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

 



The Black Eye

After graduating from Bible College in 1968, I worked in a Parts Warehouse for farm machinery to earn money for a mission trip to the West Indies.  A friend of mine from Barbados, Wayne (a fellow classmate) invited me to join him on the island of St. Lucia to assist a Canadian missionary in building a church in Castries, the capital city. We helped with the construction during the day and participated in open-air street services and other church activities during the evening.

St. Lucia is a lush tropical island and I enjoyed the months I spent there.  Upon arrival, our first task was to find a place to live.  We did not have a large budget but we finally chose a two bedroom, semi-furnished flat located on the Morne high above Castries.  It was owned by Cable and Wireless of Great Britain  and many of the tenants were from there working temporarily on the Island.  We did not have a vehicle and except for the occasional 'drop' (native slang for a ride,) we hiked up and down the mountain.  I lost 30 lbs. and never felt better in my life.

 

The building was a former prison.  The walls were made of cement blocks two feet thick resulting in rooms that were delightfully cool in the tropical heat.  The windows retained their bars so the windows could be left wide open day and night without the fear of a break in not that we had much of value to be stolen.  Our place became the place to retreat to when living in the town was unbearably hot and many visitors passing through to minister on the island stayed with us.

 

The only drawback to the flat was a dog, owned by one of the tenants, that occasionally barked all night. One evening after coming home after a hard day of activities, I went to bed very tired.  That night I dreamed that I was being attacked by a rabid German shepherd dog.  Just as the dog in the dream leaped at me, I sat bolt-upright in bed hearing a noise outside my bedroom window. Thinking it might be the dog from upstairs,  I jumped out of bed to turn on the light and investigate. I always kept my bedroom door halfway ajar and since the light switch was beside the door, in the darkness I ran headlong into the edge of the door.  The next morning I had a tremendous 'shiner' that caused a great sensation for those who saw it.  Wayne asked, "What happened?" and he laughed when I told him.  It was easier explaining to the missionary what had happened than it was to the workers at the church site and the church members.  They decided that Wayne and I had a fight and they could not be convinced otherwise.

My First Real Job

My early working experience was similar to most of my friends growing up in Edmonton: we had paper routes.  I delivered the Star Weekly (1952), a Toronto Newspaper that was delivered house to house in Western Canada once a week.  That newspaper had the best comic section of any of the newspapers.  My second route was delivering the Edmonton Journal, a daily on Monday thru Saturday.  The money earned from those routes was really pocket change but I could afford to buy the model airplanes that I loved to build and collect. 

 

My first real job came years later working in a dry cleaning plant, Flowers' Dry Cleaning.  It was a Mom and Pop establishment with four other employees.  Mrs. Flowers managed the plant while her husband drove the pick-up and delivery truck.  Since my family used their dry cleaning services, we got to know Mr. Flowers when he came to the house to pick up clothing.  He was the person who suggested I apply for the job when the plant had an opening.

 

My job involved several tasks.  First was opening and sorting the bundles of clothing as they arrived in the plant.  This involved tagging each garment to identify it as it passed through the cleaning process.  I also turned out the pockets of the garments to make sure pens and such like objects did not go through the wash.  The collection of pens gathered over time was remarkable.

 

Another task was spotting the garments to remove stains before loading the clothing into the washer.  The spotting gun used air pressure and you had to be careful not to blow a hole in the garment while spotting.  Next was into the washer.  When the wash cycle was complete, the clothing was transferred to  the extractor that removed all the solvent from the garments.  The solvent was hard on the hands and Mrs. Flowers stocked a supply of hand cream for the employees to use. Finally the garments  were placed into the dryers and then on hangers and moved into the pressing room.

 

There was one part of the job I disliked and that was going in on Saturday morning to clean the filters from the extractor and the washing machine.  The filtrate started out as a dry, white powder and ended up a harden black mass of stinky slag.  I also cleaned the lint buildup in the dryers before washing all the floors to keep the plant spic and span.

