert went out looking for their first real job.  They went to the personnel department of Woodward's, one of the biggest and most popular department stores in downtown Edmonton to fill out application forms.  On the streetcar on their way home, Wilbert asked Kenneth, "What did you put down where it asked, 'Position Applied For'?"

"President," Kenneth replied, nonchalantly!

A few days later another friend brought up the subject of Kenneth's job application.  "Did you hear from Woodward's yet telling you that you've got the job?"

Kenneth replied confidently, "Not yet . . . but I'm expecting to hear from them any day now!"

Kenneth Kirsch and his family

Caught Skinny Dipping

Victoria Composite High School was a Senior High School (Grades 10 - 12) started in Edmonton in 1911 for the purpose of placing an emphasis on vocational training.  Over the years it was expanded and became one of the largest High Schools in Edmonton.  It became fondly known as 'Vic Comp'.  Three of my brothers attended there at different times.

Vic Comp had the distinction of being the first High School in Edmonton to have an indoor swimming pool.  Many Edmontonians, including me, took swimming lessons in that pool as a child or a  teenager.

This story concerns my eldest brother, Kenneth.   He was the sportsman in the family and involved in High School sports.  He was on the basketball team and it was at this time (late '40's) that the swimming pool was being constructed.  Interest was high as to when the pool would be completed and the students able to use it.  Apparently that day was not far off.  The pool had been filled with water but not yet cleaned and all sorts of debris was still floating in the water.

After a basketball practice one evening, the team was in the locker room getting ready to hit the showers when one player had a brilliant idea.

"Let's try out the pool!"

"It's not been cleaned yet!"

"That doesn't matter.  We'll jump in and get right out again just so that we can lay claim to being the first ones to swim in the pool."

"We didn't bring bathing suits!"

"We don't need suits; we'll skinny dip.  There is nobody else around so we'll have the pool all to ourselves.  What do you say?"

A chorus of hooting and hollering signified their agreement as the guys grabbed towels and headed for the pool.  The water was cold but their daring made it worth their while.

Kenneth never said how long they were in the pool before they heard voices coming from the ladies locker room.  Before the boys had a chance to get out of the pool, grab their towels, and run for cover, the entire girls' cheer leading team, still dressed in their outfits, came in for a look at the pool.  They had been practicing in another part of the building and the boys forgot that they were there.

The girls quickly realized that they had caught the boys in an awkward moment.  There were rows of bleachers at that end of the pool so the girls sat down as a couple of them gathered up the towels and placed them just out of reach to anyone in the pool.

"How's the water, boys," they asked, "isn't it a bit cold?"

The girls were enjoying themselves at the boys expense as they watched them huddling together close to the edge of the pool.

"Why don't you come out," they smirked, "could it be that we've got your towels and you aren't wearing suits?"

The boys did not know what they were going to do.  Just then, the basketball team coach came out of the men's locker room and saw his team's predicament. 

"Ladies, it is time to go home," he said firmly, leaving no doubt in the girls' minds that he meant what he said.  One by one the girls headed back to the ladies locker room.  The boys looked sheepish as they hastily crawled out of the pool and grabbed towels to cover themselves.

"You had no business swimming in the pool and certainly not naked," the coach admonished them, "but I think you got what you deserve for pulling such a stunt.  Make sure it doesn't happen again!"

The boys were not about to argue and gratefully headed for nice, warm, showers.

First Flight

As long as I can remember, flying and planes, especially commercial airliners, fascinated me.  Living close to the Edmonton Municipal Airport made it possible for me to ride my bike there frequently to watch the airliners come and go.  Two public observation decks built on the roof on either side of the passenger terminal, allowed for an unobstructed view of the airport's two main runways.  The smell of burning aviation fuel as planes taxied past the building and watching passengers boarding planes for destinations worldwide only increased my desire to experience flight.

My second eldest brother, Murray's enthusiasm for flying only increased mine.  He was about ten years older than me and was an air traffic controller and had earned his private pilot's license.  His being transferred from Edmonton to Lethbridge as part of his training was the catalyst that brought about the realization of my dream.  He invited me to spend part of the summer holidays with him.  I eagerly accepted and began saving money for the airfare that was the princely sum of $38.00 one way. A paper-route was the source of income.  My parents had agreed to drive to Lethbridge later in the month for a visit and take me back home.

The momentous day arrived along with brilliant sunshine and clear blue skies.  Mom and Dad and Grandma Kirsch, who could not be convinced that flying was a good idea, saw me off at the airport.

