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