The Flowers were an interesting couple to work for.  They were of Ukrainian heritage and, as far as I know, had no children so their business was their life.  They had no qualms about having their marital squabbles in front of the staff (something I never saw at home) and they went at it heartily tooth and nail. Hearing the threats they made to each other, I began to worry what I might find when I came into work one morning (I fantasized about finding a body in the washer).  They were generous to the staff and I still remember the thirty-two pound turkey she cooked one year for the Christmas party.  The drumsticks were enormous.  I don't recall how long I worked there (several years) but I do know the business changed hands when the Flowers retired and it may no longer be in operation.

Trick or Treat

Halloween is celebrated differently in North America than in other parts of the world.  The main event of the day is 'Trick or Treating', although this is fast becoming less popular due to safety considerations.  After dusk, with younger children accompanied by parents, children dressed in Halloween costumes meant to be scary, go door to door to gather teats.  Generally the tricks amount to soaping windows with a bar of soap, unravelling toilet paper around a tree in a neighbour's yard, or overturning trash cans in the alleys behind the houses. 

Looking back, it was a fun time going through the neighbourhood, seeing so many of the homes decorated with fierce looking, lighted, jack-o-lanterns on the front doorsteps, and the excitement of children in their costumes as they run from house to house.  I usually went out with my brother or some friends and always came home with a pillowcase full of Halloween candy, peanuts, and apples.  This 'loot' was something you bragged about to your classmates the next day in school.  Because of their generosity, I had special places to target, two of them being small, family run, general stores near my home.

There was one Halloween that is hard for me to recall fondly because of what happened.  Our family lived on 102nd Street and 115th Avenue in Edmonton.  It was not a main street and was not as well lit at night as it might have been.  Just one block down from our house and on the same street was the school I attended.  Spruce Avenue School got its name from the two huge spruce trees that stood in front of the main entrance.  The yard was spooky at night, more so on Halloween, and was a favorite spot for youths (called hoodlums then) to hide in the dark shadows of the branches waiting to prey upon unsuspecting children and steal their candy.  Somehow my brother and I had forgotten about this.  Four of these hoodlums sprang out at us as we passed by the school.  They shouted dire threats that caused our feet to move faster as we attempted to flee.  We headed down an avenue to 101 Street, a brightly lit main thoroughfare.  Our attackers dropped back when they saw where we were going.  After catching our breathe, we continued trick and treating but the fun had gone out of it and we went home.  We never told our parents what happened because mother was not keen on the idea of trick or treating and it was one of the last times we celebrated Halloween in that fashion.

 

 

 

 

                                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Give Us This Day . . . Eggs and Strawberries

Some folks view God as a grumpy old man with a penchant for smiting those who are misbehaving.  To those who know Him better, He is a loving heavenly Father who provides for the needs of His children sometimes in unusual ways.

 



Years ago, on a mission's trip to St. Lucia, W.I., I was supported only by my earnings from working for a year in a grungy barrel factory where they washed and repainted used oil drums.  Thus it was necessary for me to live on a strict budget.  There were many food items that I would have liked to buy but found them too expensive - one of them being eggs.  Rather selfishly, I prayed that the Lord would supply me with eggs.  I had no idea how the Lord would do such a thing but I will say that I did not expect a chicken to walk into the living rooms and lay an egg on the rug.  What the Lord did do was to use a hard working house maid on meagre wages to supply my need and teach me a valuable lesson.  Not only did this maid supply a half dozen eggs but a tin of sweetened, condensed milk, half pound of butter, and a package of sweet biscuits as well.  I was extremely humbled by her generosity and careful afterwards of what I prayed.  A man, in the church I was helping to build, heard the story.  He had a chicken farm and thereafter supplied me with any eggs I needed.

My second story involves my wife when she was carrying our first child and craving strawberries.  At the time, we were living in South Africa.  Her craving seemed like it would be something that God would be unable to satisfy.  Even if it were possible, where does one find fresh strawberries in Africa?

