The Voice of Reason

Another Update

2012-01-02T21:40:00.000-08:00

In the previous post, Susan told you that I've been under the weather; I've been quite ill for eight weeks.

I'll keep the long story short for your sake. I was released from the hospital yesterday to continue my treatment at home. I feel better today after more or less undisturbed sleep, home cooked meals and the peace of our home.

To all of you who wrote, or called to offer your good wishes, your support and your prayers, we say
"Thank You". You've been a great support to us in our difficult time and we love you for it.

Blessings to all of you.

Bruce and Susan

Update

2011-12-30T22:12:00.000-08:00

Thank you for visiting this blog and also his second blog "Caboose Coffee"!

There will be more posts soon but for now Bruce is under the weather and not able to write.
He'll be back soon and sharing his thoughts!

Susan

It Only Takes A Girl To Bring The World A Happy New Year.

2011-12-29T22:22:00.000-08:00

Photo Credit: http://www.dreamstime.com

There are boys and there are girls..., men and boys; all fellow humans, born of a common mother who walk the same path. We need each other like the forest needs the rain. But the truth of the matter is that we won't accept each other, men and women, boys and girls..., as equals. We don't allow ourselves to be taught that while we are so obviously different in a great many ways, we are also equal in a great many other ways as well.

As the population of our world closes in on a saturation point, we find that we are having to live closer and closer to each other. National borders are being opened up to newcomers as the lands they leave behind become over populated, or the natural resources they once depended on are becoming scarce. One of the oldest 'sayings' that we remember from those occasions when we sat by our mothers, listening to the wisdom of our ancestors is..."Familiarity breeds contempt." After more than 65 years of witnessing the evidence of this, and other sayings from antiquity, I do concur that familiarity "can" breed contempt, but only if it is accompanied by a lack of understanding, a lack of compassion and a lack of love.

If we are going to survive our own ineptitude; if we are to preserve the only planet we have on which to live, we must make a beginning. The easiest place to begin our voyage of discovery just might be in our own heart.

Please, take the time to watch the video message below by clicking on the link below.
Then, watch it again. Open your heart up to the message it offers, for if you do, it will be the beginning of change..., a change our world and every living thing in it needs today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwEhKu3T51Q&feature=share

May the bright star of Hope shine in your hearts throughout the year!

Buying Canadian...Is it worth it?

2011-11-14T10:31:00.000-08:00

At times, I've railed about "Canadian" issues, more specifically, the question of what it means to be a Canadian.

Photo courtesy of Canadian Flag Clip Art Gallery

"Why should this matter?", you might ask. Well, I think it does matter. It's really quite simple... if we don't learn how to take care of ourselves, rather than look to others to do the job for us, we will become nothing more than 'milk cows' to serve and support those to whom we've given our right to independence, to security, to self-sufficiency.

Yes, you may continue to live your lives in the manner you've become accustomed to but, stop for a moment and consider the price that must be paid. When we opt to purchase foreign-made goods at a lower price simply because they are less expensive, consider the hidden cost that's not reflected in the price sticker. When you purchase an item that is manufactured 'off-shore', you are supporting the economy of that country and depleting the economy of your own country.

Normally, I don't read those "forwarded" messages, appeals, 'get happy' things and others of the same ilk.
Like you, I tolerate them because someone I know has taken the time to add me to their "BCC" list and....obviously, they must believe that the content of the forwarded content has some value or substance in the body of the message. But they invariably end up in my "deleted' folder.

The following is from an email that a friend sent to me today.

A physics teacher in high school, once told the students:
That while one grasshopper on the railroad tracks wouldn't
Slow a train very much, a billion of them would.
With that thought in mind, read the following, obviously
Written by a good Canadian:

Shopping in Lowe's the other day for some reason and just for the fun of it I was looking at the hose attachments .
They were all made in China . The next day I was in Home Hardware and just for the fun of it I checked the hose attachments there. They were made in Canada!

Start looking........

In our current economic situation, every little thing we buy or do affects someone else - even their job.

A quote from a consumer:...my grandson likes Hershey's candy. I noticed, though, that it is marked "made in Mexico".

I do not buy it any more.

My favourite toothpaste, Colgate, is made in Mexico now. I have switched to Crest. You have to read the labels on everything.

This past weekend I was at Wal-Mart. I needed 60W light bulbs. I was in the light bulb aisle, and right next to the GE brand I normally buy was an off-brand labelled, "Everyday Value". I picked up both types of bulbs and compared the stats - they were the same except for the price.

The GE bulbs were more money than the Everyday Value brand but the thing that surprised me the most was the fact that GE was made in MEXICO and the Everyday Value brand was made in - get ready for this - Canada at a company in Ontario . Their Equate Products are also made in Canada, and are very good.

Just to add my own experience on buying Made In Canada, I was looking for canned mushrooms that were made in Canada and could never find any, so I would buy fresh.
But a miracle happened, when in our Foodland store I found Ravine mushrooms - made in Canada with a little red maple leaf on can. A little more money but when I opened the can I looked at mushrooms that look like real mushrooms, not a mushroom that looks like it was cleaned in bleach.

Another product I no longer buy is Del Monte or Dole canned Fruit. Del Monte is packaged in Taiwan and Dole is now a product of China.

Why should we pay for their fruit when our growers are left with fruit rotting on the trees. E.D. Smith is still made in Canada buy their's, at least you will know what is in it and have some quality control.

So throw out the myth that you can not find products you use every day that are made right here .

My challenge to you is to start reading the labels when you shop for everyday things and see what you can find that is made in Canada . The job you save may be your own or your neighbour's'! (Your children & grandchildren, also)

If you accept this challenge, pass it on to others in your address book so we can all start buying Canadian, one light bulb at a time! Stop buying from overseas companies! Accepting this challenge doesn't have to be viewed as 'just another task' you have to perform. Consider it a "fun" thing to do. When you shop, ask questions of the store staff, ask questions of the suppliers, ask questions of yourself. How can you help put Canada back on the map as a self-sufficient country of strong-willed citizens?

(We should have awakened two decades ago.)

Let's get with the program. Help our fellow Canadians keep their jobs and create more jobs here in Canada.

If President Obama insists on a 'Made in America' policy, which is commendable of him, to support American workers, we should do likewise.

BUY CANADIAN! Read the labels. Support Canadian jobs.

If all you do for the rest of your life is help to 'save your country', make a game of it and have some fun shopping.

Swimming With The Fishes

2011-10-08T16:39:00.000-07:00

In 1988 my wife and I moved onto our fifty four foot twin-diesel powered cruiser to experience the "live-aboard lifestyle".

The Shelley Ann II was a large boat at 54 feet in length, 15 feet wide and weighing in at an even 80,000 pounds, or 40 tons. She had much of what you might need to live off the grid; large built-in deep freeze, full size laundry, small fridge, stove, diesel generator, lots of warm, dry stowage in the bilges and all of the electronics needed to get around in coastal waters.

To complete the experience, we were invited to join the crew of a thirty four foot racing sailboat. In for a penny, in for a pound, we said. We obtained certification with the Canadian Power and Sail Squadron and got involved in other marine oriented activities.

DASH 34 Photographer unknown I've raced against this boat...They won!

Enter one sailing friend who had an idea that he would develop a "Rescue Harness" for sailors. The necessity for a rescue harness has long been apparent to sailors who have fallen overboard, or who have been left onboard a sailboat while one of their crew have fallen overboard. Sailboats other than "day sailers", that are designed for open water are built with lots of freeboard, meaning that the point where the hull meets the deck is a long way from the water. You see, sailboats that are proceeding under sail tend to lean heavily in the direction away from the wind....unless something very bad is happening! If the boat was built with very little freeboard, and the vessel was heeling under sail, the rail would be so far under water that the cockpit would fill and this would slow the boat down considerably. On many vessels, this would also cause the cabin to fill with water and this too would add to the vessel's loss of speed. It would only get worse from there.
The problem?? When someone is in the water, all soggy and grumpy, they are at a disadvantage; they are so low in the water that they can't reach the edge of the deck, and if they could, they would be too heavy to pull themselves out and into the boat. What to do?

So the idea of a Rescue Harness sounded like a good thing to offer assistance with.

A prototype was built and the decision was made to test it under real conditions on the ocean. Plans were made to cast off from Point Roberts, Washington.

Point Roberts is actually a little piece of British Columbia that was stolen from us when the 49th parallel was established as the dividing line between Canada and the USA. Fortunately, the cartographers jiggled their pencils a bit and Canada ended up with all of Vancouver Island and all of Ontario. Good for us, eh?

A small group of men and women, including my wife, Susan and me were on board a 28 foot sail boat that was being skippered by a ninety eight pound woman who had no sailing experience whatsoever! Wait!!! That was part of the plan! The scenario that the team intended to portray was one where a couple are out sailing and the one experienced person....the man, falls overboard, leaving the woman alone and faced with a difficult rescue.
So, under the master plan, the man is in the water and the woman must find a way to drop all the sails, start the engine and bring the boat to a place that is near the man, but not on top of him. We want to rescue him alive, don't we?

Now here's where the rescue harness comes into play. In order for you to visualize this thing, I have to describe it to you. It's basically a horse shoe shaped flotation device to which a three point harness has been sewn, using heavily waxed, stout thread. With two of the three points sewn to the ends of the horseshoe, the third point has a three inch stainless steel ring similarly attached. A strong snap and swivel is attached to a hundred feet or so of polypropylene rope, which floats. The snap and swivel is clipped onto the stainless steel ring and the whole apparatus is stored on the transom, or stern of the vessel along with the "man overboard pole" which holds a water activated light, a tall mast and a flag.

In a perfect world, the ninety eight pound lady will, as soon as the man falls overboard, free the man overboard pole, quickly figure out how to lower and stow all the sails, start up the motor
and come about. (Sailor talk for "turn the boat around") Once she gets near the water logged man, she is to throw the rescue harness into the water, hanging on to the bitter end. (again sailor speak, meaning the 'loose end' of the rope)

Now she begins a long slow turn that will take the boat in circles around the now PO'd because it's taking so long man in the water. This circling motion will bring the rescue harness, which is floating, by the way...ever closer to the coughing, choking victim. With his last gasp, he reaches for the rescue harness and puts it over his head, and lifts his arms through the three point harness, he relaxes, knowing that he's in good hands now.

The ninety eight pounder in the cockpit of the vessel now quickly and carefully wraps the bitter end...remember the bitter end???? around the drum on the winch, fits the handle in and begins to grind like heck. (Grind.... more sailor speak. Figure it out)

Now, when she's reeled him in and he's up to the side of the boat, she can either negotiate with him (she'll never get a better opportunity than this) or she can feed the bitter end, oh, just go with it.... through the spare pulley on the end of the boom. Pushing the boom as far out over the side as she can, she will then wrap the polypropylene rope onto the winch (that's WINCH, boys) and grind until the nearly drowned victim is rising out of the water. She will then, using the winch again...NO, THE OTHER WINCH!!! slowly lift the end of the boom and swing the boom and the man...into the boat. Done Deal!

Now here's where I come in. The camera crew, yep....camera crew needed a volunteer to jump into the ocean. They already had a ninety eight pounder with no experience and needed one more for the test.

Somehow, my hand was holding onto the halyard and my arm was raised and I found myself crawling into a survival suit. (No sense taking any unnecessary chances). Survival suits, also known as Immersion Suits and sometimes Gumby Suits are now mandatory for each person on board, and this is good....but not if you're a 'fashion plate'. Like the camera, they can make you look like you're carrying ten extra pounds ... per each inch of height. In the mid 80's when this little adventure took place, the Gumby suit that was provided for me was made of black, medium density foam rubber. When it was wet, it looked like, well.....wet rubber or, perhaps a wet seal.

Over the side I went, and off into the sunset went the boat, the ninety eight pound inexperienced woman, my wife and six or seven others along with the hot chocolate and the camera crew.

Being in the ocean in March, one might expect the water to be cold and this to be an uncomfortable experience. But it wasn't actually. I was quite warm and it was nice to be able to float freely like that and not have to paddle like crazy just to keep my nostrils above water. Even the little trickle of icy cold sea water that was creeping down my back ... inside the suit, wasn't that bad. After all, I was going to be back inside the boat sipping on hot chocolate very soon.

I lay there on the Pacific Ocean, bobbing up and down, just a little while I watched the boat sailing away from me. It kept sailing away from me until I watched it go "hull down" beyond the horizon. Now I was watching the mast get shorter by the minute.

Then it dawned on me! They might have a little difficulty finding me. I didn't have a light with me; I didn't have a marine radio with me and no flag either. Heck, I didn't even have any matches!!!!

Oh happy day... Here they come. The sails are down and they're under power too! They're conduction a zig-zag search pattern and heading in my general direction... Smart, is what they are.

I could see the hull of the boat now. Soon they would be within "hailing" range and we could get on with the rescue. I began to wave both arms, but soon they stopped the boat and several people were up on the cabin top with binoculars looking for me. They were looking in the wrong direction, but at least they were looking.

Then, I heard it. A 'whooshing' sound....then another and another! It was coming from behind me and I didn't need to turn around to know what it was. I had been to the Vancouver Aquarium before....I knew what this was. And, here I was bobbing around in the ocean, looking ever so much like a seal!!! Be still, I said to myself. Pull yourself up into a ball and try not to look like lunch.

Photographer unknown

In a moment, a small pod of about five Killer Whales swam past me, not fifty feet away. They weren't in a hurry, and they tumbled in the water like porpoises. They all swam by and....wait....one of them...the largest one, turned and came back. Swimming straight toward me, I found myself thinking that the reason that there were no recorded Killer Whale attacks on humans in the wild is because no one had lived to tell about it.

I froze.

Photographer/source unknown

When it was twenty feet in front of me, it dove. I watched the water in front of me and below me in a sort of curious anticipation. The water below me was a mix of sea water, which is clear and dark and water from the Fraser river, which is brown and milky at this time of year. This created an opaque, milky green sea in which I was intruding on the whale and his pod in their environment. I watched as the whale passed slowly beneath me at about twelve feet of depth. It continued on by me and surfaced behind me.

I waited for it.

The great whale exhaled sharply and inhaled almost at the same moment. Then it began to dig into the water with its tail. Powerfully, it passed by me on my right and hurried to rejoin the pod.

Photographer not known

I lay in the water thinking about the events of the last half hour; about my ridiculous act of bravado in jumping into the ocean to promote someone else's product; about putting my life in the hands of others in a place where Mother Nature has all the cards in the deck above a three; and lastly about the wonderful experience I had just had with a pod of Killer Whales and its Patriarch, as majestic giant who came to me and meant me no harm.

As the boat came near, all aboard except Susan, my loving wife were exclaiming how unfortunate it was that I had missed seeing the pod of Killer Whales. Susan held out a cup of hot chocolate for me even before I had the surival suit off. Kinda warms your heart, doesn't it?

Banging on the same old drum...Canadian Independance

2011-09-21T19:02:00.000-07:00

The International Monetary Fund, or IMF has issued a 'warning' (read ... concern) that Canada's sense of security related to the global health of the world's economy might be a bit overstated. Actually, the IMF came out with some numbers which indicate that Canada's economy is slipping and there is a danger that Canadians could find themselves drawn into a deepening financial despair that we might not be prepared for.

Despite what the Conservatives say about their stellar record in job creation, unemployment numbers are "UP" in Canada; savings are at an all-time low and, for the first time in our history ... Canadians owe more money than they have; one dollar and forty some cents for every dollar earned. And when employment levels are as low as they are, Canadians can not create enough money to get out of debt. This means that a great number of Canadians are less than two weeks away from bankruptcy should they lose their job or be faced with a sudden situation such as a medical emergency, accident, uninsured calamity or room on their credit cards that, if not spent will burn a hole in that brand new purse or wallet.

A couple of things have been weighing heavily on my mind lately, and I'm speaking as a Canadian here. And in order to clarify for you just what that means to me, I'll take a moment away from the point of this post to explain what I think it means to me to be Canadian. Actually, this will accentuate the entire gist of this post, so please stay with me. After all....it's only for 90 seconds or so.

Many people living in Canada have a rather myopic, or short sighted view of what it means to be Canadian. Theirs is an existence of privileged expectation that their needs will be met by whatever means necessary, and whomever it is that they deem is responsible for those needs. Case in point.... Health Care, Education, Child Care, Dignified Care of the Elderly, Justice, Disaster Relief, solid infrastructure i.e. sewage,roads, bridges power and water, Police and Military protection, etc. Add to this, the expectation that they may live their lives any way they see fit (or unfit, as the case may be) and they will be guaranteed a comfortable retirement upon reaching that stage of their lives. This places responsibility for much of the above in the hands of others, and usually the "others" referred to are the government, be it Federal, Provincial, Regional, Municipal...etc. And where does "the government" get the money to provide all of the above???? Taxes. Yes, my Republican friends.....TAXES! Sorry, I digress.

