Three's a Crowd

I do not know if my Dad was looking forward to it or dreading it.  He was about to  teach his twin teenage boys to drive.  Our training vehicle was the family car -  a 1959 Austin Cambridge A55 with a standard shift, a four cylinder motor, no power steering and no power brakes.  We already had learning permits having passed the written examination required by the Alberta government.  Now our destination was the parking lot of the Westmount Shopping Center in West Edmonton which was totally deserted on a Sunday afternoon.

That first lesson we were to learn three basic skills: how to shift gears, how to let out the clutch, and how to apply the brakes.  It looks easy when somebody else is driving but it is not so easy when you are fresh behind the wheel.  The idea is to engage the gears without grinding them.  Shifting into 1st gear and then letting out the clutch to set the car in motion was the next challenge.  Not done properly the car jumps like a jack-rabbit.   Grinding gears damages them and riding the clutch burns it out.  "Don't grind me a pound," or "Stop riding the clutch" were expressions we heard often those first few lessons.  You quickly learn not to slam on the brakes or you could find yourself going through the windshield.  After a few shaky starts, we were both driving the car around the vacant parking lot.

My brother turned out to be a backseat driver since we were both in the car as each lesson progressed.  He was mechanically inclined so learning to drive was easier for him than me since I am  not mechanically inclined.  He was also of the opinion that his driving skills were superior to mine.  It got so bad that when it came to learning to parallel park, I refused to let him be in the car with me.  I have often wondered how we managed to not hate each other during that time.  Three is a crowd specially when you are learning to drive.  Our Dad's response to all the stress of teaching us to drive was to mutter under his breath.  When we got home, he would quickly exit the car and head for the house.

We progressed from the parking lot to driving down side streets until we were able to drive in serious traffic.  I do not remember how many months it was before we went for the driver's test in order to obtain that much desired prize - an official Driver's Licence.  The licensing bureau was in a hilly area of Edmonton near the Alberta Legislature.  I was terrified that the examiner would ask me to parallel park on an incline but he chose level ground.  I did not pass that first test.  I did what he called, "a running stop" at one stop sign.  On my second attempt I passed with flying colors.  My brother made three attempts before he got his licence.  That's what you get for being a backseat driver with superior driving skills.

                                                                              

1959 Austin Cambridge A55

(ours was a cream color)

An Unfogettable Train Ride

The melancholy sound emanating from the whistle of a steam train rushing through the night always fascinated me.  As a child, I recall going to the Canadian National Railway Station in Edmonton to watch my Grandma board an old C.N. steamer bound for Vancouver.  The steam and smoke rising from the engine swirled around the platform and the air smelt of burning coal.  We were allowed to board the train to help Grandma settle in.  As the train chugged out of the station and into the night, I wished that I could have been a passenger too.

My wish to ride a train pulled by a steam locomotive came about in my adult years while I was serving in South Africa as a missionary and lived in Louis Trichardt in the Northern Transvaal province.  It was necessary for me to travel to Pretoria to pick up my renewed Passport and make tentative reservations with Sabena Belgian Airlines for my soon return trip to Canada.  I decided I would take the train.  It would be an overnight run to Pretoria with the next day allowing plenty of time to do my business and then return the same evening.  The train was on, what we use to call in Canada, 'a milk run' meaning it stopped at most of the towns between Louis Trichardt and Pretoria.  This particular train was in no  way comparable to South Africa's famous 'Blue Train' but the ticket agent did suggest a first class ticket which put me in a compartment with berths so I would not have to sit up all night,  Sharing my compartment was a person I had met previously and so we talked, read, and enjoyed the passing scenery before the porter came to make up the two lower berths.  The train lacked a dining car so you could not enjoy a meal or get a nice hot cup of tea which is so much part of South African hospitality.  Sleeping on the train was uneventful except for my waking up at every stop to see where we were.  By this time,  the smell of the burning coal from the engine had permeated the entire train. and I thought the train needed a better ventilation system.  The train pulled into Pretoria just as the sun was rising.  In the station, there was a kiosk where you could buy breakfast and a restroom where you could have a shower and change clothing.