It happened that we were staying overnight with another missionary couple in the home of a grand-daughter of Smith Wigglesworth, the English evangelist.  To our amazement, after hearing of my wife's craving, she said, "I know somebody that can help you!"  Later that day we drove out with her to a farm outside Pretoria where a farmer specialized in growing strawberries under plastic tarps for export to Israel.  The strawberries were eye-popping gorgeous.  The man explained that they could only export perfect berries and the ones with blemishes were thrown away.  He took us over to a hug plastic bin chock-a-block full of strawberries that did not come up to par.  "Take as many as you like.  They only go to waste here."  My wife's craving for fresh strawberries was satisfied and she was also able to make jars of strawberry jam for use in the months ahead.  Sometimes I think that God has a sense of humour.

How to Ruin a Picnic

After Mom and Dad were married, they chose to live in Edmonton, raising their four sons there and living in various parts of the city their entire lives.  While my Dad hailed from Yorkton, Saskatchewan, my Mom had been raised on a farm near Lamont, located thirty-seven miles east of Edmonton in central Alberta.  Her Father's farm and two others, one belonging to her brother and his wife and one belonging to her sister and the sister's husband, were located a few miles from Lamont.

 

They visited each other on a regular basis and our family was affectionately referred to as being 'the city slickers.'  At the time of this story, not all highways were paved, some being gravel, and so it took considerable effort to make a journey even though today it can be done in less than an hour from city limits.

In preparation for the journey, Mom said, "I'll pack a picnic lunch; the boys will get hungry.  Besides, it nice to stop for a bit even to stretch our legs."

"You had better bring along some extra blankets," Dad replied as he looked at the sky, "If it clouds over it could be cold travelling."

At the time, my Dad had a 1928 Model T Ford which had been nicknamed 'The Tin Lizzy" by their owners.  The auto was loaded up and the journey begun.  Travelling that day were my parents, my two oldest brothers, and an Aunt from my Mother's side of the family who often helped look after the boys.

The journey was uneventful until my Mother spotted a skunk crossing the road a few yards ahead of them.  "Watch out," she warned, " there's a skunk on the road!"

"It's too late," shouted Dad as he attempted to brake and slow the vehicle. "Maybe if I hit him quick, he won't get a chance to spray."

Those were famous last words as the Tin Lizzy hit the skunk with a sickening thud.  Immediately the air reeked with the pungent odor skunks are famous for!  Dad stopped the auto and got out to investigate.  The spray had hit the underside of the vehicle and had somehow penetrated the trunk where the spare blankets and picnic basket had been stored.

"This is a fine mess," Mom observed, holding her nose and surveying the scene.  "Whew! It makes my eyes water.  What a way to ruin a picnic!"

The boys were looking at the dead skunk fascinated by what had transpired but not knowing what to say.

"You might as well bury those blankets and the picnic basket," said the Aunt, "that smell will never come out."

"Maybe Uncle Charlie will know what to do," Dad said hopefully.  Charlie was Mother's sister's husband.

But Charlie had no suggestions on how to get ride of the smell and eventually Dad traded in his Model T for different vehicle.



 

The Lid Blew Off

The background to the incident to which I am about to relate is crucial to your understanding of why I did what I did.  Add to the fact that I was a teenager still green behind the ears and the picture is complete.  I was then and still am interested in all types of commercial aircraft.  When I selected plastic airplane models to build as a hobby during my teenage years, they were nearly always of the airliners flying the skies at that time.  My first plane ride was in the venerable Douglas DC 3, the most successful commercial aircraft ever built and some still flying today.