Many others who live and work in Canada take a slightly different view of Canadian Citizenship. Yes, I capitalize the word "citizenship" when used with the term "Canadian" because that is how I feel about being Canadian.

Their position is one of hard work and unselfish contribution. They work hard to build a strong foundation for themselves, their families, their communities and their country. They understand that, to be strong, to be secure, the country itself needs to be strong and secure as well. The fruit of their labor, and their contribution to society makes it strong. They give of themselves, volunteer their time and pay their taxes.

In short, they invest in their community and, by extension... their country.

As I pointed out in my opening paragraph, there's trouble brewing in our economy and we need to take note of it. Yes, you've been hearing it on the radio and on the TV too, It's been in all the newspapers and magazines. And...a lot of us have felt it in our lives.... "times are tough".

If you have a job, how secure is it? Do you have sufficient money put away that will pay ALL of your bills for at least ninety days? What??? You've never given it any thought??? Think about it now. If your total monthly expenditures came to ... say, two thousand dollars, could you afford to continue living where you are, and in the manner you are for one month past your last pay check? I thought so. If you lost your sole source of income next week and couldn't find a job, (remember what the IMF said about the job numbers in Canada?) how long could you last? Far too many people in this country would be seriously considering asking the government for help and finding there was precious little to be offered. If you could get Employment Insurance or some other form of temporary assistance, that will give you some breathing room, but it will not likely pay all of your normal expenses. Beyond that...and assuming that you've been unable to find a good paying job, there's Orderly Payment of Debt (OPD) and Bankruptcy. Neither of these options will get you a job. They will simply take away most of your debt.

If you'll recall, I've mentioned that the government plays a role in all of this. Let's take a simplified look at that role. Simplified, because I'm a simple man and not because you're a simple reader...not at all.

In our society, everyone pays taxes one way or another; perhaps even First Nations folks do. Certainly we find that even the dead have to pay taxes, so don't feel that you're hard done by while you walk among the living. We pay taxes into every conceivable level of government so that the services and infrastructure we have come to expect, even demand are all in place and kept in good order. Having high expectations of our elected officers, we anticipate that the money that we entrust to them will be handled judiciously, will be spent wisely and will be respected as the fruit of our labour. After all, it is because of us, the voters that they have jobs in the halls of power. We have given them employment that ensures they can not be laid off.

Assuming that we've done our part, can we assume that our politicians are doing theirs? (Here he goes on another anti-Harper rant) No...actually, I'm not. This time, I'm going to talk to you...us...me...

In previous posts, I've talked about "buying Canadian" and "self-sufficiency". I've lamented the loss of the strength of the Canadian manufacturing community, the loss of control over our own resources, our water, forests, trade and even our sovereignty in some key areas. We depend on the vagaries of the International Markets for nearly everything we consume, from the food on our tables (Mexican, Californian, South American, Asian) to the clothes on our backs (China, India and Tilley_Endurables - Made in Canada, you say!).

Do we find our governments shopping at home? No. When we need new ferries for the BC ferry fleet, we buy them in Europe,or Scandinavia. We even hire a top executive for BC Ferry Corp. from the US job market. CNRail has done the same thing. CN didn't go to Bombardier (formerly Montreal Locomotive Works) for locomotives; it went to General Motors and General Electric of the US. When new aircraft are needed for our military, do we buy Canadian? No...well, we can't buy Canadian military aircraft because John Diefenbaker's Conservative government shut down AVRO Aircraft mfg. over fifty years ago when AVRO had just created the world's foremost fighter-interceptor-bomber ever made. Even by today's standards, the AVRO ARROW could still hold it's own against anything any foreign power could put up against it. This is assuming, of course that the ARROW was equipped with the latest in Canadian weaponry which would have been developed had AVRO not been destroyed by our own government.

OK...let's take this down a notch or two. We don't really need a strong military presence anyway. With one of the longest coastlines in the world, we could do with a stronger Coast Guard presence rather than a force that we have to support on the other side of the world. We shouldn't be encouraging bullies like the USA to engage in global conflict over such smoke and mirror issues like the demand for oil and calling it the democratization of a dictator-ruled country.

If Canada were to spend less on military and more on coast guard, more on small business and Canadian-based manufacturing, more on inter-provincial trade and less on free trade with third world countries that have oil reserves, we would be better able to stand on our own two feet (70 million or so, actually) regardless of what the global economy is doing. Instead, we're passing legislation (City of Duncan, BC) that allows home-owners (taxpayers) to raise a few chickens in their yards, as long as they don't keep a rooster). Our governments are allowing Free Trade to dictate the price of our own natural resources so that the US controlled companies who own the rights to these resources can charge us the same rate at that charged to their customers in areas where these resources are not naturally available.

So where's the lament, you say? Well, once again....I implore you to

Buy Canadian
Support local businesses
Work hard
Save some money from every pay check, no matter how much it hurts, and
Encourage your government to do the same.

Oh, by the way....The New Harper Government.... aka the same old same old Conservatives.... announced yesterday that they've hired a private company at a cost of more than nineteen million dollars to advise the government on how they can reduce spending. And on the same day....the same conservative government announced that they would allow the National Aviation Museum to close because they need nineteen million dollars to upgrade the historic hanger in which the museum is housed. It was in this building that some of Canada's greatest aviation achievements were created..., for example, the Tiger Moth, a WWI fighter, the AVRO Arrow of which I spoke earlier in this post and many other fantastic innovations that CANADIANS built....from the ground up.

This speaks to Harper's true feelings about Canada and Canadians. If it's "Made In Canada", its memory is to be forgotten.

Jack

2011-08-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

At 04:45 EDT today, Jack Layton, husband, father, grandfather, Leader of the New Democratic Party of Canada and Leader of Her Majesty's Official Opposition in Canada's House of Commons ... died peacefully at age 61.

Canadians, across all boundaries sat with their morning coffee in stunned silence, shocked and saddened. In Duncan, BC we awoke to grey skies and softly falling rain. Distant thunder rolled through the mountains and valleys as the tv news channels informed us that "Jack" had died, his family at his side.

For the first time in the history of Canadian politics, a Leader had captured the social conscience of a great number of Canadians. In fact, he may have had that affect on a "majority" of Canadians, even those who chose not to vote for him or his party in the last election. Jack played fair in everything and his name will never be associated with political chicanery, deceit or unethical practice. Jack walked the high road with pride, and Canadians by the thousands chose to walk with him.

Jack was our Pied Piper. He played many instruments, but the sweetest sound could be heard in his words.

"My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.

All my very best,"

Jack Layton

You can read all of Jack's letter to Canadians here

Gone, but not forgotten.

Jack.... you will be missed

New Blog. Just Railroad Stories

2011-08-02T18:57:00.000-07:00

Recently, I joined an e-list that is railroad oriented and represents men and women who are retired, currently employed by a railroad, or are directly involved in contracting to, or providing services for a railroad somewhere in the world.

I've been enjoying the exchange of photographs, information and points of view that each member has to offer. I've been filling in with stories about how things work on the railroad. Stories that relate a side of railroading that most people can never know because they did not have an opportunity to experience what I have as a 'boots on the ground' railroader.

The members have been giving me encouragement to write the stories in a format that can be shared with many more people than our e-list can reach. So...I've launched another blog that will focus on railroad stories only. I'll include stories that will help my readers understand the evolution of railroad's work forces as well as the evolution of technology and market-driven decisions that affect everyone.

The new blog is called "Caboose Coffee". Please click on the link (Caboose Coffee) to see the new blog. Bear in mind, I just set it up today with lots of assistance from my wife, Susan who has been nudging me for years to write the stories I've been sharing with her. My aunt Emily and my mother also have been incredibly supportive along with a number of others. Linda....it's also because of your encouragement that I'm doing this, so remember....you asked for it!

Vancouver Riot - 2011

2011-06-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

I find the behaviour demonstrated by so many of the people who came to the streets of Vancouver for game 7 of the Canucks/Bruins Stanley Cup finals absolutely disgusting. This display of civil belligerence blackens the reputation that Vancouver and all of British Columbia has spent so many years and untold resources creating. Vancouver is a beautiful city and BC a beautiful province. As in every corner of Canada, the people generally speaking are gentle, kind and considerate. This does not, however overcome the negative effect created by the lack of discipline that so many of our (mainly) young people continue to demonstrate. British Columbia and in particular, the Lower Mainland (Greater Vancouver) is treated more as a vacation destination rather than a place for its citizens to live, work and raise their families.

This ‘vacationland’ attitude is promulgated primarily by political and business interests, for obvious reasons and is taken advantage of by the simple-minded folk who turn out en-mass at events like Wednesday, June 15th 2011 Stanley Cup Final.

It’s common knowledge, and has been for millennia that when large numbers of human beings are called to a central point and fed high levels of excitement … those numbers will become uncontrollable. With this knowledge being readily available to Vancouver’s Mayor and Police Chief, why then was this atrocious demonstration of civil disobedience allowed to get started? Tens of thousands of British Columbians must be thinking that Police, and even Military forces should have been on hand nearby to be called in to quickly control the inevitable reaction by the undisciplined to the terrible performance of the Vancouver Canucks in the seven games of the Stanley Cup Finals. Was nothing learned by

See the official report that was promulgated following the 1994 Vancouver Riot. (Robert Whitelaw)
http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/story/2011/06/16/bc-vancouver-riot-whitelaw-1994-report.html
I am ashamed for Vancouver, ashamed for British Columbia and for Canada. Mayor Gregor Robertson and the Vancouver Police Chief Jim Chu should accept full responsibility for this disgrace, and perhaps even resign, for their role in this riot cannot be denied.

Bruce Harvey
Duncan, BC

The Caves of Capreol...revisited.

2011-05-23T19:23:00.000-07:00

Today, I received an email from "anonymous" from Capreol, my home town of so many years ago. Anonymous wanted to know if there was any truth to the rumour that there are 'caves' hidden in the woods somewhere around Capreol and I want to say ... absolutely, there are! Well, not caves exactly, but there is a rocky uprising in the bush that forms a cliff and there are very large slabs of rock that are piled on top of each other forming cavities inside, under and around this piles of rock.

My memories of this magical place are those of a child, as I was about 10 or 11 years old when I was last there and I'm much older than that now. The fact that I was only four feet tall at the time would cause me to seem to exaggerate when it comes to the size of these slabs of rock, as well as the size of the 'rooms' that exist beneath them. Also, my memory is not clear enough to be able to tell you exactly how to find "the caves", but I can point you in the general direction.

In 1954, my Aunt Shirley Dasti gave me her two-wheeled bicycle...my first bike. It was old and it was a girls bike, but most striking of all was the fact that it had balloon tires and a frame that would knock a tank off the road. It took a substantial effort for my little legs to get that bike in motion, but once moving, it would go anywhere...and it did.

The photo above shows 8 year old Bruce Harvey riding his aunt Shirley's bike. My dad has only just let go of the bike, allowing me to fly down the road for the first time...my solo, caught on film. How about that??? The road, by the way is Vaughn street. The house in the background is Tom Rupert's house and it sat on the corner of Vaughn and Chapman streets. The young fellow in the foreground is probably Mike Corrigan. Mike and I spent a lot of time playing together around Capreol's east side.

I rode Aunt Shirley's bike to a great many destinations within a couple of hours ride of my house on Vaughn Street. I rode to Ella Lake, First Creek and Second Creek, Green Lake, Suez gravel pit, Hanmer store, Mud Lake and Milnet. One of my favourite places to go fishing was Mud Lake. Now, this is what it was called in the '50's, and it may have a different name today, but when I was heading out the door with my fishing rod, my lunch and my dog, Roxy...I left a note on the table telling my mom that we were going to Mud Lake.

One day, I was looking through my parents' family photo album and came across the picture you see below. I didn't recognize the scene, so I asked my dad who the kids in the photo might be and where the picture was taken. He told me that the two boys were himself and his brother John, and the picture was taken at "the caves" in 1928 when my dad was 10 years old and my uncle John was just a couple of years older.

Now, at this point, my dad might have chosen to tell me that he didn't know where the picture was taken. He might have figured that if I didn't know about "the caves", I would never find them, thus reducing the risk that I might get seriously injured climbing around on these rocks. Instead, he told me that he would take me out one day soon and show me how to find them and how to climb into them.

He kept his promise and "the caves" became one of my favourite places to hide out.

If you look at the picture carefully, you'll see a 'slash' through the trees at the left edge of the photo...that is Selwood Road at a point that is South, I think, of Mud Lake, about a mile short of the lake.

A note to "Anonymous"... I know you're going to want to find these caves and explore them, so I'm bound to give you a friendly warning. Once you find the location, there are three ways into the 'rooms'. One from the top of the cliff; one from the base of the cliff and one from the north side. Each will present a mildly challenging approach, but it's not the climb in or out that one may find troublesome. It's the interior of the rooms. I found a large amount of dried pack-rat dung and mummified animals inside the rooms. When you're inside, check your footing carefully until you're sure of the cave floors.

I'm not sure why I included the photo below...except that it says so much about my childhood in the hills around Capreol. From the right ... Mike Corrigan, Roxy and me. Thanks again for the picture, Mike....

Stephen Harper caught on film at "Massage Parlour" discussing his experience with a UFO.

2011-04-30T10:15:00.000-07:00

Today, an un-named (alleged) Toronto Police officer (you know that we can trust ALL of our police officers, right?) has opened his note book to the press (is that legal, or ethical?) to show Canadians what sort of a man Jack Layton really is. Hold on to your hats folks, Jack Layton paid a massage therapist for a back massage many years ago. Yep..., in 1995 (+/-) Mr. Layton visited a "massage parlour". Jack's wife, Olivia Chow has told the press that there was nothing amiss in her husband's back treatment. She also stated that there have been eight elections since that visit and there has never been an issue surrounding this health treatment. Yes....I said "Health Treatment"! Did you know that your publicly funded Health Care Program will pay for you to have "Massage Therapy"? Yes, it's used to reduce stress, to release inflammation that affects muscle and connective tissues in our bodies so that we can begin the healing process after an injury.

Should Massage Therapy be outlawed in Canada? If so, would that also cause Physio-Therapy to be tarred with the same brush? Rather than rail against our Public Health Care System, perhaps Harper will just find something "sinful" in each of the areas of health care that are included in the system's coverage. Would Canadian women then have to travel to the USA, or to Quebec for Gynecological treatments? If that were to come to pass, Canadian men sure won't be able to have a Digital Rectal Examination performed by their local doctor.

But you really must decide for yourselves. Please take a couple of minutes and watch your Prime Minister...at least for a few more days... being "massaged". And....at the very end of this video of Stephen Harper is heard talking with his "massage therapist", aka, 'handler' who tries to ensure that the PM says what his other 'handlers' want him to say). He admits that he wants to RAISE TAXES, but will do it without actually mentioning the term "raising taxes". Our Mr. Harper is soooooo clever, isn't he?

And then, as the camera is being shut down....you will hear him talk about his experience with a UFO!!! This is good stuff.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dhlMiCtrr84&feature=player_embedded

There are only a few days remaining folks ... Don't you think that all of the 'far-right thinking' people you know should view this video before they head to the polls to vote?

Oh, if you don't understand where to find the connection between Jack Layton's massage and Stephen Harper's massage, try to recall what Harper did to ex Leader of the Official Opposition Stephan Dion, when Stephan stumbled on a sentence during an interview on CTV News. Harper certainly doesn't want anything like that to happen to him. Too late, I think. Even with the video and sound crew at his side, massaging their boss, he still couldn't get more than one or two sentences out of his mouth without stumbling. Hence, my reference to Harper being "massaged".

Have you looked up the word "Despot" yet? Come on....do your homework!

Another Election Under Our Belts - and we survived intact

2011-04-27T11:12:00.000-07:00

Well, it's finally come to pass... the Conservatives have come away from our most recent election with a clear majority, based on about 40% of the vote. The Teflon Team fooled the heck out of me ... and fully 60% of the population. All the lying, cheating, stealing and skull-buggery of the last 5 years of Conservative minority government didn't seem to phase the Canadian voters. Apparently, Canadians have a pretty mushy interpretation on the Conservative concept of 'getting tough on crime'.

The NDP are the Official Opposition, the Bloq Quebecois have been decimated and the Greens now have an elected seat in the House. Who'da thunk that would happen?

For me, This election had its pros and cons.

On the plus side, the NDP has long deserved an opportunity to show what it can do Federally. Now they too have a mandate to do just that, and Mr. Layton hasn't wasted a minute getting his message out. "We will not be denied", says he. (my words)

Secondly, the Bloq has been all but eliminated from the political landscape, at least for a while even though they might show up under a different banner bearing the same message. It piques me that they have taken so much from the Canadian Treasury in the name of Separatism and given so little in return. Perhaps it's time to re-write the history of the Battle of the Plains of Abraham (Britain defeated French forces in Quebec). If we re-write the story of that battle, letting the French have a victory much like all the other victories in their long and illustrious history of armed warfare, then the Quebecers would have to support the rest of Canada instead of the other way round. Novel idea, don't you think?