That evening, when I arrived at the station having completed my business, I noticed there were  fully equipped soldiers milling around the station and I wondered why.  I learned that they were on their way to postings up north along the boarders that South Africa shares with Namibia, Zimbabwe and Mozambique.  Terrorism was a constant threat in South Africa and they were always on guard.  This deployment was a few months after the incident at Entebbe Airport in Uganda when Israeli soldiers swooped  in totally unexpected  to rescue the passengers from a hijacked airliner.  The soldiers occupied a day coach but when night fell. they were allowed to occupy any empty berths on the train.  My compartment was suddenly filled with three fully armed soldiers who, without a word of explanation, bunked down for the night.  When I left the train at Louis Trichardt the next morning, they were still asleep but I felt that terrorists  would not have a chance against that crew.

SAR Locomotive

credit:  bing.com images

The Cookie Jar

My maternal grandparents, Albert and Emily Heffner, raised their family of four boys and four girls on a farm located between Bruderheim and Lamont, Alberta.  When the children had all married and left home, they sold the farm and moved to a small, two bedroom house in northeast Edmonton and Grandpa found work at a lumber yard.  The tiny white home was surround by a white picket fence and a small lawn dotted with beds of Grandma's favorite flowers including red, white and pink peonies, a variety of daisies, hollyhocks, delphiniums, and a bed of what I'd call 'wild flowers'.  There was also a mauve lilac bush that filled the yard with its fragrance when it bloomed in the spring.  The backyard was fully planted in vegetables to be used through the winter but included an abundant planting of sugar peas to which the grandchildren were allowed to help themselves.

 

The interior of the house was sparsely furnished.  There were no pieces of furniture of great value and they were not in the latest style.  However, there was one item in the house that reminded me of my Grandmother more than anything else. In the kitchen standing on top of the refrigerator was a big. red apple cookie jar decorated with one green leaf.  When we visited, the practice was for the grandchildren to sit around the kitchen table with Grandma while the adults visited in the living room.  Grandma would get down the cookie jar, always stocked with ginger snaps, and place it on the center of the kitchen table so that we could enjoy some cookies.

 

Years later, after Grandma passed away, Grandpa sold the house and moved to Richmond, B.C. to live with his second eldest daughter.  I don't know what became of the cookie jar; it was probably given away.  However, years later when on a shopping trip, I came across a similar cookie jar and decided to purchase it for nostalgia's sake.  Unfortunately, I did not have enough money on me to make the purchase and so I thought I would buy it next time I was in the store.  You can guess what happened and you will be right.  The red apple cookie jar was gone, the last one in stock, and the proprietor had no plans to restock the item.  In vain, I tried some other stores without success so Grandma's cookie jar remains only as a fond  memory.

 

 

                                                                          

 

Red Apple Cookie Jar 

 

Kids Do the Weirdest Things

Kids do the weirdest things and it must be credited to their insatiable curiosity and has nothing to do with what might be construed by some as their being naughty.  Such was the case with a situation my daughter found herself in when she was about twelve.

I was a pastor and pastors are called upon from time to time to conduct funeral services as part of their duties to congregants.  The service I have in mind was for a relative, an Uncle from my wife's side of the family.  The service was conducted not in the church but in the chapel of a small funeral establishment in a small town near Vancouver.  When I arrived at the Funeral Home with my family, they went into the chapel to be with other relatives and I was shown to a small office reserved for clergy to wait for the service to begin.  Little did I realize that not all my family stayed waiting in the chapel.  Shortly, a much displeased funeral director came into the clergy office to confront me.  He had my daughter in tow.

"I would appreciate you taking control of your daughter," the man said, indignantly, "I caught her opening doors and peeking into rooms that are not open to the public.  That is not permissible."