Air Canada or Trans Canada Airlines, as it was known then, flew as one of the largest aircraft in its fleet, the luxurious Lockheed Super G Constellation.  It was a four engine, propeller driven aircraft, the most advanced of its day and designed by Howard Hughes of Spruce Goose fame.  TCA was introducing it on their transcontinental service and had one parked on the tarmac in front of their Service Hangar at the Edmonton Municipal Airport.  The aircraft was open for inspection by the public several hours that evening and I wanted to see it badly.  Since I did not live far from the airport, it was easy for me to ride over on my bicycle.

"Mom," I asked, "May I go to the airport to see the plane TCA has on display until 8:00 P.M. this evening?"

"That is fine with me," Mother replied, "but remember you have to start supper this evening.  I want you to cook the spaghetti we'll be having and I'll make the sauce when I get home from work."

Now everyone knows that you cook spaghetti in a large open pot using lots of water.  I decided that I could speed things up thus getting away earlier by cooking the spaghetti in Mom's pressure cooker.  Well, I did just that and after letting the pressure build up to three rings on the pressure indicator, I turned off the heat and removed the indicator to let the steam out.  This was a fatal mistake.  Since I was in such a hurry, I didn't wait for all the pressure to be released.  Instead, I loosened the lid.  Blam!  The lid blew off and you know what happened,  There was spaghetti and the gluey water resulting from the cooking process all over the stove, the walls and the ceiling.  Of course, my Mother choose that exact moment to walk in the door.

What else can I say?  I had messed up big time but the story had a happy ending.  My Mom helped me clean up the mess, we cooked more spaghetti, this time in a proper pot, and supper was finished in plenty of time for me to bicycle to the airport and see the aircraft on display.  It was magnificent!

                                      ` Photo credited to: Ralph M. Petterson       Airliners.net                                   
                                                                        


 

Beating Old Man Winter

When you have youth on your side and a good automobile, you think that you are invincible and can challenge anything coming your way and come out the winner.  My brother thought so and in the process discovered how formidable an opponent Old Man Winter can be.

Kenneth was a travelling salesman working for Scott National Foods.  His home was in Regina, Saskatchewan but he travelled the length and breadth of that province stocking the shelves of grocers large  and small and the larders  of  restaurants  that  relied on the  products  his  company provided.



A dependable automobile was important in his line of work.  Having worked earlier at a General Motors dealership, he favoured General Motors products, usually a Cadillac.  I cannot say for certain if that was the model of car he had at the time of this story.  Whatever it was, his transportation let him down.

My brother's character also worked against him.  When we were growing up in Edmonton, our mother drummed into us the importance of dressing properly specially during the cold winter months on the Canadian prairies.  This sage advice fell on deaf ears where Kenneth was concerned and he absolutely refused to wear gloves and some type of head gear.  That type of clothing was for old people not the young and able.

What happened was that Old Man Winter caught him unprepared.  He was on a road trip in rural Saskatchewan when a sudden blizzard caught him.  It was bitterly cold and with the accompanying wind chill, a person could not remain exposed to the elements for long and survive.  His car stalled in the snow and he realised that he would have to hoof it for help.  Having only a light topcoat and no gloves or hat, he rifled through his suitcase in desperation..  He pulled out some wool socks to wear on his hands and a terrycloth bathrobe to wrap around his head.  He made it to a nearby farmhouse only to find that nobody was home.  Now what should he do?  He could not return to his car and since the door to the house was unlocked, he considered it an open invitation for him to go inside.  In the kitchen he found a fire burning in the cook stove and surmised that the homeowners would soon return unless they were also caught by the storm.  He put on a kettle to boil water for tea and sat down to wait for them.  Did they get a surprise to find a stranger with a bathrobe wrapped around his head drinking tea in their kitchen.  Kenneth had beaten Old Man Winter and that was all that mattered.

Beauty Everlasting

Flossy was the vainest butterfly that ever lived in my garden.  She never got tired of seeing her reflection in the water of the fish pool as she fluttered across it in search of a sip of sweet nectar from the flowers growing by the pond. Sometimes she even darted close to the house to catch a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass as she passed by.