Flying then was not the ordeal that it has become today.  Security was lax if not non-existent.  Upon checking in at the airline counter, I was welcomed by a friendly passenger agent who took my ticket and baggage and gave me a boarding pass.  There was no separate passenger lounge for those boarding flights and passengers and visitors mingled freely in front of the boarding gate until the flight was called.

The plane was a Vicker's Viscount operated by Trans Canada Airlines now Air Canada.   Built in England, it was the first of the four engined turbo-props that were fast ushering in the jet age with smooth, vibration free flight. The plane looked magnificent gleaming all silvery in the sunlight with its red, white and black airline markings.  The pencil thin engines emitted a distinctive whine that set the plane apart from the piston engine aircraft of the day.  Huge, oval windows offered passengers unparalleled views and the seating was all first class.

My seat was in the first row at the front of the aircraft next to a window on the star-board side.   I eagerly awaited the starting of the engines and for the moment the aircraft would begin taxiing for takeoff.  I felt the plane gathering speed and enjoyed the sensation of being gently pushed back into the seat and the exhilaration of lifting off the runway and watching the ground fall away beneath the belly of the plane.  I was flying at last!

Trans Canada Airlines called Edmonton, Calgary, Lethbridge its milk run and normally used a  DC 3 on that service.  When more passengers than a DC 3 could accommodate travelled between Edmonton and Calgary, they used the Viscount and passengers going on to Lethbridge transferred to the DC 3 at Calgary.  This was the case that day and, in Calgary, I boarded a venerable DC 3 for the final leg of the journey.

The DC 3 has the distinction of being the most successful commercial aircraft ever built and I was glad to experience flying in one.  While the flight from Edmonton to Calary was full and smooth, the Lethbridge leg carried only a handful of passengers and the ride was bumpy.  The old Gooney bird rose and fell as it encountered air pockets over the badlands of southern Alberta.  The flight attendant smilingly reassured the passengers that the bumpiness was normal.  There was even enough time for a complete lunch served on large, old fashioned, trays supported by a pillow placed on the lap.

My brother was at the airport to meet me.  He lived in an old army barracks at the airport and he could walk to work.  One evening, he took me up into the control tower to show me how they kept track of the aircraft flying in that sector.  When a Western Airlines Convair 240 made a stop to clear Canadian Customs, he got permission for me to board the aircraft for a look while the ground crew re-fueled the plane.  That is something not allowed today.

Since then, I have had occasion to travel by air on long hauls as far away as South Africa.  Big, fast, and comfortable Jetliners have replaced the smaller aircraft.  The Viscount and the DC 3 are almost history but no flight I have taken since was as satisfactory as the first flight taken that summer.

 

  ( Vicount with DC 3 in background at Lethbridge, Alberta)

On His Terms

When my daughter's room-mate married, she asked me if she could move into my apartment for awhile and bring with her a cat that she had acquired from an acquaintance.

"Tito is a good cat," she assured me, "he won't be any trouble.  He is rather shy."

Tito turned out to be an extremely handsome cat with charcoal gray fir, a white chest, and the brightest pair of constantly alert yellow-green eyes.  Somebody suggested that Tito had Russian Blue in him but we never knew for sure.

True to my daughter's word, Tito was no  trouble but there was a reason for that.  He had been abused as a kitten and was afraid of people, especially men, and so he spent his time hiding under a bed.  He had warmed up to my daughter because she has a way with animals and because he enjoyed her pampering him.  He allowed her to do anything to him that was necessary for his well being.  He even allowed her to give him a bath although he protested loudly.  With me it was a totally different story.

I should have known from the beginning that I would end up looking after Tito.  My daughter had a busy work schedule, lots of friends, and was much involved in music at the church she attended so I was usually the first one home in the late afternoon.  That cat constantly greeted me at the door with snarls and hisses.  When I managed to lure him out of his hiding place to be fed, he would slash out at me with his claws when I placed his dish of food before him.  Many times I ended up with scratches on my hand and the food spilt on the floor.

This stalemate lasted more than six months and I began to despair if Tito and I would ever be friends.  What I found particularly galling was that my daughter found my trials with Tito amusing.  And Tito would aggravate the situation by coming out of his hiding place the minute she got home and sit contentedly purring on her lap .  A friend of mine with several cats told me friendship with Tito would come on his terms and all I could do was to be patient.