And the Liberals??? What of the Liberal Party of Canada? Qu'elle surprise, n'est-ca pas? They have suffered the worst blow in their long and illustrious history. With only 34 seats in the House of Commons, they do not even qualify as Official Opposition. They are in disarray and circling the drain.

Mr. Ignatieff, who had led the Liberals to this great loss, although not entirely on his own, as party strategists and back room boys and girls had a major hand in the ho-hum, heads in the sand approach that the Liberals were directed to take ... has now resigned and taken a University teaching post in Ontario. You see, Steve...he didn't run back to Harvard just because you wouldn't let him play in our sandbox...

Adieu, Mr. Ignatieff...and bon chance!

And, now for the icing on the cake!!! The Leader of the Canadian Green Party, Elizabeth May

crushed a Conservative Cabinet Minister ... Gary Lunn.

These are interesting times we now live in and only time will tell just how resilient the Harperites will be in the jaws of the little guy in the orange get-up.

FWD: An Open Letter To Canada

2011-04-18T11:30:00.000-07:00

Since the latest in a string of short-term snap elections has been called, I've been receiving emails from "well-meaning" friends who are forwarding political junk mail to me via email. In essence, what I'm receiving is more of the negative advertising that Canadians are being force fed by the Conservative Party of Canada. The email that I have received more times than any other is one that is purported to be the 'personal opinion' of some woman in BC. The emails have been almost exactly the same as the one before...with the exception of the name of the person it's attributed to. There is never a last name, or an email address one can use to enter into a good ol' Canadian political debate. This form of communication is just another form of propaganda, similar to that used by Herr Goebels, Hitler's Communications Minister during the '30's and '40's. The theory then, as it is now, is to tell the lie often and direct it at the lowest intellectual level in society. Eventually, when no other side of the story is allowed to surface, the lie will be accepted as 'the truth' ... and the bad guys win!

The 'friends' who have sent me this propaganda style communication don't offer any other points of view along with their forwarded political statement. There is no responsive argument from the other parties included with the Conservative dogma that would give a balanced study of the issues. As well, when I write back to those who send me the emails in question, their responses vary from "no response" to "well, I'm really concerned about the situation in the Middle East!" Huh??? Where's the connection? The email is a rant against the NDP and the Liberals ... not a heart-felt message about the uprising against the oppressive "despotic" regime that suppresses the freedoms and rights of its citizens. Remember my reference to the word "despot", as I'll come back to it shortly.

We must remember that the political parties that vie for our votes are just that ... a "party". The 'party's' have us on the ropes. They are only there to take advantage of the Rules of the Game...a game that they developed to take the most out of our country's economy, giving the least in return.

The system they've developed allows a party to take control of the government while receiving less than a majority of the votes. It's called "First Past the Post" and too often leaves the majority of the country's citizens without fair representation in the House of Commons. I won't even get into the matter of the non-elected Senate and the ultimate control the Senate has over the legislation that makes its way through the House of Commons.

I encourage open debate. It brings about a balanced view of the issues, whether it be our nation's politics or which NHL hockey team best deserves to win the Stanley Cup. Go Canucks!

Now, here's a link I'd like to recommend that you take a few minutes to watch. It presents a point of view that, for the most part, provides substantive documentation for the statements that are made in it. As of today, the Conservatives are demanding that the Liberals retract one of their ads which contain a "quote" which says, in part that Harper made a statement that he felt the Canada Health Act should be repealed. (more or less) the source of the supposed quote has today stated that they can't find the source for the quote that they printed. This means that the Liberals have used a quote that their source...the newspaper... said was valid.

I have grave concerns about the direction that Harper's Conservatives have taken this country. I can't honestly say that any one party is able to make me believe that Canada isn't in a political wasteland.

Click on this link if you wish to hear a point of view that I find thought provoking.
http://youtu.be/P-1R-Y3tLu0

Oh.... go to your favorite web search engine and type in "DESPOT". Wait for it...... ....... ........,

The Mirriam-Webster dictionary defines "despot" as, ...

a : a ruler with absolute power and authority b : a person exercising power tyrannically

It's a definition of .... Stephen Harper!

You gotta watch this youtube video.... it has resulted in a HUGE response from the 'under 25's' in Canada!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=225Mx6ya7SQ&feature=related

I'm voting for RICK MERCER!

Local Legend on the West Shore of Wanapitei Lake

2011-04-15T15:27:00.000-07:00

Wanapitei Lake is located near Sudbury, Ontario. It's a very deep lake, and roundish in shape. Recently, geographers declared that the lake was likely formed when a meteor impacted with the Great Canadian Shield, forming the crater that, once filled with water, became Wanapitei Lake.

This photo is from Wikepedia

Another possible outcome of the impact could well have been the creation of the "Sudbury Basin", but this was, in my opinion at least, the result of a separate impact from a much earlier time. The meteor impact which created the Sudbury Basin brought great riches to the surface of the earth in the form of Copper, Nickel, Gold and Silver . This resulted in much exploration, prospecting, drilling, blasting and ... eventually mines and smelters.

Again, historically speaking, it wasn't until very recently that Canadians as a people discovered that they have a history and a national identity that is separate and apart from that of the Excited States of America. In fact, Britain and France, along with Spain once owned most of the land that is now the US of A, and the boundaries were set in accordance with treaties that were put in place to protect and assure trading rights in the New World. Treaties were made and broken over the years, and wars were fought which sometimes re-established old boundaries, but most often changed the established lines and drew new ones.

There were many companies created to take advantage of the wonderful, untapped resources of this huge continent; two that had the greatest effect on Canada and it's history and development are the Hudson's Bay Company and the Northwest Company. These companies sent out emissaries on trading missions that covered the continent and took months to execute. They were primarily in search of furs; Beaver, Martin, Fox, Muskrat, Mink, Otter and whatever else they could make money on.

Let's keep in mind that, for the most part these expeditions were sent to trade with the Natives and not ideally meant to actually trap the animals they sought. No...they left that to the Native American Indians and once a year, on average, the traders met with the Indians to barter trade goods for furs.

The trading companies and the governments and private enterprises which backed them built trading posts which were often incorporated within forts. The Natives would bring their furs to the trading post where they would be assessed by the trader, or factor and a value would then be placed on the furs. The Native trappers could then barter for goods based on the value that the trader placed on both the goods and the furs. Things haven't changed much, have they?

This went on for a couple hundred years and eventually, things began to settle down to a routine. However, the matter of boundaries had not yet been settled satisfactorily between Canada and the United States. Along came the Canadian explorer, fur trader and geographer David Thompson (1770 - 1857) who, shortly before his death was given the task of defining the boundary between Canada and The United States. David Thompson's maps, which were hand-drawn while on expeditions across North America were the most finely detailed maps of the day and were considered to be extremely accurate.

He is known as the greatest land geographer who ever lived. Over his career, he mapped over 3.9 million square kilometers of North America. He was eminently qualified to define the line that would divide and separate us from each other to this day.

So how did we get from the West Shore of Wanapitei Lake to David Thompson, you ask? Well, as you all know by now, I spent my summers with my grandparents in a one room log cabin at the "open" end of West Bay, just across the water from Arlt's Lodge, which was called West Bay Camps.

Walter and Lena Arlt (from the left) and an unkown man. This was taken circa 1940.

My grandmother, Melinda spent most of her time in and around the cabin and my grand father, Ernest spent most of his time outside. I spent most of my time at my grandfather's side, wherever he went and whatever he did every day. Some days, we hauled logs out of the lake and rolled them up onto a saw horse where they were sawn into stove wood lengths, then split and piled to dry. Once a log was sitting in the crossed top members of the saw horse, I would climb up and sit on top of it to hold it still while grand dad worked the big cross cut saw that he had recently sharpened in the tool shed. When a couple of short lengths had been cut off and fell to the ground, I would climb down and together we would move the log along on the saw horse and I would climb back up and take my place sitting on top of the log.

Once or twice a week, we would pack up a lunch and go fishing. Sometimes, if the lake was calm we went out into open water with deep trolling gear looking for lake trout; and sometimes we stayed close to the cabin and fished in the bay for pickerel, bass or pike.

Occasionally, we made a day of it and, leaving at dawn we made a dash for the North River. It would take over an hour to get to the mouth of the river because the old cedar strip boat was powered by a five horsepower outboard that would run for hours on a quart of gasoline, but not very fast.

Within a few minutes of leaving the cabin, we would pass High Island which sits in the mouth of the bay.

There was no protection from wind and rain from there all the way to the mouth of the North River, where we could get under the Poupore Lumber Company's long timber bridge which spanned the mouth of the river or, if the weather got really bad...we could tie up at Poupore's dock and walk over to the company cook camp where we might get a bowl of hot soup and a sandwich while we waited for the weather to clear.

On one occasion ... and this is where we get back to the Traders and the Indians ... we were forced by a terrible wind storm to take refuge in Post Creek. We had been there once or twice before, just to have a look around, but found the approaches to the creek from the lake to be quite shallow and seemed to change every time there was a big blow on the lake, or a lot of ice movement during the spring break-up. On-shore winds created very turbulent water along that shore and the big waves breaking as they neared the course gravel shore were deafening and sometimes terrifying.

On this particular day, we were left with no alternative but to try to get into the lee of the creek's mouth where we could empty the cold lake water out of the boat and go ashore to stretch our legs while we waited for Mother Nature to get over her tantrum.

After a short consultation, we decided that it was our only chance at survival and we must make it through the breakers and into the creek on the first try, because we knew that it would likely be our only try. If we failed, we would be overturned in the surf, and might not make it ashore because of the huge waves and the powerful undertow.

Twice, grand dad tried to steer the boat so that we would be lined up for the narrow creek mouth, and twice we had to abort the attempt due to the waves and currents pushing us sideways. But there was a pattern in the waves, and grand dad figured out that if we started a bit more to the south of our last attempts, and timed it so that we got on top of one of those big wave-beasts, we could ride the crest right into the mouth of Post Creek.

Getting the boat positioned where he wanted it, he began our approach. The waves were coming at us from behind and he waited until he was sure the bow of the boat was pointed just so and, ... as the boat settled into the trough between two waves, he gunned the little five horse power motor and got the boat up on top of the wave. We were running at exactly the same speed as the wave and heading directly toward the mouth of the creek. Shooting over the gravel bar with six feet of water under our keel was the most exciting thing I had ever done in my short seven year life span!!! What a thrill that ride was! I was never so proud of my grand dad as I was at that moment. We were in!

Upon reaching the dark, brackish water of the creek, grand dad turned the motor sharply to the left and I jumped up onto the bow of the boat with the bow-rope in hand, ready to leap to the shore and pull the boat to safety.

Once the boat had been bailed out and everything was stowed away again, we went ashore with our lunch in hand. Post Creek in those years ran through a very large, flat field that was covered by deep grasses that flowed like music when the wind blew. And when the wind wasn't blowing, and the air was still, the field came alive with small birds, butterflies and grasshoppers. If the sun was shining on a still day, the air grew very warm and a seven year old boy could take off his clothes and run through the tall grass in the hot sun. There were no people to be found in the area in 1953; no buildings, no public access, no litter, no broken glass and no cigarette butts. However, we hadn't eaten our lunch yet, and grand dad asked me to find a nice place where we could sit down and have our cheddar cheese sandwiches which were made with nana's home made bread and real butter!

In the middle of the field that I described above, there was a rise in the ground that was about four times the area covered by our log cabin. I chose a spot near the edge of this raised area for our lunch. After stomping the grass down flat, grand dad spread out the oil-cloth that was kept under the bow of the boat for emergency shelter or, on a day like today...a table cloth.

OK....where's the bit about the early fur traders and the Natives? Well, it was right where we were sitting while eating our lunch. While we sat in the sunshine, my curiosity began to poke me with regard to the raised area I had chosen to set up our picnic. Why would there be a nearly square, raised outline in the middle of the grass covered field? It looked to me as if there might have been a building on the site many years prior to our visit and it had either burned down, or had rotted away, leaving only the foundation as a ghost of its former existence. With the last part of my sandwich in my hand, I got up and began to walk the perimeter of the "foundation". Here and there, I kicked and picked at small bumps, holes and other anomalies hoping to find a clue to the genesis of this place.

Within a short time, I found a cast iron pot that had rusted almost all the way through. The handle was long gone, and the little iron feet had almost disappeared as well. Laying nearby, under a heavy cover of grass roots and rotted wood lay a very old tool that resembled an axe head with a pick head or adze attached to it. The metal was very heavily pitted by many years of rust and natural erosion. I brought these to my grand dad and we turned them over and over in our hands, all the while speculating about the origin of these items.

Some time later, the wind died down, leaving the lake to settle into a mildly choppy surface. We decided to leave the shelter of Post Creek and make our way back to West Bay. Perhaps we would let our lines down deep and troll for a lake trout for dinner.

Later that night, over a game of dominoes, grand dad and Nana and I talked about the adventure that he and I had. Nana didn't know about the really exciting part; about how grand dad and I rode the crest of a wave into the narrow entrance of Post Creek. We had already decided that it wouldn't benefit us if she heard that story. She already worried about us when we went off for a day of fishing, or hunting for logs, or picking blue berries. Grand dad had been doing some deep, quiet thinking during our game. He played well, but he seemed to be far away. He sipped tea from his big tea cup. He rolled and smoked another cigarette. Finally, he said that he recalled talking with an old prospector named Castleman, who used to have a cabin on Mountain Creek which enters Wanapitei Lake just a few miles down the way from Post Creek. Mr. Castleman apparently had told grand dad about the origin of the name, "Post Creek". According to Mr. Castleman, there had once been a trading post near the mouth of the creek ... a part of a once-great trade route between the Saint Lawrence, the Pacific and Hudson's Bay.

The big empty field, which was once covered with deep grass that waved in the sun and wind, is now covered with roads, buildings and the debris of human habitation. Where once, an old man and a boy sat in the sun, eating a cheese sandwich and talking about a couple of very old artifacts ... cabins now are crowded together; a restaurant serves meals to travelers and people stand, looking out at the lake, wondering what it might have looked like before humans came to this place.

Sometimes ... Life Is Just So Sweet

2011-03-07T21:58:00.000-08:00

Our day dawned clear and bright, with sunlight shining through the slatted venetian blinds in the living room. A cup of coffee, get dressed and walk the dog. A good day to dust the furnishings...well, I can see the dust, so ... between us, we dusted, vacuumed and washed floors. Then it was time to run some errands in town.

It was only a couple of hours before dinner time and we hadn't eaten since breakfast, so I suggested that we stop in at the Dairy Queen for a little treat before heading home.

I parked the car and went inside to order. There was only one person in line ahead of me, a young boy of about 10 years of age. He handed the young lady two long yellow coupons that he had acquired as a reward for reaching a higher level of success in the local library reading club.

He ordered two chocolate sundaes "to eat here", he said.

The young lady who took his order wasn't sure what to do with the coupons as she was a trainee and this was her first day on the job. When she asked for assistance, all the staff seemed to be particularly busy and somebody told her to collect the coupons when the order was filled. Without a word, the trainee turned and pulled a clear plastic cup from the dispenser and held it under the DQ ice cream dispenser. She swung the lever to start the ice cream flowing.

When the cup had been filled to the level the trainee had been told to fill the cup, she gripped the lever and pulled it ... but it didn't move. The ice cream kept coming, and the ice cream kept piling up in the little cup.

Now the trainee was maneuvering the little plastic cup around as it got filled beyond the tipping point. In a state of obvious panic, she called for help, saying "Help...I can't turn the darned thing off!!!"

One of the more experienced staff members quickly reached in and shut off the ice cream machine, leaving the trainee standing there with a little cup that was designed to hold a 4 inch pile of ice cream and now held a very respectable 10 inch tower that was leaning precariously.

Perplexed, she said, to no one in particular..."now, what am I supposed to do with this?? Throw it out??"

Without skipping a beat, the 10 year old said, with all sincerity ... "Don't worry lady, I'll take it just like that!"

She smiled and poured a scoop of chocolate sauce over it, handing it to the lad.

When it was my turn to order, I asked for two of those "Help, I can't turn the darned thing off!" sundaes.
I got two regular sized ones...which is probably a good thing.....really. Honest.

I took our sundaes out to the car and told Susan about the exchange inside and we got a chuckle out of the young lad's quick response to the situation.

Several minutes later, the young man emerged from the restaurant and held the door open for ... his mother. As they walked, he wrapped an arm around her, giving her a warm, and very public hug. Together, they walked, arm in arm across the parking lot to their car where she let him in, holding the door for him.

As they drove past, we could see they were involved in a happy conversation. It warms the heart.

Life is good today.

Art Imitates Life

2011-02-22T11:53:00.000-08:00

As summer turned into fall, and fall into winter I wondered how I was going to keep myself busy and entertained. I've never been without a job for more than a couple of weeks since I was a teen and I find that the "new" economy is making it difficult to find an activity that allows me to use my time and my skills.

My first real job was with the Canadian National Railroad ... like my father and his father before him.