Her vanity was not unfounded but that did not make it excusable.  She was a marvellous creation - a tiny flying jewel..  When she spread her delicate wings in the sunlight, her multiple colours became wonderfully iridescent.  There was sea blue, teal green, golden yellow, and a tinge of ruby red.  The edges of her wings were trimmed in blue black further enhancing the other colours.

"Don't you think that I am the most beautiful butterfly in the garden," Flossy asked a rather drab moth just passing her by.



"You certainly are, Miss," the moth replied, "but your bright colours make you an easy target for hungry birds so you had better keep alert.  That robin family nesting in the plum tree has three hungry babies."

"Pooh on them," Flossy replied, "I'm not afraid of any old robin.  Besides, they know that I would taste terrible."

Flossy fluttered off but the moth's remark started her thinking.  Even if she didn't get eaten by another creature, she would die one day soon and her beauty would be lost.  She did not want that to happen.

She fluttered over to a bed of blooming day lilies.  Hovering over one of the flowers was her friend Cecil, a dragon fly.  He was almost as beautiful as she was and his gossamer wings made a curious buzzing sound as he hovered.

"Cecil, you have got to help me. A horrible ugly moth reminded me that our lives are short but I want my beauty to last forever.  Is there anything I can do to make it last?"

"Ah, yes," Cecil replied knowingly, "creatures like us don't want our beauty lost to the world.  We are always looking for ways to preserve it.  It just so happens that I might be able to help you.  Go to the little cabin not far from here where an elderly wizard, Louis, lives.  Some people are afraid of him but he is perfectly harmless."

"You mean he works magic?"  Flossy trembled with excitement.  "Goody!  I will have him put a spell on me and I will live forever."

"We---ll," Cecil replied hesitantly, "he works magic but not that kind of magic.  He gets inspiration for his art work from creatures like you and me."

"Thank you, Cecil, you are a real friend."

With that Flossy fluttered off to see the wizard.  She was never seen again but the next time you look at a Tiffany Lamp look closely.  You might see Flossy immortalised in glass.

                                                                            


This story was an assignment from my Writers Circle.  We were to write about  frog, butterfly or rabbit so this post is a little different from my usual real life stories.

The Lavender Lady

I am not sure why I recalled this story but when I was growing up in Edmonton, it was a Christmas  tradition for the Lavender Lady to make her annual appearance in a corner of the cosmetics department of The Hudson Bay Store.  I call her the Lavender Lady because even after many years of seeing her there, I never learnt her name.  She was in the store for one reason alone and that was to sell lavender. ( Back then lavender was popular but nowadays lavender sachets are a bit old fashioned.) Sitting on a high stool and holding sway over a large open basket of dried lavender, she was a presence not easily missed as you walked through the store.

As I remember her, she looked a lot like Helena Rubenstein of cosmetic fame.  She wore a white smock over a multicoloured dress of black, white  and purple.  Her dark black hair was worn pulled back and not a hair out of place.  Her makeup accented her eyes and endowed her with rosy cheeks and crimson lips.  Two huge, faux diamonds glistened in rings on the ring finger of both hands and the crimson colour of her nails matched her lips.  If she was wearing perfume, it was masked by the scent of lavender surrounding her.

She never sold the lavender loose.  The lavender she had in the basket was so you could touch it, pick it up, and hold it close to your nose for a gentle sniff thus making it more likely that you would make a purchase.  She would dip her hands into the lavender and let it run through her jewelled fingers creating an additional burst of scent.

She sold the lavender in small sachets or the more popular little wicker baskets that could be placed in drawers or cupboards to scent their contents.  The baskets could also be displayed on a dresser or hung in a closet.  There were lavender soaps and talcum powders available but those were hardly within the budget of a twelve year old looking to buy a Christmas gift for a mother, sister, or school teacher. A couple of baskets of lavender would do nicely and because the scent was long lasting, it was a gift that would keep on giving for months after Christmas.

