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.