Above, is the long service pass issued by Canadian National Railways to my paternal grandfather and his wife Melinda in 1940. Below this, is a photo of my father, Bert at the throttle of FP9A 6531 on the Ruel Sub, west of Capreol, Ontario.

Next, is a photo of my maternal grandfather, Giacomo Dasti, at home in his garden near the railway track he maintained at Foleyet, Ontario...again, on the Ruel Subdivision.

Above...well, it's in the blood.

I knew long before I got my first railroad job at 16 years of age that railroading was what I wanted to do. I was willing to put up with the terms and conditions of the job, and there are many as so many railroaders and their families will attest. At first, it was laying track, changing cross ties and rails, working for twelve hours every day, six days each week.

The wages were less than 90 cents per hour and showers and clean bedding came every second Sunday. But the food was good and there was lots of it. Before the summer had gone, I was promoted from my laborers job to that of third cookee, a sort of bottom of the ladder cook. Sticking close to my mother and my grandmother while they prepared meals had given me an advantage over many of the other men working on the track gang. There were probably 50 or 60 men working on that gang and I had the responsibility of serving half of them in my dining car ... a boxcar which had probably been built for the Grand Trunk Railroad in about 1900 and converted to dining service sometime in the early '40's, give or take.

My home for the summer was an upper berth in a converted Colonist car...one that had been used to transport European Immigrants from their ports of entry into Canada to various locations across Canada. These were the people, the ancestors of many Canadians, who settled the seemingly impossible parts of this huge country.

This is the recruitment poster that inspired me to leave my comfortable cot in the little log cabin at West Bay on Wanapitei Lake...

After two summers of this kind of work, I finally reached 18 years of age, qualifying me to apply for a job as a brakeman or trainman with Canadian National Railways. I was so excited as I filled out my application. I was following in the footsteps of my father, my grandfathers and many of my uncles and aunts, cousins and friends.

On June 28, 1964 I left Rule Instructor Joe Madigan's Rule Car with a small card in my hand which stated, over his signature that I had successfully completed the course and passed the examinations qualifying me to work as a trainman. What a day!!! I was so proud to step down from the Rule Car, which had been parked near the railway station at Capreol, Ontario and walk down the platform to the yardmaster's office. I stepped into the office and showed the yardmaster my rule card and said, "Book me on, please". Within a couple of hours, I was back at the railroad station, ready to climb aboard a passenger train to Ottawa and claim my place on the Trainman's seniority list. I would never look back.

That's not to say there wouldn't be bumps and turns along the way. I was laid off many times, each time immediately searching out alternate employment. During those periods when I was waiting for the railroad to call me back to work, I prepared food in an Italian restaurant, delivered pizza to giggling teenaged girls on weekends, worked for International Nickel in a nickel mine in Sudbury, and drove a truck for a man who was building roads in cabin country.

During a period of railroad inactivity, and feeling like I had worn out my welcome at school, I moved to Alberta to work the winter grain rush in my role as a brakeman. It was supposed to have been a temporary situation and I was to go home when things got busy again back east. Life had other plans for me and I never went back for more than a short stay. Three years later...my parents followed me to Western Canada and the lines of familiarity with my childhood were broken for me...forever.

My railroad career continued to follow its course, taking me from Jasper, to Vancouver, then Kamloops, back to Jasper, back to Vancouver then to Vernon, where I retired at age 54.

Even though I had worked at other jobs and in several locations in my working life...I had never been far from the railroad. I knew it well, had studied every job that I could learn anything about, and now I was retired...out...out of the loop. There were a few skirmishes with other railroads, but nothing serious. Then I fell into a second career. I entered the world of sales, selling new construction and renovation products. I worked hard, put in way too many hours and took home far too little money. But I stuck it out and learned a lot about building, contracting and business in general. But particularly, I learned about Marketing and Advertising. It was very exciting and I quickly moved through the ranks in a handful of small companies, finally ending up as General Manager of a window and door manufacturer on Vancouver Island.

Then I was offered the brass ring, and when I reached for it....I fell short, landing in the safety net of Employment Insurance benefits. For the first time in about 45 years of employment, I was now on EI! But it's not as easy to find a job in this economy as it has been in the past. Sure, the economy is slow and nearly everybody has felt the sting, but I'm now a member of a group, a special group that finds it even more difficult to find work than so many others.

I began to look at my lifestyle...I live on more than two acres of land in a house that's over thirty years old. Both are in need of upgrading. Well, so am I and there is a price to pay for living life hard, and advancing age brings that price home. The bill must be paid. But I want to continue to be active. I haven't stopped looking for work, traveling, interviewing and waiting for the call that will bring in a pay check. So far...no positive results, but I"m still optimistic.

In the meantime, I've kept busy with my oldest hobby. You might have guessed it....model railroading.

While living in the Okanagan Valley of BC, I met some non-railroad men who have a life-long interest in railroads and who had built model railroad layouts in their homes. I was asked to come by for an operating session and soon I was hooked. It seems that there are many fellows who have layouts and an abiding interest, but have no real idea how to run their layouts in a prototypical manner, and my years of experience is now a valuable commodity.

When asked to give my considered opinion on operation of the model railroad, I made a few suggestions that I thought would vastly enhance the operations and greatly increase their interest in running trains just like the real railroads do. The largest and most complex change I suggested involved a real leap of faith for the group. There is a stretch of track that is completely finished with some of the most spectacular scenery I've seen on a model layout. I suggested that the movement of trains would be greatly enhanced if they would tear up some of that lovely scenery and lay in a new track parallel to the existing one in order to create a passing siding. This would allow them to run several trains simultaneously, and in opposite directions.

When I had completed my dissertation, I turned to see the reaction of the layout owner and the members of the group. You could have heard a mouse fart. The looks on their faces suggested that the plan I had laid out for their railroad was beyond their comprehension. I smiled, put on my hat and left quietly.

Two weeks later, I received a call asking me to come by and explain my idea with a bit more detail. A week later, I began to remove track and scenery so that we...yes, WE could lay track and create the new siding. I found my niche as a valued member of a small group that has built an impressive model railroad in a home near my own.

There was a bit of a rush on this project because of an upcoming meeting of the Canadian Association of Railway Modelers. Their annual general meeting was being held in our area on February 5th, and we wanted to have the track installed, wired and scenicked in time for the event. The layout had been added to the "layout tour" and would be viewed and critiqued by many members and visitors.

The following photos will show you what the layout looked like when I first viewed it, then the dismantling of the scenery in preparation for the laying of new track and lastly, the new track is down with only some ballasting of the roadbed and slight filling and painting of the mountain scenes that we had cut away to accommodate the second track.

An aerial view of "Dixon", a spur at the south end of Summit Lake, the highest point on the Durham Sub, a fictional CPR line that connects major traffic corridors in central British Columbia, Canada. More on that later.

A close-up of the detailed models at the end of track at Dixon.

The work begins...the original #4 turnout, or switch is removed in preparation for the installation of a #6 turnout. This will allow the longer cars, ie, passenger cars to use the siding. Longer cars require a longer turnout angle so that they don't bind in the curve, causing a derailment.

Next, some of the original plaster scenery had to be removed to make way for the second track that would become the new siding. As you can see, there is an engineering challenge approaching with the requirement for a second bridge across the Dixon River. A new bridge has been ordered from Dominion Bridge in Vancouver and should be delivered in time for installation on the new abutments that will be poured as soon as the Federal Fisheries inspectors have issued the proper permits for the work, as this is a Salmon bearing waterway.

Highly trained specialists in their field are working to expedite the project, keeping it on time and on budget.
Here, Father James Brown, of Canadian Forces Base, Esquimalt, BC checks clearances for the new bridge.

Bev Kraushar, of The Electric Outlet, Duncan, BC is the railway's signals specialist and is preparing the wiring for the new switch and siding.

In order to comply with Fisheries' requirements regarding the disturbing of salmon spawning channels, the railroad has had to remove the existing bridge, build new abutments and new approaches to the river crossing. This has meant the removal and realignment of the existing main line for most of the full length of the new siding, which is to be the longest siding on the subdivision (layout). The railroad is shut down for the duration of construction and all essential traffic has had to be re-routed over foreign lines. This has resulted in the negotiation of joint running rights with at least one other large railroad. We will expect to see trains bearing CN, BC Rail and Union Pacific insignia once the CPR line is fully functional again. But for now....CP's rail traffic is being handled by the rail barge and tugs, as seen below.

With new cork sub-road bed in place, both bridges are placed and secured. New ties and rails are laid in and spiked down and alignment is checked.

Now that the new high-speed turnouts are in place, the tracks are connected to the main DCC control system. It won't be long before the inaugural run will be made over the new track sections.

The Division Superintendent, Mr. Peter Gilbertson (layout owner) has arranged to have CP's corporate flag bearer, the fully restored Hudson class 2816 readied for the inaugural excursion run. The media event will be covered by regional news carriers and will be featured in the Company's corporate newsletter. As you can see, it didn't take long before CN sent a train onto the Durham sub with one of their new steel cabooses in tow.

The track work is completed and the CPR Special passenger train is stopped on the new bridge over the Dixon River. The new siding/station has been named Notch Hill to reflect the great notch in the mountain range that the Dixon river pours through on its way to Summit Lake.

Back to the current day.....

With one week to go, there is but a little bit of work left to do, but the layout looks pretty good and will operate quite nicely.With a couple of small details left to take care of, we finished the project and ran a few trains to make sure that the track was well laid, and the electrical circuitry was all connected. The rails were all cleaned so that there would be no 'dead spots' that would cause the locomotives to falter on. The wheels of the locomotives pick up electrical current from the rails and this drives the motors, lights and sound decoders, and if there's a disruption in the current, the trains will stop abruptly and unrealistically.

Let's leap ahead a few days. The railroad modelers had their general meeting and some lunch, and then started out on their layout tour.

Included on the tour were layouts owned by Andy Barber of Cobble Hill,

Dave Ames of Duncan

and Peter Gilbertson of Shawnigan Lake.

So.....all those years of real-time railroading have come full circle. Now I'm putting my skills and knowledge to work in 1:87 scale and having a great time with it.

It sounded Just Like a Train Coming In the Front Door

2010-12-23T20:41:00.000-08:00

This is just a short post to fulfill a promise that I made to a lady I've never met.

Elphie works at the Edson Museum and has offered to help me answer a question I have regarding a (you guessed it...) railroad trestle.

The story, as told to me by more than one old time railroader in Jasper is this:

Once upon a time, a short train, called a mixed train because it sometimes carried passengers and local freight in a combination coach/baggage car, had a large block of ice sitting on the floor of the baggage car and was to be delivered to a track worker's family at Hargwen, a small station just west of Edson, Alberta. As the train was less than a mile from Hargwen the brakeman pushed the big block of ice over to the doorway opened the sliding door. He quickly realized that the train wasn't slowing down so he pulled on the emergency brake valve to stop the train. It was too late to stop in front of the station and the combination car was still going nearly thirty miles an hour as it approached the station. The train was surging a little and this caused the block of ice to begin sliding, slowly at first, but surely toward the open door. Just as the open door was passing the station, the block of ice slid out the door and hit the platform, breaking into several large, but heavy pieces. The sound must have been frightful, for when the section man got home from work that day, his wife told him that she and the children would not live next to the tracks any longer.

And that's why the station wasn't inhabited...at least that's what I was told...and it sounded reasonable to me.

Well, as luck would have it, a few months later...an eastbound train pulling about a hundred empty boxcars derailed right about where the block of ice had landed on the platform.

Here are the photos Elphie.

And this is why, gentlemen, you must listen to your wife when she tells you that she's had just about enough of whatever it was that you were doing just before she put her foot down. Capish?

Reaching Out To Old Friends ... while there's still time

2010-12-23T19:07:00.000-08:00

I absolutely remember buying a new Daily Planner at Costco a couple of months ago; and I know that I would have put it away somewhere in my office so that it would be ready for ... well, it would be ready for immediate use when I wanted it...like yesterday.

I couldn't find it yesterday, so I resolved to tidy up my desk today and have a real good look for it, because if you'll recall ... I remember buying it just a couple of months ago. It wasn't on my desk, or in any of the drawers, either. So I looked in all four file cabinets, and then on every shelf in my half acre of book shelves. I checked my clothes closet and...yes, my bedside table and the drawer in the coffee table. No, I didn't look in my workshop because, as you might suspect, I wouldn't take my daytimer to my workshop. That wouldn't be right.

However, something good did come of the search pattern I was following. I found some old photographs that I had found about six months ago and set aside at that time with the idea that I would get them into a photo album for proper storage. No, they weren't in the photo album yet because I had set them aside and didn't run across them again until today.

These photos were of my very early days in Jasper, Alberta just weeks after I had left home ... again. It was the dead of winter in 1965 - '66 and I had a little Kodak Instamatic camera. I took roll after roll of film and sent it all back to my parents in Sudbury so they could see what they were missing. You have to admit, a bad day in Jasper beats a good day in Sudbury. No offence to Sudburians, but there are an awful lot of you living out here on the Wet Coast. Think about it.

This a good day in Sudbury.

And this....is definitely a bad day in Jasper.

One of the photos in that envelope was of a CNR railway conductor I worked with in the winter of 1965 - 66 on the Albreda Subdivision between Jasper and Blue River. Roy Richards was one of those rare fellows who you remember all your life. He was quiet spoken, easy to get along with, hard working, unselfish in everything and always had a ready smile, even when things weren't looking so good to others. In short, Roy Richards made an impression on me that I never forgot.

Today I looked up his phone number in an online directory and called the number. A woman answered. I introduced myself and I tentatively asked if Roy Richards might still be living at this address.

"No," she said, "Roy died five years ago."

"Oh, how unfortunate", I said. "I'm sorry to have missed him".

I explained to her how much I had learned from her husband and that he had always treated me with kindness and understanding...even when I was being contrary, which was probably too often. She agreed that Roy had been a wonderful husband and they had enjoyed a great number of years together. Joyce and Roy had married in 1949.

I told her that I had one photograph of Roy that I had taken at Redsand, BC on the Albreda sub. We had taken the siding there for an eastbound passenger train and the snow had been so deep that we had to dig our way into the siding and then dig our way out once the "Varnish" had gone past. Roy was never one to sit by the fire in the caboose while the tail end brakeman went outside to do whatever work that there was to be done. Roy would take turns with his brakemen and do much of the work himself. I've even known him to walk up to the engine through deep snow to line the switch after the opposing train had gone by and then climb up into the cab and ride the head end to the next meet where he'd dig out the switch and line it up for us to take the siding once more.

If you rode the caboose with Roy, you soon learned how to brew a "good" cup of tea, and you learned all about the birds that lived in the area, and of the history of the land and the people. I loved working with Roy.

Joyce and I told each other stories for about an hour. I told her about my trips with Roy on the "west end", and she told my about growing up the daughter of a CNR track worker and living in places like Lempriere...just Joyce, her siblings and her parents living in a small house beside the rail way tracks. It was a major event, she said, when the railroad ran a snow plow to clear the track after a great snow storm so that the trains could run again and her father could get out to Blue River for the mail and for groceries and supplies.

We talked and we laughed while we got to know each other.

After I had hung up the phone, I sat alone at my desk and, holding Roy's photo in my hand I felt overcome with the fond memories of a time well spent, a time long gone and a time well remembered. I wrote Joyce a small note and, folding it over the little photo of her beloved husband, I slipped it into an envelope and placed a stamp on it.

It will go into the mailbox tomorrow.

Air Brakes on the Alberta Coal Branch

2010-12-22T03:04:00.000-08:00

It was nearly 20 below on a cloudless November night, We had picked up our phosphate rock train at the mine and were making about 25 or 30 mph along the undulating track of the Alberta Coal Branch. The fireman leaned forward and told me to lace up my boots and get my parka and mitts on.

"You gotta go back and put up the retainers", he said.

I smiled, and said, "I'll be ready to go when the train stops".

"You don't understand" he said, "Get your gear on now and get going.” “The train isn't going to
stop".

"It will stop if there's going to be any retainers put on," I said.

I have done some pretty scary things in my career, but going 'over top' from one cross-hopper to another while putting up retainers ranks among the most frightening things I could imagine. There are no handrails up there…just an eight inch wide, frost-covered steel cap on the side walls of the open top cars that were waddling along in the dark, Rocky Mountain Foothills.

Photo courtesy Ray Matthews (see page 41 CNLines SIG vol. 10, number 4.)

***The smoke was common on trains descending long grades. The brake shoes got so hot they'd turn the wheels blue. Sometimes, we'd have to stop for twenty minutes to let them cool down so the wheels wouldn't fracture and break up.***

I soon realized that perhaps I was just being a 'chicken'. If was really true, as the engine crew insisted that brakemen had been putting on retainers 'on the fly' on The Branch for years and not a single fatality had been reported....well, there must be a way to do it alright. I'd figure it out, I thought as I stepped out of the warm cab into the frozen night. Flipping the switch on my trusty trainman’s lantern, I stabbed the feeble light into the darkness looking for the best way to get myself from the rear platform of the locomotive and onto the ladder on the end of the car. Shaking off the vision of my body laying between the rails in numerous pieces after I had fallen from the top of one of those bouncing, twisting, rocking cars, I leaned out and grabbed at the nearest hand rail.