I do not actually recall ever purchasing any of the lavender myself but I had a friend who did.  Once he bought four of the little baskets to give to his mother and sister.  After bringing the baskets home and wrapping them up, he had a hard time finding a suitable place to hide them because the scent was so strong and his mother had a good sense of smell.  He solved his problem by hiding them in an old suitcase and slipping it under his bed.

'It's in God's Hands Now'

There are experiences that we go through in life wherein joy is suddenly turned to sorrow.  Our desire to know the reason why these things happen is not always satisfied but they go on to become part of those experiences we want to share with others hence my story.

Such was the occasion of the birth of my only son.  My wife and I eagerly waited for the passage of those long nine months at which time our child  would be born and many questions would be answered.  "Is it a boy or girl?  Who will the baby look like - Mom or Dad?  Which side of the family will the newborn take after? Did we pick the right name?"

Our son was born in a hospital in Discovery, South Africa, a suburb of sprawling Johannesburg.  When he was born, he was grunting and it was decided to place him in an incubator overnight to facilitate his breathing. Unbeknowst to the hospital staff, that incubator had been used by another baby ill with gastroenteritis and had not been properly disinfected.  As a result, our little boy became seriously ill to the point of death.  All the healthy babies in the hospital were sent home and the entire maternity ward of the hospital had to be shut down for cleaning.  Our joy had turned quickly into sorrow.

He only weighed in at five and a half pounds at birth and his weight quickly dropped to below five pounds and heading for four.  Each passing day saw more weight loss and the doctor warned us that if he did not gain weight soon, nothing being done for him could save him.

One of our friends waiting with us in the hospital was a nurse whose name was Ruth.  She suggested that we pray specifically that our son would gain an ounce of weight overnight.  We all had faith in God but we had never had our faith challenged like that before.  Could such a prayer be answered?  The doctor, while sympathetic, cautioned us that, under the circumstances, a weight gain could not possibly happen.  "It's in God's hands now," was the attitude taken as there was nothing more that the doctor could do.  Ruth prayed - we prayed - others prayed and we all waited anxiously for the doctor's report the next morning.  The news was good - our son had gained an ounce overnight!  It marked the turning point in his recovery.

It was a long recovery!  Although he was gaining weight, feeding him proved difficult sometimes taking  two hours to get an ounce of milk into him.  He cried all night and the only way we could get any sleep was to bring him into bed with us.  Then a doctor discovered that it was an umbilical hernia that was causing the problem.  He advised an operation to correct it and from the night of the operation, our baby slept through.  Soon he was a healthy and happy little boy for whom we are thankful not only to God but also to the doctors that ministered to him.

   

one year old

The Day a Mountain Exploded

On the Island of St. Vincent, W.I., at about 5:00 A.M. on Good Friday, April 13, 1979, I was awakened by a disturbance in the chicken coop at the bottom of the garden.  I thought a mongoose was after my chickens and so I got dressed and hurried down to investigate.  The chickens were frightened by something but it was not a mongoose.  I looked up at the sky and saw a huge, black, mushroom shaped cloud churning menacingly upward over the entire Island.  At that moment, my wife shouted down to me from the bedroom window that the radio was annoucing that the Island's volcano, 4000 ft. Mt. Soufriere, was erupting.  The chickens had been frightened by the tremor caused when the top of the mountain exploded in a deadly plume of hot gases, ash, and molten rock.

The eruption caused a panic across the island.  People were quickly evacuated from the sparsely populated north to the south.  Doom-sayers  made much of the fact that it was Friday the 13th and they were certain that doom was going to strike and there was nothing one could do to avert it.  The rumor mill soon made it known that the island was going to break into pieces and sink into the sea taking with it all the inhabitants.