Other than childish curiosity, I had no idea why my daughter did what she did nor am I sure of what she was expecting to find.  Picture it - a young girl sneaking up and down the hallway in, of all places, a funeral home.  Watch her furtively glancing over her shoulder to see if she was being observed.  She must have known that what she was doing was wrong.  Perhaps she was expecting something to sneak up  behind her, grab her, and say, "Boo!"  And imagine her stealthily opening closed doors not knowing what might be behind them.

My daughter's behavior was totally out of character and I must admit that I was caught by surprise.  I apologised to the gentleman and then asked my daughter, "What were you thinking?  What did you expect to see?"

Unperturbed by the funeral director's annoyance, she replied, "I just wanted to see where they keep the bodies!"

The Skating Rink

A recent story in a Canadian newspaper about a backyard skating rink being shut down because of a complaint from a neighbour and the rink actually breaking municipal regulations jogged my memory about the skating rinks built in my backyard many years ago.  Those were the days when there didn't seem to be so many regulations or grouchy neighbours who have nothing better to do than complain (NIMBY- not in my backyard - can effectively stop many projects from ever happening).

The ice rink that my brothers and I made in the backyard was not fancy or professional but it gave us a place to skate and play hockey even if we were no Wayne Gretsky (he learned to play hockey on a rink made by his Dad).  This was the 1950's in Edmonton and many homes had backyard rinks because there were so few alternatives (not like today with fantastic facilities) although community rinks were appearing.  Those rinks were surround by a board fence and had a shed where you could go to put on skates or go back inside to warm up around a hot stove.  Some even had a tuck shop where you could buy candy, pop, and potato chips.  They also had music playing  from speakers  mounted on the outside of the shed and playing the latest Hit Parade songs.

Work on our rink began in earnest in late October and early November after all the garden vegetables had been harvested.  The south section of our lot was carefully levelled and banks of earth built to form the perimeter of the rink.  When the weather was cold enough to remain freezing, the banks were sprayed with water so they froze solid.  After that, fresh snow was removed from the ice surface and was used to build up the banks.  By the end of November, when the cold had really set in, the ice was thick and smooth enough to skate on.  Maintenance consisted of removing fresh snow from the ice surface and spraying the ice with water to keep it smooth and increase its thickness.

Many happy hours were spent skating on that rink and having friends come over to play hockey.  One of the neighbours, the second house down from us, sometimes hosted a huge bonfire where all of us could gather around, drinking hot chocolate or roasting wieners on a stick.  Nobody was excluded and so it made for getting to know your neighbours really well.  Those days are in the past and I must say that I was sorry to read about that rink needing to be closed.  I hope common sense prevails and there is a way to keep it open.

  

                                                                              

 

Skating Rink - Edmonton 1950's

 

 

 

 

 

Dough Boy

I like dogs although not all the breeds necessarily appeal to me - it really boils down to the dog's appearance.  Our first was a mutt from the SPCA whom we named Schulz followed by two purebred German shepherds, a male and female, both elegant and well behaved.  Finally, there was a purebred miniature poodle who was a joy to have around the house especially because he was not yappy. The family had him the longest and eventually he had to be put down due to extremely painful spinal arthritis.  In disposition, he was all 'dog'.  Once we tried to dress him in a bright red doggy coat so that he would be warm out walking during the winter months but he would have none of it.  If a dog could blush, I'd say he did when we put that silly coat on him.  The poor little guy looked so miserable that, in sympathy, we removed the coat - he was overjoyed.  He never wore it again.

The main thrust of my story has to do with the male German shepherd that we named Koko.  He was about three months old when we got him.  We were living in Johannesburg, South Africa at the time and it was winter.  It gets cold on the Rand during the winter and it was not uncommon to see water freeze solid if left in a bucket outside.  It was too cold to leave a young puppy outdoors and so we fixed up a spot in an enclosed porch leading off the kitchen where he could be warm and snug. Two doors shut off the kitchen from the rest of the house so we felt that the puppy would not get in trouble having him there.