My hand found a hand rail on the car and held on tightly. Swinging across the void between the engine and the car, I planted my boots on a ladder rung and immediately "gave thanks."

I knew how retaining valves, or “retainers” worked….sort of. Lots of railroaders had mentioned them; told stories about using them on steep grades long before the advent of modern brake systems. They always finished their stories with "But, you know...we don't have to use 'em anymore since they got the new 26L brake valves on the engines". Well, here I was trying to keep my balance on the top of a pile of crushed rock in an old steel open-top hopper that was jolting down the track in the middle of nowhere. Where were those old railroaders with their stories now?

Retaining valves are just a little piece of equipment. They’re a small metal valve with a smallish diameter pipe coming out of the bottom and running to somewhere in the brake apparatus within the steel framework that supports the end of the car above the trucks that house the big steel wheels that carry the whole thing on the rails. On the side of the valve, is a small handle that pivots at the top and can be set at “off”, “low” or “high” pressure settings.

Its function is to trap a bit of air in the air brake system so that, when the brakes have been applied and then released, a small amount of “brake effort” is retained on that individual cars’ brake system until it's released by returning the valves handle to the "off" position once again. Retainers were used when heavy trains, such as aloaded Rock trains like this one from Cadomin Alberta could be safely brought down long steep grades by maintaining some brake effect on the train all the while recharging the air in the train's brake pipe and reservoirs. The idea is to keep the train speed under control, thus preventing runaways that would result in demerits being handed out to the crew, or worse.

Normally, the train would be stopped a safe distance from the top of the hill prior to descending the grade. At this time, the trainmen would start out from both ends of the train, climbing each ladder to the brake platform and setting the retainers. Generally, this meant a delay of from twenty minutes to three quarters of an hour depending on the length of train, weather conditions, etc. The same thing would happen at the bottom of the hill after safely descending the grade. The train would be stopped and the trainmen would return to their respective ends of the train, all the while replacing the retainers handles to the normal, or “off” position.

This procedure was what the Uniform Code of Operating Rules called for. This procedure was what any mother would want her son to do under the circumstances. But this was not what this Coal Branch crew did. They “put up” and “took down” retainers “on the fly” no matter what the conditions, the time of day or the season. On the fly!... I have to tell you that I was terrified and was quite sure that I would not survive the night; because I had fallen from the top of a wildly swaying car.

I desperately clung to the frozen steel of those cars with phosphate dust burning my eyes and frost stinging my ears. Fumbling in the dark, and focusing on getting this job done...one car at a time, I eventually came upon the tail end brakeman. He had completed his share of the job and was standing on the drawbars in between the cars, holding onto a grab iron with one hand while he smoked a cigarette with the other. Together, we huddled in silence in the blowing snow and dust, choking on the thick brake smoke while we waited for the train to settle out at the bottom of the hill. Once there, we parted company, that brakeman and I; he headed off through the thick brake smoke toward the caboose, removing retainers from each car as he went. And I headed back toward the engine, doing the same.

After I put the engine on the shop track in Edson, I gathered my kit from the locomotive cab and headed across the rail yard toward the office. The conductor was waiting for me in the booking-in room at the station.

Leaning a bit in my direction, he said "If you're not goin' to cooperate with me son, you needn't bother takin' a call for the 'Branch' again". “You Jasper boys aren’t welcome here cuz you don’t want to do as you’re told”, he said as he turned his head and spit a long black streak of tobacco juice toward the trash can in the corner. Tobacco juice ran in a jagged track down the papers that had been discarded there.

“I won’t be back if I can help it”, I said, coldly. I felt sure that it would be better to be laid off and taking unemployment benefits than to take a call to join his crew on the Branch again.

Snow swirled into the room as the door closed behind him.

I sat down on a long, hard bench in the passenger waiting room of the station to wait for a westbound freight train to take me back to Jasper and my warm bed.

Apparently, it's time to hibernate

2010-11-25T11:13:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, when our home renovations looked like they would be completed by the end of October, we made a decision that would have us selling our island home and moving to the Okanagan/Shuswap region of BC's southern interior.

We launched a program of cleaning, painting, straightening, and generally sprucing up the house and property. This was in addition to the thousands of dollars and many months that we had spent already laying new flooring,

painting,

replacing electrical outlets and switches, plumbing and heating,

landscaping,

new decks and railings,

complete renovations of the laundry room, kitchen and dining room,

and all new Energy Star windows and doors.

see Susan's blog Thrums for photos and descriptions of the full renovation program. There's a small white dialogue box near the top left of her web page that you can use to speed you to the reno pages. Type "Renovations, new deck, kitchen, bathroom into the box and press "enter". These renovations went on for ten months without a break and we were quite fed up with the disruption to our life.

Our circle of friends in the interior is considerably larger than on Vancouver Island, but that alone can't be pointed at as being the only reason, or indeed the biggest reason to move from here to there. There was the promise of a good job for me that was a big draw and Susan's weaving connections are very strong there. The housing market is more attractive there...meaning we believed that we could sell our house on the island and buy a more attractive home near Salmon Arm for much less money, thereby reducing debt at a crucial time in our lives. So we called a local realtor and asked him to come by for a chat. Bill McGowan of Osborne Realty listed the house and began running ads. We drove to Vernon, where we stayed with friends Michael and Lynnette while we looked for a home to purchase. It didn't take long to narrow the search, and after viewing several homes, we decided to make an offer on a home at Shuswap Lake Estates in Blind Bay, about 20 minutes west of Salmon Arm. So began the game...offer and counter offer...arrange for a moving company to give us a quote...contact a lawyer for conveyancing...primp and clean the house to make it presentable...real estate tours...showings to possible buyers. Lots of interest, but no offers came in.

Then, the snows came. The pipes froze in the pump house. Trees came down under the snow load, and the house went dark.

The tractor came out to clear the driveway.

Our offer on the house in Blind Bay expires on November 30, as does our listing in Duncan...so, unless a firm offer comes in before November 30th, we're staying here until at least Spring 2011. By then, the economy will have a great bearing on whether we stay or go. So, friends... don't bank on updating your address books just yet. Spring brings fresh growth and new life, and that might include a fresh view of our lush acreage on Vancouver Island.

Some things have worked out well and others haven't, but life is still good.

2010-10-30T21:16:00.000-07:00

So here I sit...thinking about all that's happened in the last month or three.

It hasn't been very uplifting actually; the deck renovation went fairly well, with only a couple of small bits left to finish. My dog had to be put down, and that has taken some time to get over. And the marvelous job that I worked so hard on all summer ... well, it fizzled with the tumbling market strength of the parent company. While the company concerned surely had some troublesome moments dealing with their falling fortunes, the failure of the job to materialize turned out to be a blessing for me. During the demolition of our deck, I re-injured my back and this pretty much laid me flat for nearly three months. I'm doing well now, but it's been difficult for me to slow down, resting when my mind is telling me to get off my butt and get outside. It was a long, hot summer of sitting, laying down and hurting like heck no matter what position I chose. I'm not complaining...everybody has their times of trial to deal with.

So what to do now that I'm back on my feet, no job to go to and all the reno's that we're going to do on this house are done?

We sat down with a pot of tea and had a heart to heart chat. We talked about the past five years and what they've brought to us...or taken from us. We've changed our address twice in the past five years and each time, we moved for a new job, a new neighborhood and a new experience. It's taken a while, but we've come to the conclusion that our hearts are with our friends in BC's interior valleys. Prior to moving to the coast, we lived in the Okanagan and Shuswap area for many years while I completed the last years of my railroad career. While there, we met many wonderful people, and some have been beckoning us to return.

Our time away from there has been rewarding in so many ways, and we've grown exponentially, but with little to hold us here, it's now time to return to the place and the people we call home. We're going back to the Shuswap...to stay and grow old (or..."go to seed", as some would say) with our friends.

Our home in Duncan BC is for sale and we've made an offer on a nice house in Blind Bay BC. Blind Bay is about 25 kilometers west of Salmon Arm and is on the shores of Shuswap Lake. Actually, we're moving back to the same neighborhood we lived in before we moved to the coast. As for the house we've made an offer on??? Well, it's not a 'done deal' yet, so I won't post any information on that until all the subjects have been removed and money changes hands.

No photos this time...but there will be some interesting ones with my next blog.

Happy Hallowe'en.

TAPS FOR CONNOR

2010-09-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

CONNOR

You Left Us Too Soon

CONNOR

Wee Rufkins "Tin Pan Alley"

MAY 13 1997 - SEPTEMBER 24 2010

You will be missed...always

A Dog's Prayer

Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in the entire world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me. Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between the blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world's sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside... for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements... and I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth... though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land... for you are my god... and I am your devoted worshiper.

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life, should your life be in danger.

And, beloved master, should the Great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest...and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands.
--Beth Norman Harris

A Twist of Fate

2010-08-02T16:38:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend emailed me asking where I get all my energy from?

Yes, I admit it…I do consume a lot of energy every day. But like every one else, there are days when I don’t seem to have the physical energy to work on all the things that need to be done around my 2.25 acre property. My body needs rest, but my mind then takes over and makes up for the physical inactivity.

I’ve learned first-hand that each day I wake up to is the only one I have. So, I get up early; spend a little quiet time pulling my thoughts together while I have my coffee, cereal, and fruit.

The rest of my day is spent working hard whether it’s at my “day job”, or in yard and garden work.

Physical labour makes me feel good. The more I hurt at the end of the day, the better I will sleep that night. Pain is good… when I’m hurting I know I’m alive and have been productive.

When I take some time out, which I do every day…, I keep up my connections with friends and associates; I work on my new career and make time for my dog.

Evenings are for social time with my wife, my dog and my friends. Time is short and relationships are important.

We will all die one day…which day is uncertain. But while I live, I give my utmost to show gratitude for the life that has been given to me.

Many years ago, I had a much different outlook on life. I didn’t appreciate what I had or the good in people, nor the roof over my head or the bird songs in the air. There was a price to pay for this attitude and in time I paid dearly.

Then came a time when my life was very troubled. Seeing this, a friend gave me a copy of an audio tape by the health care motivational speaker Les Brown.

Mr. Brown gave me something to think about…it was a mantra that went something like this; “Each day when I get up from where I was sleeping, look around…and, if there is no white chalk outline of my body there…it will be a good day, for I have been given another chance to make my life better than it was yesterday.”

Dr. Norman Vincent Peale led me to the well of the “Power of Positive Thinking” and together, the three of us changed the way I viewed my time on earth and the life I should lead here.

From this, I developed my own mantra…”Practice Being Positive until you’ve Forgotten How to Be Negative.”

This has given me the peace and energy required to carry out whatever might be planned for the rest of my days.

For most of us, as we get older it becomes harder and harder to do things that we used to perform easily and perhaps, take for granted. However, once in a while we’re introduced to the fact that even the very elderly can do things that younger people can’t seem to do. Men and women in their eighties and nineties run marathons, or swim in polar bear events. The difference boils down to one fundamental thing…assuming there are no valid medical reasons underlying one’s inability to function normally; and that is “one’s mental attitude”. Those who function at a higher level have a great mental attitude and those who can’t seem to function well seem to spend time complaining about not being able to “get a break”.

There are countless euphemisms (sayings) to describe this such as, “seek and ye shall find”, or “knock and the door shall be opened”, and on and on.

If we take the time to really think about these sayings, and treat them like the parables many of us grew up being taught in Sunday School (I still think about Miss Lillian Wylie, my Sunday School Teacher) we can locate the wisdom that’s hidden within them and ourselves. Like parables, the sayings of the collected wisdom of the ages bears fruit if planted in fertile ground.

The photo above is of St. Alban the Martyr Anglican Church in Capreol, Ontario. Does anyone have any idea when this photo might have been taken? This is the church in which Miss Wylie taught Sunday School.

Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe once said (perhaps he said it more than once) "Whatever you can do, or dream you can...begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it."

I’ve experimented with this and found it to be very effective. If I want something to happen, or to appear, I ask for it…I create it in my mind. I act, or behave as if it is happening, or is about to appear. In short…I accept it as if it were already real.

I recently explained this phenomenon to a friend by telling him that I create what I need in the form of a mental “shawl” or “envelope” that I put on and wear. It’s invisible to all, including myself, but I know that it’s there because I created it and I wrapped it around me. It’s not important that no one can see it. It’s not important that “I” can’t see it either; but its power is in the fact that I know it’s there. The simple act of creating the detailed mental image of the “thing” that I want, and wearing it or surrounding my self in it as if it were already manifested actually creates the energy that causes it to take form.

That's me, making my first solo flight on my aunt Shirley's old bike. It weighed a ton and, well...it was a girl's bike...but I didn't mind...really.

It’s almost like learning to ride a bike, or to swim. There are certain ‘truths’ that one must accept on blind faith; once you get the bike moving, it will tend to remain upright…, and if you hold your breath, you will float…, if you eat less and exercise, you will lose weight. A similar strategy applies to the practise I describe above. If you practice a thing long enough and with enough conviction, you will master it, given sufficient time and effort.

It’s not yet a perfect science. For example, On March 24, I left my job as manager of a small, two outlet retail business which sold windows and doors. It was a challenging job, and I was making headway re-organizing the business to bring it out of the red and into the black. But I wasn’t really happy in the job.

Part of my former sales staff on a Friday afternoon.

I began to create a mental image of a dream job that would offer much more than my current job, both in personal satisfaction and monetary compensation.

Finally, the opportunity arose when a position became vacant that would offer Susan and I advantages that we didn’t currently enjoy. Phone calls were made, emails flew back and forth and arrangements were made for me to travel to their headquarters in the US where I was given a tour of their plant and met with all of their department managers, Human Resources, Finance, Manufacturing and Distribution, etc.

I left my job in order to take a more challenging and lucrative position with this large international window manufacturer, having been assured that the position would be available within a few weeks and that I was the person they wanted to put into the job.

Let’s make a long story short…they dragged it out for weeks and ultimately, it didn’t happen. I was left without a job.

I decided to take some time to work on our house and property and, to circulate my resume. I made inquiries in places where a man of my experience and knowledge would find work that might fit the model I had built around myself using the ‘visualization’ technique that I’ve described above. After all, I had considered every foreseeable detail and the dream had been set into motion. The little matter of the intended employer backing out of the scenario shouldn’t alter the final result for me. There was a great job taking shape somewhere and I just had to get in front of it when it materialized.

I got a lot done around home while getting no positive responses to my job search. This was a bit discouraging, as I had never been refused a job when I asked for it.

For the first time in my life, I had applied for Employment Insurance.

After talking it over with my wife, the decision was made to wind down the search for high-end work and concentrate on finding something smaller, perhaps part time. The idea was that this would allow me to finish more around the yard and still bring in a little income as well as keep my mind active.

Perhaps the advice I had received from a couple of my detractors was correct…that I might be reaching “beyond my station” in life. Perhaps it was my age that was now holding me out of my intended job market…I’ll be 65 next February.

So that was it! We were letting go of ‘the dream’ and settling into a more relaxed, if not less prosperous lifestyle. We knew this would mean downsizing to a smaller house so that we could maintain a reasonable standard of living while receiving our normal pension income. So be it then.

Then, on July 12^th, Susan, Connor and I went to Victoria to pick up some supplies at a bead store for Susan’s current weaving project. We parked the van in the shade of some big trees along Government Street and Susan left for the stores a few doors away... saying she might be awhile. Who would have guessed it?!

Below, you'll see a shawl that Susan has made for her sister. It's made from 100% wood waste called Tencel.

Susan's Blog Thrums can be found here

I sat and read while Connor slept.

Shortly, he awoke and let me know that he would like to get out and stretch his back leg a bit. I put him on his leash and we locked up the van and headed off to see what we could see.

After a half hour of dribbling on every tree, bush and clump of grass that he could access, we turned our attention to a small strip-mall and turned in to look at the merchandise in the store windows. After only a few minutes, I found it to be too hot for window shopping as the thermometer must have been hovering around 35 degrees Celsius, or about 100 degrees American.

As I tried to turn Connor towards the van which by now stood in the shade of a large oak tree within a hundred feet of us, he discovered a store with the front door which had been propped open for ventilation. The sign above the entrance said that they sold heating and cooling supplies, fireplaces and ventilation.

He tugged hard on his leash and almost dragged me into the store which was only a few degrees cooler than the blistering hot parking lot outside. Still, it was a relief.

The salesman on duty came out and introduced himself. We struck up a conversation about…you guessed it…”dogs”. Then I noticed a few windows mounted on displays near the back of the store and I asked whether they sold windows and he said “yes”, but that they weren’t doing well enough with window sales and needed someone who was familiar with the products. Uh-huh.