Where does one go to escape an erupting volcano when you are living on an island that is only 130 sq. miles in size.  Where indeed!  The airport was the first choice but it was soon impossible to get a seat on any plane leaving the island.  The Grenadines, a chain of 32 small islands belonging to St. Vincent offered a way of escape if you knew people living on them.  The larger ones, Bequia, Mustique, Canaouan and Union soon had every bed and breakfast or larger tourist accomodations fully occupied.  For those not having a place to flee to, it was a tense waiting game.

A second eruption happened that same day, two more on April 14th, and then increasingly smaller eruptions on the 17th, 22nd, and 25th of the month.  Mercifully, no lives were lost but the north end of the island was devastated.  What saved the day for the south was the trade winds blowing most of the ash out to sea and the molten lava flow running down the west flank of the mountain into the ocean instead of inland.

The last major eruption on April 25th affected the south end of the island was well as the north.  There were no trade winds blowing that night.  It was midnight and we heard the 'boom' of the eruption and felt the house tremble as the mountain roared to life for one last blast.  We could hear the sound of cinders ( reminded me of hailstones) falling on the tin roof and we began to be apprehensive that what the people had been fearing most was about to happen.

At daybreak, we opened our windows and dared to look out.  There was not a blade of green grass to be seen. The roofs of the houses, the roads, and the gardens were covered in a thick layer of gray ash.  In the air was the smell of burning sulphur.  When we turned on the tap to get water for making a much needed cup of tea, the water coming out was black.

About a month later, we drove up north to view the damage.  We knew people living in Chateaubelair just  a few miles south of Soufriere.  The further north we drove, we began to see what the hot gases from the volcano had done to the vegetation.  Tall, stately coconut palms were bent over double from the heat.  The leaves of the banana trees had turned black as if they had been hit by a killer frost.  Nutmeg and clove trees lost their leaves but eventually recovered to produce once more their valuable spices.  It was a economic disaster for St. Vincent since they depended heavily on the export of their bananas.  However, there was a silver lining in the dark cloud hanging over the island: volcanic ash is a marvellous fertilizer and a year later that ash revitalized the crops on the entire island. 

Mild volcanic activity continued for about five months before Soufriere (sulphur in French) went dormant again.  I still have a vial of ash and a rock the size of a clenched fist as souvenirs from that day which Vincentians now call  Black Friday!

View of Mt. Soufriere

Credit: picture and map from Wikipedia

Becoming a Grandpa

As a parent, there were two things that I resolved not to do to my adult children.  The first was never to follow them around with a marriage license urging them to get married and the second was not to bug them afterwards about having children so that I could have a grandchild.  Having witnessed the result of parents doing so, the resentment it causes is never worth it.  I figure, that when they are ready to make those important decisions they might ask for advice but still make those decisions without any pressure from me.  Well, one of my children married but the other has not yet and in due course, I became a grandpa.

Without giving much thought as to when I would become a grandpa, I did wonder what kind of a grandfather I would be largely based upon my childhood experience.  My Dad's father I never knew existed until the day he showed up at our door to attend my Father's fifthieth birthday party.  Grandpa turned out to be a tiny, frail, old man already suffering from the debilitating effects of dementia.  His family never mentioned him the reason being that he had deserted them years earlier leaving them in difficult circumstances.  All that I remember him saying that night was,  "It is so good to be here!"  My other Grandpa, my Mother's father, I knew to be a bitter person largely due to some terrible tragedies he had experienced in life.  That may explain but not excuse the mean streak in him that caused him to play tricks on his grandchildren and then laugh at their childish gullibility.  Once, he sent me to the corner store to buy him some 'krumbumboli', a drink that never was, and then scolded me when I returned home empty handed.  These were decidely not the best role models.

Being Grandpa, or Opa as I prefer being called, has been a wonderful experience and I am determined to treat my grandchildren with love and respect no matter how young or old they might be. I can only hope that they will treat me the same way but it will be up to them to decide what kind of Opa I was to them.  If I can brighten their day, instruct them when it is mine to instruct, give them little surprises now and then, and help them in some way into becoming responsible adults, then I will have succeeded.