One evening I was watching television when Tito came over to the sofa and jumped up beside me.  Much to my surprise, he crawled onto my lap and sat there pleased with himself.  My joy at this at- long-last display of affection was short lived.  I made the mistake of stroking his back and he responded by biting my hand and running away.  It was days before he would come near me again.

That, however, was the beginning of a mellowing process in that cat.  Tito started coming to sit on my lap  and he eventually allowed me to pet him.  When I was working at my computer and he wanted attention, he would jump up on the desk and rub his head against my arm.  I soon could open the sliding door onto the balcony and he would go out and lie in the afternoon sun or sniff the flowers growing in pots on the balcony.  This soon became his favorite spot.

He began to exhibit the curiosity of a cat and display what I would term normal cat behavior.  He showed interest in a big brown squirrel that occasionally ventured onto the balcony looking for peanuts.  Birds and butterflies attracted his attention.  The neighbors had a cat that sat on their balcony and the two of them 'talked' to each other.  He got to the stage that when friends came to visit, he would come out to see them, especially my son and his girlfriend.

As I said, Tito never got into trouble.  I had an aquarium with some large goldfish.  I half expected to come home one day and find one missing.  Tito liked watching them.  His tail would twitch with excitement but he never, as far as I know, attempted to go fishing.

At Christmas, when the tree was  being decorated, he played with the lights and the garlands of beads as they were being strung but once the decorations were on the tree,he left them alone.  His favorite toy was a plastic ball with a jingle bell inside.  He would chase it around the room and make a point of bringing it out from his hiding place when he wanted someone to play with him.

My daughter eventually moved to her own place again and took Tito with her.  I warned her that Tito would likely revert to his former behavior and that is exactly what happened.  When I saw him again, he hissed at me as if I were a complete stranger and he would not let me near him.  He never warmed up to my daughter's new room-mate.

I will admit that I enjoyed having Tito around my apartment.  I learned that emotionally wounded animals will respond to kindness over time.  He made it so obvious by the way that he would sit at the open door of the bedroom that he wanted to come out and be part of what was happening around him but fear held him back.  Only as he understood that he was not going to be hurt, did he start coming out of himself.  I like to think that I made a small difference in his life even though that friendship was on his terms.

My only photo of Tito

Making Moonshine

Family secrets . . . every family has them.  Even in this day where 'telling everything' seems to be the vogue, some secrets should remain secrets.  However, others become amusing stories told repeatedly at family gatherings and they become family favorites . . . like the story I am about to tell.  I had an Uncle who made moonshine and sold it, illegally, at the Edmonton City Public Market.

I know . . . your first question is, "How did he do that without being caught?"  The answer is simple.  The police officers patrolling the market were his friends and were numbered amongst his customers.  As long as there were no complaints, the officers simply chose to look the other way.

The reality was that it was not general knowledge that Uncle was making moonshine and selling it although many of the relatives knew and some of them even took a little nip themselves on special occasions.  Anyone really interested in buying some could find out how to do it via the grapevine.

Uncle's real livelihood was making and selling homemade German sausages (Grits wurst) at a stall in the Public Market on Saturdays when all the farmers would come into town to sell their produce.  The market was always crowded that day.  Because his sausages were popular, his weekly production quickly sold out.  To buy the moonshine though, one had to know that it was available under the counter and those that knew always took something extra home with their parcel of sausage.

The moonshine was manufactured in a still set up in a room built under the garage in Uncle's backyard.  Access was gained from a secret entrance under the steps leading down into the basement.  If you did not know the entrance was there, the basement looked like every other basement on the block.  One of the posts supporting the steps was rigged up with a tap so that Uncle could draw off his moonshine without having to go into the secret  room every time he wanted some.

When the secret panel was pulled back, you would crawl on hands and knees through a short tunnel to a tomb-like room located beneath the cement floor of the garage.  The tunnel and the room was shored up with beams and vented into the garage.

Understandably, this operation took a long time to build.  To carry it off, Uncle had to be clever and resourceful.  He would invite the neighbourhood children to come and play football in his backyard while he was doing the excavation work.  He would move among the children as they played shaking soil from the excavation from pockets concealed in his coveralls.  As the children played, they would stamp the soil into the ground and no one was the wiser.  This took place in the 'thirtys' but it reminds me of the wonderful war escape story, The Wooden Horse, where prisoners secretly dug an underground tunnel while other prisoners played soccer on the field above them.

Eventually, somebody found out about Uncle's sideline at the market. and went to the police.  The police had no choice but to confiscate the still and shut him down.  As Uncle was an elderly person, he was fortunate in that he did not have to spend time in jail but he was forced out of business at the market.