He asked me to email him my resume and said he’d pass it on to the General Manager. I did…he did…and the GM called me to set up a time that we could meet…”as soon as possible, please”.

I met with him on July 16^th. He said he was looking for someone who could take the job of ‘outside sales –commercial’ for the Victoria area. I didn’t really see that as being all that exciting, but I said, “Sure, I can do that”. I began to ask him questions about his business and, based on his answers, I suggested to him that he think about making some changes that would better place him in a competitive position in the market. I pointed to changes that I believed would generate more business, create a more dynamic business profile, change the layout in the showroom, hire, train and equip new sales people and installers, arrange for a new window supplier that could give him better delivery times, warranty and a broader scope of product line. I suggested strong Marketing and Advertising programs and…and…

He listened to me for a few minutes and then said that, rather than have me selling windows, he would rather put me in a position where I could help him re-build the entire enterprise, which included stores in Greater Vancouver as well as Victoria…perhaps as General Sales Manager!

We’re still negotiating terms, but it’s looking better and better with each passing day. I do have a very strong job prospect now, and it’s far more exciting and of much broader scope than anything that I might have achieved with the large window manufacturer which dropped me in the middle of my start-up with them back in March.

And all this because I created the visualization that tapped into the power of the Universe to create the job that I wanted…and…..because Connor dragged me into the fireplace store.

Now we wait to see what the prospective new employers do with the opportunity that the Universal Power has offered them.

Canada's Police Forces - Defenders of the Peace or Purveyors of Fear.

2010-07-04T07:22:00.000-07:00

The G20 meetings have now broken up and the Heads of State are no longer occupying the headlines. Actually, they never did dominate the headlines. Instead, the world saw the gritty nature of the Canadian socio-political personality... the rioting in the streets of Toronto and the response to that violence by the billion dollar security forces brought to the show by the Federal and Provincial governments.

Our beloved county has become one of violence, suppression, dominance and fear...not on the part of the citizens of this great nation, but certainly on the part of the political structure that we have allowed to infiltrate many of our Federal, Provincial and Municipal government offices.

There is a very simple pattern that is consistent through almost every example of police action that the public finds offensive. Whether it's the G20 fiasco in Toronto where squads of riot-geared heavily armed police attacked peaceful protestors while the black-hooded criminals wreaked havoc on businesses only a block or two away or a squad of heavily armed RCMP officers attacking and tasering to death a lost, confused, tired and de-hydrated visitor to Vancouver's YVR airport...the method used by "the authorities" is much the same. The heads of the police forces, the elected members of Parliament, Provincial Legislatures, cities and towns stand with the police forces involved, defending their actions and refusing to defend the rights of the citizens who were victimized.

I find it appalling that each and every Canadian citizen is continually at risk of being swept up in a police action that may or may not be justified and be unjustly charged, incarcerated, injured or killed. Do you find these words inflammatory? Do you believe that I'm fear-mongering? do you think that it can't happen to you because you're a law-abidiing citizen?

Have you ever crossed the street in the middle of the block, or at a place where there was no painted cross-walk? Kelowna RCMP officers scrambled to subdue and arrest an 80 plus year old man who found himself crossing the road in Kelowna, BC. The man was taken away in a police cruiser, hand-cuffed and humiliated. Shame...

A youth who had an open beer in his hand after a hockey game was shot to death in a police lock-up in Houston, BC. No charges laid.

Monty Robinson, the RCMP officer in charge of the squad responsible for the tasering death of Robert Dziekanski at Vancouver International Airport was later involved in the death of a young man on a motorcycle in Tsawassen, BC. Robinson was found to have alcohol in his blood but again has not been charged for his offence.

I haven't always felt this way. I was once proud of my country's national police force. In fact, a number of my family have proudly served in that force. I once had the greatest respect for police work and at one time had contemplated becoming a police officer. But I feel much differently now, having seen countless examples of reasons why the members of our police forces cannot be trusted...and should not be trusted.

I'm resentful of the amount of my tax dollars that are fed to the gluttonous RCMP establishment (4 Billion dollars). I resent the fact that no matter how serious the infractions, no matter how compelling the evidence, no matter how devastating the effects on the victims of RCMP actions...they go free and are paid full wages to boot. And I'm resentful of the fact that police forces are not held to the same laws that they are paid to serve and protect.

So far, I've focused on the actions of the RCMP and by extension, other police forces in Canada. But these police forces do not act alone. The act in consort with the various governments in whose jurisdictions they operate. Any elected politician who blindly accepts and defends the actions of a police officer without knowing all of the facts is, defacto complicent in the actions of the police officers and their handlers. We elect these politicos and are responsible for their actions, hence we are also complicent.

Wait a minute...!!! I've just had an "Oh, Crap" moment. It's my fault...I'm responsible, not for the horrific actions of the police, but I am responsible for the fact that they get away with it!

As a nation, we're not headed in a direction that bodes well for its citizens.

Stopping to catch my breath and cool down.

2010-06-19T15:19:00.000-07:00

My hands are buzzing from a couple of hours of mowing lawns and whipping weeds.

After hosing myself down to remove the plant debris from my legs and arms, I'm now sitting comfortably in the shade with a cold beer at my side. Connor, my little dog is sleeping nearby.

The smell of leaves, flowers and fresh soil fills my mind and I close my eyes to soak it all in.

It takes me back...the year is now 1956 and I'm standing at the end of the dock watching the waves roll by. The wind is coming from the north-east...straight out of the mouth of the 'north river', hours away in our 15 foot cedar strip boat which is powered by a very old outboard motor of probably 5 or 6 horsepower. The sun is shining brightly on this clear summer day, but the rough water prevents grandad and I from going out to fish for our dinner.

There is only one boat out today and it's moving slowly while it pounds through the big waves sending shots of white spray from its bow as it rises and falls into the troughs between the waves. It doesn't really feel like the wind is blowing that hard, but one glance into the tops of the tall poplar trees that surround our log cabin tell me that it's a good thing that we pulled the boat out of the water last night before going to bed.

This is a good day to find something to do close to the cabin; just hang around and have a lazy day. The logs that the cabin was made from were oiled before I got out of school for the summer, so that chore is out of the way. Grandad and I have already scavenged a number of Mr. Poupore's logs found floating in the lake and turned them into firewood for the summer. The wood is piled high and drying in the summer sun.

I fill the water pails from the lake and carry them into the cabin while Nana bakes enough bread and buns to keep us through the week. After the bread has cooled, Nana and I carefully place the loaves of bread into floured pillow cases that she keeps for this purpose. The pillow cases are folded neatly around the loaves and gently lowered into a large earthen crock pot that stands on the floor near the kitchen counter. The buns are put into a large tin and placed on a shelf near the table. The cabin smells delicious.

Grandad removes the old outboard motor from the boats' transom and hefts it onto a 2 x 4 he has nailed between two poplar trees. He calls to me to bring his tool kit so he can pull the spark plugs for cleaning and take off the fuel lines to blow them out.

After carefully lighting his cigarette and twisting it into a cigarette holder, he reaches for a small can and unscrews the cap from the top. He pours an inch or two of gasoline into an old tobacco can and dips an oily rag into it. Wadding up the rag, he wipes down the mysterious parts that lie hidden inside the aluminum housing that covers the engine block, spark plugs and a variety of wires and hoses.

I watch his hands, the hands I love even today as he deftly works around all the parts with his rag. His skin seems very thin, yet soft. His long finger nails are pressing the gasoline soaked rag into tight places to clean the dirt from there. I know these hands well. I've watched them dance over the keyboard at the piano in the lounge at Walter and Lena Arlt's West Bay Lodge on the island nearby. Those same hands have held the axe handle firmly, threaded a dew worm onto the hook behind a June Bug spinner and have held firm while I pushed an embedded treble hook through the flesh between thumb and forefinger. His hand remained perfectly still as I fumbled with the pliers trying to use my littel boy's muscles to cut the barb from from the hooks so we could remove them from his injured hand.

I crouch on the ground beside him, ready to hand him a wrench, or an old tooth brush he keeps for cleaning motor parts.

Roxy, my black labrador curls up in the shade under the birch trees nearby and goes to sleep.

I am at peace with the world today...even if the world is not at peace with itself.

My Dog is Getting Older, and I'm Missing Him Already

2010-04-25T22:08:00.000-07:00

After dropping my wife off at her weaving workshop in Crofton this morning, Connor and I went home to begin our day at the farm. There were several small jobs that had to be done while I'm not working at a day job. Today we opened up the garage and turned the lights on. It had been a while since Connor and I had spent any time around the garage/shop together.

Connor stood aside while I rolled the utility trailer out of the garage to make room for the power tools that I would soon pull out from their storage places along the walls. I can't take my eyes off him for more than a moment or two because he has lost his hearing in the past year. He can no longer hear me when I tell him to watch out for danger. As the shop is near the highway, I can only trust that he remembers to stay away from the road when he wanders around the property to pee on all his favourite bushes.

But today, rather than making his rounds of the property, he hung around the garage while I sorted through my lumber stash looking for just the right piece of hardwood to turn into a door sill. Measuring, marking and setting up the saw, I watched Connor wander slowly about the shop. Finally, he lay down on a piece of carpet near the open door. He found the only spot that was bathed in sunlight and curled up.

For 12 of his 13 years, he would not have laid down so soon. He would have run into the garden area and returned with his soccer ball, pushing it under my feet until I acceed to his demands, setting down my tools and following him into the orchard for a game of soccer that would last until I got tired.

This past year though, he hasn't shown much interest in playing soccer. He sleeps much of the day and all night. He has never been what one might call "healthy", and has suffered greatly from an intestinal disorder that has brought him near to death on several occasions. This past winter has been particularly hard on him. Two weeks ago he became so sick that I took him to the vet...one of many vet visits in his life. Connor's "quality of life" had deteriorated to the point that we were considering euthenasia for him. We were taking turns staying up all night with him. The little man was so sick and we were desparate.

The vet told me that there was nothing that could be done for him and it was just a matter of time until the "decision" would have to be made. She gave him a couple of injections which would settle his irritated guts for a short term fix. She said that the relief would last only 24 hours and he would most likely be sick again.

Well, Connor hs enjoyed a welcome comeback and is eating well and sleeping a lot. But he's lost his energy, his bright eyes and perky ears and tail. We've noticed this happening over the past 12 to 16 months and have told opurselves that it's just his age. After all, he is 13 years old, eh?

Back to the shop...

Connor got up from his place in the sun and stepped outside and sniffed the air. Without looking back, he slowly walked out to the driveway and turned toward the house. I turned off the saw and put down the piece of wood that I was working on. He walked slowly up the driveway without lookig left of right. He looked tired and dejected. I stood in the middle of the driveway and watched him get farther and farther away from me. He crossed the bridge and walked past the neighbors driveway where it branches off from ours. He didn't stop at the tree where every dog in the neighborhood comes to pee. A deep sadness came over me.

Then he stopped and brought his head over his shoulder and stood looking in my direction. I wondered if he could see me, not knowing if he was losing his eyesight in his older years like me.

I became aware that I was holding my breath.

He turned toward me and began to take a few steps...slowly at first and then...he began to run toward me. I took a deep breath and my heart leapt in my chest. I began to run toward him.

We met on the bridge over the creek and he jumped into my arms as I dropped to my knees. I carried him back to the shop and we sat down on a chair for a couple of minutes of joyful cuddling.

Too soon, he let himself down and went to the open doorway where he stopped and looked over his shoulder at me. I knew that the time had come. I got up and followed him into the orchard where we found his soccer ball and played until he determined that he had enough and wanted to go home for a nap.

I carried him home and made him a lunch of roast chicken with rice and cottage cheese. Then he and I went to the couch for a little afternoon nap.

Oh...For Simpler Times

2010-04-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

Working in the back yard with brush in hand, I'm putting stain on cedar trim that will go around exterior doors. The smell of cedar saw dust and the sound of the breeze brushing through the tops of the great west-coast fir trees brings memories of spring days at the cabin on West Bay. Granddad and me, cutting up Mr. Poupore's Diamond-P logs for firewood while Nana baked fresh buns and made a pot of tea to be had when we take our break.

A log is placed on the saw-horse and I climb up to sit on top of the log, holding it steady while granddad works the hand saw back and forth. The big teeth of the saw blade cut through the log while releasing wet saw dust and the sweet smell of white pine into the air.

We talk while we work. I ask him questions about everything I can think of and he gives me the answers. We make plans to go fishing up the North River as soon as the weather settles down, but in the meantime, we have to make a trip over to visit Lena and Walter Arlt at West Bay Camps. We'll need more gasoline and oil...and some worms and a couple of bottles of Orange Crush to drink with our lunch of cheese sandwiches. After a long trip across the lake and up the river, we always stop at Cryderman's Landing for our lunch.

Ah...I long for the simpler times once more.

Sent from my iPhone

Relationships...

2010-03-29T16:59:00.000-07:00

In our lives, we establish relationships that we will carry with us always, and others that will be like ships that pass in the night. But either way, everyone we meet, even if for a moment or two becomes a part of our life. The short term relationships come and go without having much effect on us. It's the other ones, the ones that stop us in our tracks, that cause us to change direction or to alter how we think about life, that shape us.

While it may be true that we can choose our friends but can't choose our family, we must still accept that either a friend or a family member can build us up or tear us down.

When you have a disagreement with a friend or a family member and you wish to sort it out, patch it up and carry on...you get past whatever is in the way and open a dialogue.

But what if dialogue fails? What if every time you try to move forward, a word is taken out of context or an offering of peace and love is mis-construed to mean something that is other than that which is intended? When the thing just seems to be destined to keep from ever coming together...what then? My heart breaks yet again as it pines for what might have been...if only....

Sometimes you just have to take a few steps back, take stock and nurse your sensitivities.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

2010-03-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

Some people are still living in the house they were born in. Others have only lived in a handful of houses in their entire lives. Still others have no possesions at all.

Because I've moved a couple of dozen times, I got to thinking about the reasons for moving, or more precisely, the factors that caused all the moves. Most often, I changed addresses to follow my job as my choice of career as a Transportation worker with a transcontinental railroad was seasonal. Until I had built up some seniority I had to move every year. I now have memories of such places as Capreol, Hornepayne, Nakina, Toronto, Hamilton, Niagara Falls, Jasper Alberta, Kamloops, Vancouver, Vernon and Victoria. In several of these places, I lived in more than one house. This begs the question...where does it end ???

After thinking it over, I've come to the conclusion that it's all about "happiness". I must face it...I've been in a lifelong search for happiness in all things. It's more than just where I live, or what my house is like; I've fretted about the style of my clothes, the vehicle I drive, my hair style (I'm bald), my job, my...well, I think you understand.

(photo courtesy of Mike Corrigan - at right, Roxy in the middle and Bruce on the left ca. 1956)

When I was a little boy, my grandad and I were sitting in his old cedar strip boat trolling for lake trout on Wanapitei Lake. The hot sun beat down on the glassy surface of the lake and the fish were nowhere nearby. Grandad sat patiently listening to me as I talked continuously about all the things I wanted to do, to have, to be when I grew up. When I stopped chatting, I expected him to say something encouraging, like..."Yes, my boy...you'll have all of that and more". Instead he said "I think you'll always have everything you need, but you may not have everything you want".

While I'm still in a continual state of flux in my lifestyle, my choices are now based on "needs" and not "wants". That's not to say that, at age 64 I don't have "wants"... just fewer "lusts". To put it another way... I just run out to the end of my chain and bark like a dog.

This is a much more practical way to approach life and it gives me peace and that's my story and there's no way you're going to budge me from it.

But what is happiness? Is it a condition that comes when we get everything that we "want"? Or is it something that can be achieved no matter how "little" we have. I came to realize that over the years, my search for happiness through consumerism, or "wants", continually led me into blind alleys of discontent...the complete opposite of what I "wanted" to achieve. Notice the word "want" showing up here? I became rather cynical about finding happiness at all until...after a three or four minute rant about how unhappy I was at not having everything I "wanted", my friend Dave handed me a pre-recorded audio tape and suggested that I plug it into my car's tape deck and listen to it on my drive home. I did, and it changed my life...or at least it changed the way I looked at my life.

It was a recording of a live speech by Motivational Speaker Les Brown who was adopted at the age of 6 weeks by a single woman who had little education and even less money. She adopted Les and his twin brother and raised them to be examples of triumph of the spirit over adversity.

I listened to that tape until it finally broke in my tape player.

I finally figured it out...happiness is in me and not in stuff. It can't be found by "having" things. It's not the responsibility of anyone other than myself ... it's mine alone to give and perhaps it's the single greatest gift that I could give to myself because it's a gift that I can share selflessly with everyone that life brings my way. In turn, their response invariably is beneficial to me. Win Win.

Arlene Lengyel has put together Ten Steps On The Road To Happiness that really says it all for me. These are the ten steps that I have lived by for several years and can honestly say that they work for me. My daughter Carrie and I were talking yesterday and the converstation got to "the pursuit of happiness". She's been reading on this subject and has come to a realization that negativism gets in the way of positivism and that positivism leads to happiness. The world needs to be aware of this simple truth.