I still remember clearly the day my first grandchild, Gabriel, was born.  That middle of January day was dark, cold, and rainy.  We spent the whole night in the hospital but it was not until late afternoon the next day that Gabriel put in his appearance.  I can still see his Papa dressed in a green hospital gown holding his son for the first time.  Gabriel was wrapped in yellow and white receiving blankets and wearing a cap that made him look like a tiny smurf.  His eyes were dazzled by the bright lights in the recovery room and I am sure he was wondering what happened to him after being in the darkness of the womb for nine months.

What has blessed me in addition to being a grandpa is my son's love for his boys. He always told me when he was growing up that he didn't like children but I put that down to the inexperience of youth.  Gabriel, and later his brother Jacob, changed all that!

                                                                                       

Darryl and Gabriel (one hour old).

  Gabriel (one day old),

      Proud Opa and Gabriel

 Jacob and Gabriel now

    

 Gabriel and Jacob

(Puddles are meant for stompin'.)

                                         

                             

                                  

 Opa doing what Opa does best -  reading stories

The Strong, Silent Type

My Dad, Albert Kirsch, was raised on a farm in Springside, Saskatchewan just a few miles from Yorkton.  The German language was spoken in the home but Dad and his brothers and sisters were fully bilingual as they attended The White Sands Public School where English was the language of instruction.

Dad was a tall person of average build and always wore his hair combed straight back.  He depended upon my Mother to select his clothing which was ultra conservative meaning no jeans or bright patterns or colours.  He was not one to often voice his opinion but perhaps this was because his spouse willingly adopted that role.

The one thing that got his ire up enough for him to express himself was wasteful government spending. In his day, costly Royal Commissions were used to uncover wrongdoings of the government.  About these he would say, "It's only going to cost $100,000 to get to the bottom of it."  His emphasis was always on the word 'only'.  Today the same type of Royal Commission costs millions of dollars. 

The only time I ever heard him express a point of view that gave any insight into his personality was on the occasion of a wedding both parents attended.  The groom, a burly policeman, fainted during the ceremony and had to be taken into a back room in the church to be revived and then brought back into the sanctuary.  Concerning the groom's plight, my Dad observed, "When I saw the bride, and if I was the groom, I would have fainted too."

The follies of youth did not pass my Father by.  When he was sixteen, he was helping with the harvest on a neighbour's farm.  Becoming hot and thirsty, he went looking for some water to drink.  Finding a pail half full of a cold, clear liquid, thinking it was water, he drank some and discovered that it was moonshine.  He did not remember how much he drank but they found him lying next to a fence, passed out, with the pail beside him.

Most of his working days were spent at International Harvester Company, the maker of farm equipment and trucks. Some of the trucks had a design fault in that the ignition switch could suddenly cut out.  Dad invented a mercury switch that he thought would solve the problem.  He went to a patent office in Ottawa hoping to cash in on his invention and he was told that it was useless.  He made the mistake of leaving his invention there and somebody took it and after making a minor change, it did become the solution to the problem.  Dad was bitter over the way he was treated and  he never talked about it to anyone except to my eldest brother who told me the story years later.

I don't believe that my Father ever watched a complete television program.  He was a chanel surfer much to the annoyance of everyone else trying to watch a program.  In the same way, skimming over the pages was how he read books but his favourite author was Robert Frost.  Dad loved to quote from Frost's poem,  The Cremation of Sam Magee.  That poem created in Dad a fascination for the North that he carried with him all his days.

I would say that my Dad was the strong silent type.  He was a good husband, a good father and a good friend.  He never wore his faith on his sleeve but lived it out day by day in the way he treated others.

Dan                 Edwin              Albert

The Kirsch Brothers

A page from the Whitesands School Yearbook

Dad and his brothers names are on the list.

Mom and Dad Kirsch

(Florence and Albert)

Note:  This story was the result of an assignment in my Writers Circle in which we were to describe a parent.