My parents and older brothers actually lived in that house for a time after Uncle moved away and it was still standing when my brother Kenneth and I drove by it in the summer of 1997.  Nobody seems to know what happened to the tunnel and room under the garage. 

The backyard of that property was so smooth and level because of the excavations that my Mother's sister, Esther, who lived with them, flooded the back yard every winter and turned it into a skating rink so my brothers had a place to play hockey.  I have a picture of the three of them on skates on the rink.  I also have a faded picture of Uncle with a big smile on his face holding a brandy snifter filled with an unidentified liquid.  Whatever it was, he was happy!

Truck Drivin' Dad

When it was first suggested to me, the idea was a great idea and the solution to my immediate problem but that is not how it turned out.  I embarked on a truck driving career only because I found myself unemployed at a time when work was difficult to find forcing me to try anything that came my way.

"Maybe Bruce would hire you to drive a truck for the dairy," suggested my wife, "he is always looking for new drivers."

Bruce was an acquaintance of ours who was in charge of the drivers at a local dairy in Vancouver.  And the idea of their Dad driving a truck appealed to my children.  I reasoned that many dads make a good living driving trucks and it would be a welcome change from working in an office.

My son asked hopefully, "Will it be a big rig?"

"I could not say." I replied, "I haven't even talked to Bruce yet."

As it happened, the dairy was short of drivers and so I was hired on a trial basis.

"I give new drivers two weeks with a trainer," Bruce explained as he was giving me a tour of the loading dock at the dairy, "by then they should be able to handle the route on their own."

"Fair enough," I said eagerly, "I can do the job . . . you'll see." Then  I asked, "What kind of truck is it?"

I was a tad nervous about how big the truck would be since I had not driven many trucks except for small ones.

"No need to worry,"  Bruce explained for he was aware of my concern, "it's a mini-van." He pointed to one that was being loaded on the dock.  "Yours is a home delivery route."

"Then that should be a piece of cake," I exclaimed.

Come Monday morning, my first day at work, everything was changed.  I was introduced to my trainer, Dave, who seemed an easy going sort of guy with a nervous smoking habit which, I realized later, was due to the fact that he had to train people like me.

"There has been a change," he told me, "a driver quit on Friday without giving notice and we needed someone to take his place.  You will be making deliveries to stores and restaurants along Kingsway, Main Street, and Marine Drive out towards the airport." 

He then took me out to a ten ton truck (which looked like a monster to me) and tossed me the keys.  "Let's go," he said as he stubbed out his cigarette and climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

I had no trouble handling the truck.  In fact I felt comfortable riding in a cab much higher than all the trucks and cars sharing the road that morning.  I had no difficulty driving in the heavy city traffic and I could back into loading docks without difficulty.  But I had an unanticipated problem . . .  I continually got lost!  I just did not know my way around the city well enough.  I was used to living in the suburbs and rarely went into Vancouver.  And two weeks of training made absolutely no difference!

"Do you know where you are going," Dave would ask as he lit off another cigarette.  "You've gone past your turn by a mile and didn't even notice."

"I did, " I reponded,  trying to act surprised but I had to admit that he was right.  I did not know where I was going.  Everything looked unfamiliar to me and I had completely lost my sense of direction.  I mumbled, "Sorry, I'll try to do better."

Sorry doesn't cut it when you have a schedule to maintain and customers are waiting for delivery.  I was fast coming to the conclusion that the job was not for me.  My decision to quit came exactly two weeks to the day I had started work.  We finished the deliverys that day and Dave drove the truck back to the plant.  He was happier than I had seen him anytime during those two weeks.

One incident occurred during my short career that is forever etched in my mind.  I was making a delivery to a Mac's Milk store on Main street, my first delivery of the day.  The proprietor was a jovial East Indian gentleman who kept his store spotlessly clean.  It had snowed and the entrance to the store was slippery.  As I was going through the door with a two-wheeled dolly piled high with two litre cases of milk, I slipped and dumped the entire load.  There was a sea of milk, plastic milk cases, and burst paper cartons everywhere.  The proprietor's face turned white from shock and what Dave said is not printable here.  He went outside to the truck and lit up another cigarette.

I was mortified!  All I could do was apologise to the proprietor and clean up the mess.  I got a mop and bucket out to soak up the spilt milk and then washed the entire floor in the store from front to back.  Milk had seeped though under the front of the coolers and so I had to clean back there as well.  An hour later the mopping up operation was complete.  During those long two weeks that I drove the truck, that proprietor was always wary whenever I entered the store but there was no repeat performace.