Her realization came to her much earlier in life that did mine, and she understands the difficulty involved in following the Ten Steps. "Happiness is hard work", she said.

The triumph of positivism over negativism is a voyage of discovery...self discovery and the discovery of others. It opens doors to oneself, to social understanding and acceptance, to rewards that cannot be bought. It brings to oneself certain truths that, once understood make life smooth and sweet like fine chocolate. Just right.

We're each traveling our own personal path through life. Our path is threading the experiences that life presents to us and the best compass we have to guide us from one end to the other can be summarized thusly: "It is the way it is, the only thing that's negotiable is the way you feel about it". (see Arlene Lengyel's page above)

Practice being positive until you've forgotten how to be negative.

Here endeth the lesson ;>}

A new day dawning

2010-02-27T16:53:00.000-08:00

MOTHER AND SON AT 5 YEARS OLD- 1951

Today dawned like no other lately. It wasn't 5 am...it was 8:30. That, in itself is a landmark of note. I've been waking early every day for ... I can't remember how long, but today I just slept beyond my internal clock's seemingly permanent settings. I gave myself permission to sleep in. It's Saturday and I can do that ...sleep in on a Saturday, that is. I don't usually, but I did today.
Today there will be no tradesmen arriving at odd hours to install cabinets, pull wire through the walls, fill, paint, sand or change the plumbing. Not that I have had to deal with that too much over the past several weeks. My wife has had to endure that stress for both of us while I put in my days 'at the office'. She's had her moments I'm sure, but the kitchen renovations are almost complete now...just a few small things to finish and only eight weeks beyond the scheduled finish date and a few thousand over budget.

Sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee I look through the cards that have arrived in the mail over the last week or two, thinking how fortunate I am to have a life filled with everything I need. I have a great family and many friends; good health and enough money coming in every month to take care of necessities. I'm enjoying my new career in marketing and the future is bright.

It's mid day and still have my fluffy slippers and long-sleeved pajamas on. Life is good today, for this is my birthday.

2010 Renovation Olympics at the Harvey Ranch

2010-02-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

In 1979...oh, my gosh...that was thirty years ago. Well, I think I can handle the passing of all those years, but I'm sure my daughters will not be pleased that they're now mature adults. Where was I...ah hah! It was 1979 and my (then) family and I had bought an old house on 2 1/2 acres in Surrey BC. The house was small and it had an even smaller upstairs loft. My little girls needed separate bedrooms, so I decided to undertake some major renovations. The Canadian government of the day was offering home improvement cash grants, so the girls and I set off to the building supply store.

Our plan was to move some stairs from the kitchen to a small spare bedroom just off the dining room. This meant opening up the wall to the dining room and building a new wall that would support the upper level floor and provide part of the structure for the new stairs that would have to be built around a central 6 X 6 post in the middle of the new area. This was how we planned to gain access to the loft. The stairs would emerge in the middle of the upper area and allow me to build two bedrooms, one for each of my daughters. Good plan, I thought.

We laid out the plan on the floor just to see if it would all fit... and it did. So with the long weekend of November 11th, 1979 fast approaching we gathered all the tools and supplies and started to build the new supporting wall.

It wasn't long before we had the wall framed and the drywall panels in place on one side of the wall. The girls had planned to install a 'time capsule' in the wall before I nailed on the last of the drywall, sealing up the wall for all eternity. They drew little 'stick' drawings on the family, the dog, the cat and even a few chickens. The last item to go into their time capsule was a new copy of the Weekend Edition of the Vancouver Sun. This particular edition of BC's biggest newspaper was a big one indeed. November 11th is 'Armistice Day', the anniversary of the surrender of the German armed forces in 1918. This ended the First World War. They carefully folded up the newspaper and placed it inside a black garbage bag which they asked me to nail to an exposed stud in the new wall. After considerable ceremony, the last sheet of drywall was nailed in place, enclosing the time capsule inside the wall...safe and sound.

Next, we turned our attention to the old wall that had now to be torn down and thrown out the window into the back yard. The plan was to burn up all the wood bits that night and perhaps cook hot dogs in the dark of night.

We began to pull off layers of wall paper exposing 75 year old cedar ship lap siding, rusty nails and dust. As we worked we talked about how terrific it would be to have our own bedrooms, and a play area for rainy days of which we got many. As the cedar boards were pulled away, we shoved them out the open window. Soon, the debris pile outside got too high, so I went outside to move it away from the house to make room for more. It's amazing how much can be generated when demo'ing a house. Finally, I'd made a big dent in the pile and came back into the house.

When I got to where the girls were standing, I was in for a huge surprise. Inside the old wall, nailed to a stud just three feet from where we had made our 'time capsule' was another time capsule containing some little drawings of a family and their dog and cat...and...a Weekend Edition of the Vancouver Sun ... dated NOVEMBER 11TH, 1939. 40 years to the day!

The Royals Visit Vancouver in 1939, just before the outbreak of World War II

It's spring time in the mountains

2010-02-07T20:45:00.000-08:00

BC's Lower Mainland, Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands nicely escaped winter this year. In fact, this area, which is the just north of Washington State in the USA enjoyed the mildest January on record. This is a good thing, unless you've invested heavily in the 2010 Winter Olympics. While we in British Columbia didn't have to shell out great sums to warm our homes this winter, we will be shelling out vast amounts of money for generations to come due to the collossal failure of these winter games.

"But the games haven't even started yet", you might say. And you'd be right about that. They don't begin for another five days. However, one can't escape the fact that every budget number that the government has presented to the public (the tax paying public) in the past several years has been incredibly short of what has actually been spent already. And to make matters worse, winter did not show up this year. Many of the trees on my two and a half acres are either in bloom or budding into leaf. The gardens are bright and cheery with flowers and fresh greenery. Yesterday, I weeded my veggie garden and thinnned some lettuce and pulled some onions.

Across the strait, the Vancouver Olympic Committee (VANOC) is trucking snow to the lower mainland from some far away place and placing it on the mountains using helicopters. Trucking snow in for winter sports events??? Carrying it to the slopes using helicopters??? To what end? At what expense?

In British Columbia, many schools have been closed, the homeless are still homeless, the hungry are still hungry and ... well, you know what I mean.

It sickens me that the money that has been spent on these 'games' is reaching into the billions. It has been spent in a time of high unemployment and recession could have been better spent on education, health care, housing for the needy and food for the hungry. The social needs of the province and the nation must surely supercede the elevation of the personal ego of a Provincial Premier and his caucus.

Politicians will benefit...and the people will not.

Is this writing my protest against the winter olympics? Yes, but it is actually more than that. This writing is my way of saying that I'm ashamed of the way BC's politicians have mis-represented the truth in their presentation to the people around the costs and benefits of holding the winter games in BC. How can you honestly say that you've got to close schools and health facilities due to financial shortfalls and then spend billions on a short term sports show?

My vote will be counted when the next election is called. Be sure of it. But, I'm old enough to know better than to think that anything will change, either before an election or after it. I've never failed to cast my vote on election day, and no matter which party or which person I've ever voted for...the damned government always got back in!

Can it now be time for change in Canada? Or is the status quo simply the definition of Canada and its people? It's always a good time for change isn't it? Everybody has a better idea and no matter who you talk to there is always a difference of opinion...many sides to every argument.

No wonder so many opinions end with..."well, it's hopeless, isn't it?"

Did I say I was going to have 14 days off????

2010-01-03T23:00:00.000-08:00

With considerable excitement, we parked our car in the long term parking area at Victoria's International Airport near Sydney on Vancouver Island. We scooted our bags into the terminal and checked in with the airline we were traveling with...( Westjet ). Then we headed for the Secure Area looking for the security screening. We were about three hours early, so there were very few travelers in the terminal. The Security staff were standing about looking bored, so it didn't take long at all to get ourselves into the Secure Area where we had dinner at a White Spot restaurant.

After dinner, we went to the waiting room to wait for our plane to arrive from Mexico. Well, the flight went from "on time" to "it's going to be late getting off the ground" in short order indeed. The plane arrived on time, but everyone had to wait for the police to arrive so they could take an alleged bad guy off the plane in hand cuffs...then the ambulance crew arrived to remove another guy from the plane on a stretcher! After the passengers left the plane, the cleaning crew went aboard and took over an hour to clean up the mess.

The outgoing flight crew met with the incoming crew to exchange information. We overheard the incoming pilot say that "it" wasn't working when they got the plane in Mexico, and "it" still wasn't working on arrival in Sydney. "It" turned out to be the genset in the tail of the plane that provides auxiliary power while the plane is on the ground. Apparently it's also required to start the jet engines...at least that's what we were told while we were being towed onto the the taxi-way. Our Captain...Tim...Captain Tim told us that the port engine (left) wouldn't start, but he hoped we could get it running before taking off...well...that would be good.

After about a half hour, the engine did start, but ran very rough for several minutes. The smell of fresh jet fuel entered the cabin through the "fresh air" vents over our seats. I wanted to get off the plane. Then the engine began to behave and Captain Tim came on the intercom blowing a wood train whistle and hollering "All Aboard"!!! He hit the throttles and we tore off down the runway. I still wanted to get off.

For 41 minutes, we bounced through the night sky, finally landing at Kelowna in BC's southern interior.

At last...I was getting off the plane.

"What a marvelous technological age we live in". (Captain Jack Aubrey - Royal Navy Captain HMS Surprise - ca 1805) Master and Commander - Far Side Of The World

Part Two:

After 50 weeks of 5 and 6 day weeks of 50 to 60 hours each, I allowed myself to not wake up my wife until....oh, almost 8 o'clock!! A cup of fresh coffee with the two most important women in my life ... wife and mom ... in the midst of a beautifully decorated living room. Ah, life was good.

The only drawback was the slow onset of a nagging, constant headache. A couple of days later, we were sitting down to a great turkey dinner when I realized that along with the remaining headache, I now had a sore throat! For the next week we visited, reminisced and ate. We didn't go out much.

Seven days after our arrival, we gave our rental car back and checked our luggage for our flight back to Victoria. I had assumed ownership of the headache as no matter what I had done to fight it, it was still with me.

The flight home was relatively uneventful. We were flying on a brand new Boeing 737-700 enjoying comfortable seats with no window and no tv screen on the back of the seat ahead. We did get a free glass of water and a moment of deep concern as the plane began to tip forward and backward as it descended over the Strait of Georgia toward the airport at Sydney. I wondered if this plane had been built by the lowest bidder ... or not.

We were already a couple of hours late due to bad weather on the east coast, so were eager to get home to see what had happened to our kitchen while we were away. Oh, didn't I tell you about the kitchen??

Well, about 5 or 6 weeks ago, our dishwasher failed dumping several gallons of hot water onto the floor. The short story is this...the hardwood floor in the kitchen had to be ripped out and the ceiling in the laundry room below has to be replaced. The restoration company agreed to do some of the demolition work while we were away, so we left our house in their care. They assured us that the house would be handed back to us in very good condition and there would be no mess to be found on our return.

That was not the case. It was discouraging to return to the mess that we found. It took 24 hours, but we got results and a cleanup was ordered.

At the end of that long day I went to bed for a nap, feeling very tired and still nursing that stupid headache. I stayed in bed for nearly 24 hours shaking with chills and fever. I got out of bed after the 24 hours and sat with my dog for a few hours while we watched a movie. Then back to bed for another 16 hours. The days crawled by one after another until yesterday when I got up feeling not too badly. Of course, I had to be at the office at 0755 this morning to open the store and supervise both the window store and the door shop while the owners are holidaying in Mexico. Both Susan and I are looking back at our 2009 vacation and talking about taking a two week cruise in 2010...

Christmas Greetings to Everyone

2009-12-19T22:16:00.000-08:00

Today was the first day of our two week winter holiday...the first one in several years. Imagine that! 14 days off!!! It's time for family and friends...and time to tear up our kitchen and re-build it into something up-to-date and functional. Our current kitchen hasn't seen any upgrades or even any TLC for over 30 years. A few weeks ago, a seal in our dishwasher failed and the machine spilled several gallons of water onto the floor. Relative to most disasters, ours wasn't an earth-shaker, but it did ruin the kitchen floor and the ceiling in the laundry room below.

We considered tackling the repair on our own, but thought that it might be best to notify the insurance company and have their people take a look. Good thing we did because they found, of all things, asbestos in the linoleum under the kitchen floor's hardwood. You wouldn't believe the procedure that MUST take place in order to remove it from our house.

To make a long story short, there will be a crew in our house ripping and tearing until all the bad stuff is gone from the house. Then we have to remove the flooring from the dining room and lay new hardwood in the kitchen and dining room. Then the new cabinets will be installed along with new appliances, plumbing and wiring. Big job.

So we're going to be away from our computer for a while, but we'll be back when the first stage of the work is done.

Until then, our best wishes to all of you. Enjoy your holidays with your friends and family. Be safe.

Happy Holidays!!!

Route 15 Blues

2009-11-25T22:04:00.000-08:00

When I was a young lad, my mom would tuck me into bed and kiss her little boy on the forehead before backing softly from my room, closing the door quietly as she left.
The light that crept under the door was all there was to keep the shadowy ghosts that hid in my room from emerging from their hiding places behind closet doors, or inside the large drawers that were built-in beneath my bed. The only sounds in the house came from the kitchen, just outside my bedroom door. The whole town was silent as it huddled under the ice cold Northern Ontario mid-winter night.

Once my body had warmed the soft flannel sheets, I turned around in my bed and pushed my head through the blankets at the foot of the bed so that I could peek through the window at the outside world. Moonlight turned my view clear blue and lit up the smoke that rose slowly from every chimney in the clear cold air. The snow all around glistened like sparkling diamonds on the ground and in the birch trees in the back yard. Street lights burned yellow in the night and the Northern Lights swept back and forth across the sky, entertaining the stars, much to their delight.
Within a few minutes, my warm breath had caused the single paned windows to fog up and become covered in Jack Frost designs. The sounds of the kitchen had died away and it was time for a little late night entertainment.

Turning once more under the covers, I emerged back at the head board and reached for the switch on my little brown tube radio that sat on the built-in shelf at the head of my bed. Turning the switch and hearing the much-too-loud switch as it sent electricity to the glass tubes in the back of the radio cabinet, I waited for sounds to come from the cloth covered speaker. In a moment or two, sounds began to wander in and out; first a clicking sound which soon turned into a humming with a wavering high pitched tone. I was fascinated by these sounds, as they might have come from outer space, or from New York or Chicago, or Toronto or…. .
Turning the dial, I would search for a station that might be playing the latest instalment in the series “The Green Hornet”…or “The Inner Sanctum” or some other radio play. I would turn the volume down to a level that I was sure only I could hear. If my mom knew I was staying awake to listen to the radio she would tap on my door and tell my to turn it off and get to sleep.

Every night was different in the world of late night radio, but the one constant that I could depend on was that…at just the most critical moment in the plot, when the unsuspecting victim was about to be pounced upon, or the heavy door that had hidden the monster from view began to C-R-E-E-E-A-K … the radio signal would fade slowly away to be replaced by the Chicago Livestock Report on radio station WLS or XYZ, or whatever. Try as I might, I couldn’t get my radio play back in time to find out who did it…or why.

Occasionally, I would get a station that was playing music other than what I was used to hearing at home. My parents were big fans of Big Band stuff and Sinatra and Johnny Ray. But I would sometimes get a few minutes of something called The Blues from I don’t know where. The Blues was never played on local radio like CKSO or any station I could find from Toronto when the atmospheric conditions were favourable.

Now let’s roll the clock ahead about 10 years and a great many adventures.

I decided that I needed to stretch my wings and leave the nest. I gathered a couple pairs of jeans and some T-shirts and rolled them into my sleeping bag which I stashed into the little compartment in the front of my Robin’s Egg Blue 1961 VW 2-door sedan. I waited for my dad to leave for work and I said goodbye to my grandfather and my mom and left saying I was going to Toronto or Saint Catherines to visit friends. I’d call, I said when I got settled.

Well, I hung around Saint Catherines with friends for a week or so and then headed across the US border looking for a girl I had met once at a tourist camp near Capreol, Ontario. I knew her last name and the fact that she lived in Clarksville Pennsylvania so off I went to look for her.

I found Route 15 heading south and followed the Susquehanna Trail along the Susquehanna river toward Harrisburg. I had been driving for a long time and decided I’d pull off the road somewhere for a squirt and a ‘burger, and perhaps I might curl up on the back seat for a few hours of sleep if I could find some where to park that looked like it might be safe. With night falling, I came around a long curve in the 2-lane country road and saw a sign that said “Chapman Hollow” turn right. Near the turn off to Chapman Hollow there was a typical country bar on the left with a Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer sign flashing in the window near the door. It was a two story building that was probably built during the ‘40’s and had seen all of it’s better days pass it by. But it was a watering hole and I needed one badly so I turned into the small gravel parking lot and pulled to a stop in front of the door.