One Sunday evening, we went to church leaving Koko in the porch.  At church, we met some folks and, to be sociable, we invited them back to the house for tea.  Upon entering the kitchen, we stood stunned at the scene before our eyes but that could not keep us from laughing.  The entire kitchen floor was covered in a white powder-like substance.  In the midst of it all sat Koko looking like a furry snowball.  He had discovered how to open one of the kitchen cupboard doors.  Then he pulled out an open bag of flour and proceeded to shake the bag's contents around the room.  His whiskers and eyelashes were coated with flour which had turned into a glue-like paste when he attempted to lick it off.  I promptly nicknamed him 'Dough Boy'.  He sat there on the floor looking up at us and wagging his tail as if to say, "I was bored and found something to occupy me."  The tea was understandably postponed and it was bath-time for one gooey puppy and clean-up time for the kitchen.

My First Automobile

I was entering my first year at Northwest Bible College (now Vanguard) in Edmonton.  It was necessary for me to have transportation and as I was working (and would work through college), I had saved up money for a car.  My plan was to buy a used one but my Father thought that it might not be wise 'to buy somebody else's trouble' and suggested I purchase new.  I do not remember the exact price but the average price of a car at that time was $2750 and gasoline was .33 cents a gallon.  As it happened, I had a sizeable down payment and the balance could be financed for a monthly payment of $38.00.  Car insurance, will full coverage, cost $32 because I qualified for a non-drinking driver package offered at that time.

So it was that I purchased my first ever automobile in August of 1966 just as the models for the next year were being released.  It was a 1967 Rambler American 2 door hardtop in Britannia blue with an inline 6 cylinder engine for economy.  It comfortably seated five passengers, two in front and three in the rear.  A unique feature of the American motors line was reclining front seats that were touted as offering a more comfortable ride for the person in the front but woe to anyone trapped in the rear.

It was a proud moment for me to drive out from the American Motors car dealer's parking lot located on Jasper Avenue in Edmonton.  I remember cautiously taking side streets to get used to the car before venturing onto the main roads.  Then I drove to my brother's place in south Edmonton to show off my new toy.  To my chagrin, he was not at home.

I drove that car without incident during the years of college.  It came in handy since the students were sent out on assignments to churches throughout Alberta.  I sang in a male trio and was on assignment frequently.  After graduation, I worked the balance of 1968 and all of 1969 saving money to go on a missions trip.  On January 4, 1970, I left for eight months to St. Lucia, W.I.  My car was put up for sale with my Father finding  a purchaser for it.

The Nash Rambler was always the brunt of jokes because of it relatively small size compared to other cars of the day (the Cadillac was on of the biggest).  Here are the verses from the delightful Nash Rambler song recorded by The Playmates.  It was on the top 40 charts for twelve weeks, sold over a million copies, and was awarded a gold record disc.

 

While riding in my Cadillac

What to my surprise

A little Nash Rambler was following me

About one third my size

The guy must have wanted to pass me up,

As he kept on honking his horn (beep beep)

I'll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn

 

Beep beep, beep beep,

His horn went beep, beep, beep!

 

I pushed my foot down to the floor to give the guy the shake,

But the little Nash Rambler stayed right behind, he still had on his brake,

He must have thought his car had more guts

As he kept on tooting his horn (beep, beep)

I'll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn.

 

Beep beep, beep beep,

His horn went beep, beep, beep!

 

My car went into passing gear and we took off with gust,

And soon we were doing ninety, must have left him in the dust.

When I peeked in the mirror of my car, I couldn't believe my eyes,

The little Nash Rambler was right behind, you'd think that guy could fly

 

chorus

 

Now we're doing a hundred and ten, it certainly was a race

For a Rambler to pass a Caddy would be a big disgrace

The guy must have wanted to pass me out as he kept on tooting his horn (beep beep)

I'll show him that a Cadillac is not a car to scorn.

 

chorus

 

Now we're doing a hundred and twenty, as fast as I could go.

The Rambler pulled alongside of me as if we were going slow.

The fellow rolled down his window and yelled for me to hear,

"Hey, Buddy, How do I get this car out of second gear.

 

 

 

 

 

1967 Rambler American 200