My children were disappointed that I quit driving the truck.  My wife was annoyed because I still did not have a job.  I can laugh about it now but I was embarrassed because of the way things turned out.  A month later I found employment at another dairy . . . an inside job . . . making yogurt! I worked there nearly ten years.   There was no truck to drive, no deliveries  to make and no opportunity for me to get lost.

The Mystery of the Fallen Apple

The true story I'm about to tell is of an alleged crime that took place in Edmonton, Alberta many years ago.  That the incident had serious repercussions for two young boys was truly a miscarriage of justice.  The boys were banned forever, under a cloud of suspicion, from ever returning to the scene of the crime.

The day the incident occurred was hot and sultry; too hot for anyone to be playing outdoors in those final dog days of summer.  My brother, Murray, had been invited to his friend Jack's house to view home movies in the cool comfort of a basement recreation room.  Murray and Jack were the best of friends but what happened that day put a dent in their friendship.

Jack did not mind Murray bringing his younger twin brothers, Harvey and Ivan, with him to watch the movies.  That is how the two of us happened to be at the scene of the crime and became the two chief suspects in the case .  For us the movies were a novelty and a welcome diversion on an otherwise boring end-of-summer day.  Now keep in mind that my brother Harvey and myself were not identical twins but we were similar enough in appearance that people who did not know us well had difficulty in telling us apart.

Backyard vegetable gardens were in vogue in the city at that time and the house the boys were going to visit was no exception.  Smack-dab in the middle of that garden stood a good sized apple tree.  Now Jack's mother was inordinantely proud of that apple tree.  When the boys arrived, she rushed them out to the garden to show them her pride and joy.  There hanging tantalizingly from a branch just above their heads was a huge apple not yet ripe for the picking.  The apple was magnificent.  In fact, it was the only apple on the tree and that was the determining factor in the outcome of this case.  To hear Jack's mother tell it, that apple was one of the seven wonders of the world.  After suitable utterances of appreciation eagerly received by the hostess, the boys retreated to the basement to watch the movies.

Later that afternoon, Jack's distraught mother rushed into the basement.

"Which one of you boys did this?" she demanded, holding back tears.  She held out the apple which had earlier been admired for four pairs of astonished eyes to see.  "I found it lying on the ground."  Hurt and disbelief were registered on her face.

The boys looked at each other but no one would admit to being the culprit.

Jack's mother proceeded with her accusation.

 "The twins were the last ones by the tree.  One of them must have picked it. "

She studied our now terrified faces trying to determine which one of us was the guilty party but with no success.  She looked at Harvey first and then at me.

"It was you!"  In desperation she singled me out  "You were the last one by the tree. You are a naughty boy!  My prize apple!  How could you do such a thing?"

No amount of protesting on my part or reasoning from the other boys could convince her that there might be some other explanation for the fallen fruit.

"Apples do fall off trees," Murray suggested.

"Not this one," Jack's mother snapped back.

"Maybe it was the wind," Jack suggested, attempting to convince his mother but doing a poor job of it.  His words were ignored.  In his mother's mind, I was guilty as charged.

I was scared stiff but steadfastly maintained my innocence.

"If Ivan says that he didn't do it, then Harvey must have.  You might as well tell me the truth because your mother is certainly going to hear about this."

There was no further response from either of us.

"I can't even use it in a salad," Jack's mother wailed, "it is still too green."   With apple in hand, she swept out of the room.

The unfounded accusation ruined what had otherwise been a pleasant afternoon.  When we got home, mother had already been informed of what had taken place.  She was somewhat amused by the whole incident and she knew Jack's mother well enough to give us the benefit of the doubt.

"Well, Ivan, did you pick the apple?  Tell me the truth."

"No, Mom, I never even touched her lousy, rotten, apple!"

Harvey added, "We don't know how it happened.  We never left the basement  the whole time we were there."

"She is very upset and you know how unreasonable she can be.   She is convinced that one of you picked the apple.  I have been told to tell you that neither of you are welcome at her house ever again."

"What," I protested, "just because she thinks that one of us picked the apple?  That's not fair!  Can't you do something?"

The punishment seemed unduly harsh especially when there was no proof that either of us was guilty.  Sadly, some people only know how to over-react.  My twin brother and I never went to that house again and the mystery of the fallen apple remains unsolved to this day.

The Twins