Getting out of the car, I locked the door and stretched before pushing the door aside and stepping inside. The place looked clean and tidy and smelled only slightly of cigarettes, American beer and old wood. The place was empty with the exception of the bartender and myself, so I wandered over to a booth and sat down. Soon the bartender came over to the table and asked me what I wanted. “A burger and a beer”,..”Please”… I said.

“I think you’re too young to be asking me for a beer”, he said. “OK” I said, “Can I have a Coke then?”. “Sure,” he said as he turned to go to the kitchen.

At that point a man about 30 years old walked in and sat down at the bar. The bartender brought him a beer and they chatted for a few minutes while my burger was being set onto the griddle. The bartender went to the fridge and pulled my Coke from behind the door. I was thirsty enough to want to drink the Coke, but what I really wanted a beer…or two. Then I saw the bartender open the fridge and put my Coke back inside and take out another beer which he handed to the young man who had just come in from the dark.The young man brought the two beers over to my table and handed one to me. I thanked him and asked him to sit down. He declined. He had seen my VW in the parking lot with an Ontario Plate on it and asked countless questions until my burger arrived. When I told him that I was going to sleep in my car that night, he said he’d talk with the bartender about getting me a bed for the night in one of the rooms upstairs. I didn’t have enough money to spend any on a room so I said that I’d be OK in my car. The next thing I knew, these men who, it turned out, were brothers gave me a room with a fresh bed for $2.00…just enough to cover the laundry cost, they said. So, after my burger and beer, I said goodnight and dragged my duffle bag up the stairs for my first night in a real bed on over a week.

The room was nicely appointed with a large bed with a chenille bedspread and two big pillows. There were thin curtains on the window with a dark green pull-down blind to keep the sun out. I tried to pull it down, but it was stuck in the full “up” position, so I resigned myself to rising early. There was a porcelain wash basin standing on a night table with a porcelain water jug nearby. There was a small washroom at the end of the hall so I took my little leather bag of toiletries and walked down the creaky wooden hallway floor to the light green wooden door of the bathroom. I don’t recall very much after that but I do recall how nice it felt to get into bed and put my head down on the pillow. I fell asleep immediately.

My sleep was fitful and filled with ragged dreams of headlights and white lines in the middle of the road. And there was music…Blues was drifting through my sleep. There was a guitar and a string bass and a fiddle and a harmonica…and singing.

I awoke not long after I had gone to bed with the sound of the Blues coming from the room across the hall. I got out of bed and got dressed, thinking how rude it was to be making noise at this late hour. I stepped out into the hall prepared to meet with some stiff opposition to my request that they break up the party and leave me in peace, but instead was met with broad smiles and a warm invitation to join in.

I was completely taken by surprise! There were four elderly black men in the room. One held a violin, another had several harmonicas on his lap and yet a third man’s arm was slung loosely over a large guitar. The fourth man was standing beside an overturned washtub. The washtub had a chord attached to the middle of the bottom of the tub and the other end of the chord was tied to the upper end of a shoulder-high broom stick. This was the source of the bass sound that I’d been hearing. One of the men went downstairs and came back with a chair for me to sit on and then they settled in for about an hour of the Blues. There was no sheet music…not that I would have been able to read it, but they didn’t read music either. Everything they played, they worked out during sessions like this one and one night a month, they met in this room for a night of music and a couple of bottles of beer. For much of the night, they played and we all sang and in the end, after they had packed up and left, I fell into bed at 4:00 am for three or four hours of very deep sleep. The Blues had found me, entertained me and hooked me for life.

Wedding Anniversary - 24 years of happiness

2009-10-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

Today, my wife and I celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary. It was a quiet affair; we didn't go out for dinner and we didn't exchange cards. There were no flowers or promises of love and fidelity until the day we die. We both agreed that we have built our life together to last through all the fires that might come our way. We've been through many of those fires and, while we occasionally got singed, and sometimes had to retreat into each other's hearts for healing and nurturing, we are strong in our understanding of each other.

Today found a list of thoughtfully assembled words that underlie a well balanced relationship between people and we believe that we can count ourselves among those who take these words to heart. If you care to read through this beautiful page, you'll come to the last item on the list that is probably the most poignant one of all. It is now the biggest reason that I come home to my wife every day and never think of other women in an inappropriate way. My love, my commitment to our relationship is built on the many points listed in the page, but the last one is the cement that holds it all together.

1. I love you not because of who you are, but because of who I
am when I am with you.

2. No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is,
won't make you cry.

3. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them
to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.

4. A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and
touches your heart.

5. The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside
them knowing you can't have them.

6. Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know
who is falling in love with your smile.

7. To the world you may be one person, but to one person you
may be the world.

8. Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to
waste their time on you.

9. Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before
meeting the right one, so that when we finally meet the person, we will know
how to be grateful.

10. Don't cry because it is over, smile because it happened.

11. There's always going to be people that hurt you so what
you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you
trust next time around.

12. Make yourself a better person and know who you are before
you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.

13. Don't try so hard, the best things come when you least
expect them to.

14. AND...the most compelling reason that our marriage survives intact after all these years.....my wife has told me that, at 64 years of age, younger women are no longer interested in me!!!

REMEMBER: WHATEVER HAPPENS, HAPPENS FOR A REASON.
True friends: How many people actually have 8 true friends?
Hardly anyone I know ! But some of us have the right friends
and good friends!!! Author Unknown

RULE CLASS AT RED PASS JUNCTION

2009-10-21T21:36:00.001-07:00

RED PASS RULE CLASS

It was just after 8:00 am when the westbound freight eased to a stop in front of the depot at Red Pass Junction, BC. The head end brakeman backed through the narrow cab door behind the engineer and let himself down the ladder to the ground. I picked up my back pack from the cab floor and thanked the engineer for the ride, as I too backed through the door. I had been called earlier that morning to deadhead to Red Pass Jct. and wait for a special rail inspection car that had left Prince George and was expected to arrive in Red Pass Jct. before noon. I was told that I would be needed as an extra crew member to guide the car and its occupants over the last 45 miles from the junction to Jasper.

The head end brakeman met me at the door to the Operator’s Office as he was leaving with a set of dispatcher’s train orders that would help get their train down the mountain from the Yellowhead Pass we had just crossed and into the valley bottom some 30 miles further on. Number 2, the east-bound Trans-continental was running late due to a rock slide in the Fraser River Canyon several hundred miles away, so all west-bound freights, running as extras had to get updates on the passenger’s progress in order to keep out of the way and still not be delayed too badly themselves. The slide had been a major disruption to service in the mountains and it would take a few days to get operations running smoothly again. Patience was to be the order of the day.

I sat down on the bench on the station platform and watched each car as it rolled past when the train left. As the caboose passed the station, the operator held out a wooden “y” shaped apparatus with a set of orders with a clearance attached on a string and the tail-end brakeman, standing on the lower step at the rear of the wood caboose put his arm through the “y” caught the orders on his arm and waved to the operator and me.

I stayed on the platform for a few moments and listened to the sound of the engines wander back and forth through the deep valleys.

Inside, I found the operator, Gerry Taylor sitting at his desk with his earphones in place, speaking to the Dispatcher. He “OS’d´ the train out of Red Pass Jct. at 0809. When he set the head set back on its cradle at the side of his desk he turned to me with a broad grin and asked me why I was left behind. After I explained that I was called to meet the special observation car from Prince George, he laughed saying that it hadn’t left McBride yet. It was already beginning to look like it would be a long quiet day spent in Red Pass Junction…population 1…now 2. Red Pass had once been a much larger community than it was on this day. Old timers in Jasper told me that there had been a hotel, a school, a store and a post office and numerous families lived there too. I suppose that was around the time of the First World War when both the Canadian Northern and The Grand Trunk Pacific ran side by side westward across the prairies and into the mountains as far as Red Pass. At Red Pass, the tracks diverged with the Canadian Northern taking a southerly route toward Vancouver and the Grand Trunk taking a northerly route to Prince Rupert.

But today… there were just Gerry and I…and the ravens and squirrels.

I wandered around the station waiting room for a few minutes and then went outside. Looking both east and west, I realized that for this type “A” personality, it was going to be a VERY long day. The next freight expected at Red Pass wouldn’t arrive for at least 8 hours…and that was just a guess.

I wandered down to the shore where the beautiful Moose Lake emptied its contents into the stream that was named “Fraser River” and I sat down on a rock to watch the water birds as they worked the shoreline for little creatures to eat. Picking up a flat stone, I raised my arm to attempt to skip the stone across the Fraser River. This was probably the only spot on the river, which is several hundred miles in length where one might attempt to set this ‘record’ as the river was about a hundred feet wide at the point where it left Moose Lake. Gerry’s voice stopped me! I turned to see him approaching with a fishing rod in his hand.

“You might not want to scare the fish”, he said. “Maybe you can catch something for our lunch”.

“Thanks a lot”, I said to him. “I’ll give ‘er a try”. We talked for a few minutes and he went back to his desk inside the station.

Well, I tried…and I tried. I saw a few fish break the surface of the water only to disappear again without taking notice of the lure I was throwing at them. There were a pair of Ospreys working the lake and they seemed to be having better luck that I was. After an hour or more of walking up and down the shore, tossing the lure (I had only one lure) into every likely looking bit of dark water that I could reach, I reeled in the line and sat down on a rock to consider my next move.

A man’s voice broke the stillness and I quickly turned to see two men, dressed quite well in dark slacks, top coats and leather gloves walking toward me. One of them asked me what I was doing there so I explained that I was a CNR brakeman who was waiting for a special inspection train from Prince George and that I was to accompany it to Jasper once it arrived at Red Pass. The men seemed curious about the operation of the railway and asked me lots of questions about trains, and train orders; trackside signals and whistle signals, air brake tests and employee tests.

Carefully removing their nice leather gloves and placing them on a rock beside me, they sat down and asked me if the railway was required to test employees on their knowledge of rules and regulations. “Oh yes,” I said… “We have to take periodic Rule Exams in order to keep our jobs.” “We also have to have a Medical Examination and submit our watches to watch inspectors as well.”

Explaining the importance of knowing our medical condition and keeping fit for duty, I went on to describe how important it was to ensure that our watches were maintained in prime condition so that we could operate under train orders and time table schedules without endangering passengers, crews and equipment.

One of the men took the lead with his questions and asked me how we kept track of all the dates of all the different examinations. I told him that we were issued a ‘card’ for every one of the different tests. I proudly showed him my medical card, my watch card and my rule card. The rule card showed that I was qualified in “B” book rules and was due to re-qualify in about three months at which time my current rule card would expire.

He looked each card over carefully, turning each of them over in his hands reading the handwritten comments on each side. As he finished reading each one, he handed it to the other man who read them as well. When he had gathered them up again, he said “well, son, you’ve given us a pretty complete tour of the railroad and its operations.” “I see that your rule card is about to expire, so I’ll tell you what I’m going to do…” “I’m going to give you a pass on the rule exam we’ve given you today.” I chuckled…thinking, “I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but he can’t take the place of a real Rule Instructor and give me a pass on…” “Here’s your new rule card” he said….”it’s good for three years!”

He signed the small brown card and handed it to me…signed by Mr. John Procyk, the Chief Rule Instructor for the entire Mountain Region!!

The two men laughed quietly as they turned and walked toward the station.

The Urban Survivor...What was meant by "and the meek shall inherit the earth"?

2009-08-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

With regards to my last post about buying local...

Lynnette said...
Thats quite frightening Bruce! As you know I'm an avid gardner and during our season, live off of my garden, it's that other 8 months that I find it hard to source locally. We have come to expect fresh vegetables in January and think nothing of eating summer style throughout the year. I think we have to change some of our eating habits as well as our shopping habits. So.....guess it's stew for me all winter!

You're right Lynnette...shopping for our table can be quite daunting. I picked up a few things for dinner on the way home from work recently and found myself reading all the labels and trying to make a sensible decision on each item. The romaine hearts came in either organic or reasonably priced; the salad dressings were either the by-product of a grade 10 chemistry experiment or not-so-reasonably priced and the...well, I could go on and I sometimes do.

My garden was almost a total failure this year due to my inability to stay focused ... and other chores, but I did manage to get a big sack of onions and garlic out of it, not to mention some fruit, melons and squash. Soooo...it's back to Safeway for us this winter.

Oh, what did I bring home for dinner, you ask? A couple of lovely tender AAA steaks from beasties that were raised in (likely) Alberta or some other foreign country, fed pellets that smell like fish, are packed with hormones and then finished off with a couple of meals of grain that has been sprayed to ward off mould, mildew, rust, worms, bugs, birds and poachers. I can feel my breasts growing and that's not a good thing.

Oh, and I also picked up a copy of Mother Earth News to read after dinner. I think I've done my part, don't you?

Shop and Eat Local

2009-08-12T20:40:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, I wrote a small article about "buying Canadian" in this blog. Over the many weeks since then, many of my visitors have come to read what I had to say on the matter. I felt compelled to address the subject because I've never been able to understand why a country the size of Canada, and which possesses the incredible resources that we have, must resort to importing from foreign sources most of what we consume. As I have stated in the past, we have abandoned our ability to manufacture so many of the goods we use. We've traded away our initiative to invent, develop, market and support ourselves in a global economy.

I was about 12 years old when I was shocked by my governments' decision to destroy the greatest technological advancement in Canadian history... the Avro Arrow...a futuristic military interceptor that was built by Canadians (for the most part) in Canada...for Canada's own defense.
The destruction of these aircraft and the tooling, plans, parts and infrastructure is but one of Canada's great shames.

I sincerely believe that the Canadian psyche was horribly disfigured by the actions of the Federal government of the day (the Conservative government of Prime Minister John Diefenbaker). In the decades that have followed, Canada has tumbled over itself trying to break down trade barriers that stand in the way of Canadian access to foreign goods rather than investing in ventures that would ensure our own survival in an uncertain global economy.

Today, we find ourselves in the midst of a rather frightening recession that threatens to wreak havoc on our financial security. Those of us who have invested in open markets with the view of ensuring our financial futures are feeling rather shaky about what the future really holds. This says that not only do we depend on foreign sources for our food and most other necessary goods, we also can't survive our futures without having the foreign dominated markets to invest in for the income that we hope will keep us in imported goods for the term of our natural lives.

Do we have what it will take to turn this train around? Do we have the will to invest in ourselves or in our own country? Have a look at the video below... it was produced by Hellman's Foods Ltd. and is a classic demonstration of the consumer practices we now consider to be "normal".

Words of Wisdom from my Mother

2009-07-31T22:33:00.000-07:00

As I was leaving my parents' home...probably for the last time, my mother offered me the following advice:

"On the day you were born, I gave you just two things...your life...and your name." "Take care of them equally and I will be happy that you have lived a good life".

Over the years, I've done many things. Some were good...and some were not so good. But the words that my mother said to me on that night set the bar that would guide me through my life. And whenever I strayed, I would be brought back to my center with a gentle, but silent reminder that I should take care of my life and my name.

Why do our dogs age so much faster than we do?

2009-07-19T22:42:00.000-07:00

CONNOR 1998

Connor is fast asleep on his bed near my feet as I write this. He's sleeping a lot more lately than he used to. He doesn't move as quickly or as sure-footed anymore. But when it comes to playing soccer with me in the field below the house...he's still got it...but he tires quickly. When he walks away from the ball, I know he'll soon be headed up to the house to lie by the door until I come and pick him up to carry him inside. We go to the tub to clean him up and while I'm having my shower he goes to his bed and sinks into a deep, deep sleep.

CONNOR IN 2009

When we live with other people, we don't age relative to each other as quickly, or at least we don't notice it until we suddenly come to realize that the face in the mirror looks just like your parent. And just to confirm that it isn't an unfortunate mistake...you look down and see your mother's or your father's legs and feet sticking out of your pants!

Well, as disconcerting as that is, we have time to get used to it, or get over it...or not. But when your dog begins to age, it happens at an accelerated rate and within a month or two, they don't wag their tails as much, or their ears don't perk up and their eyes lose their brightness.

Then Susan came home with a dog...did I say "a" dog?... No...two dogs named Solli and Connor.

Solli died before her time after a long illness and, while losing her was difficult, we knew that her death released her from the grip of her disease. Connor has had health problems since he was a puppy, but he's fought his way through it for years.

Connor's eyes have lost the bright clarity that they once had, and his hearing has all but left him. But he doesn't complain.

Illness and disease can be fought, treated and recovered from...but age will not be held off.

My friend is getting older faster than I am and I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to need therapy to get through this.

A friend, after listening to my story sent me the following bit of prose....

A Dog's Prayer

Treat me kindly, my beloved master, for no heart in the entire world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me. Do not break my spirit with a stick, for though I should lick your hand between the blows, your patience and understanding will more quickly teach me the things you would have me do.

Speak to me often, for your voice is the world's sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footstep falls upon my waiting ear.

When it is cold and wet, please take me inside... for I am now a domesticated animal, no longer used to bitter elements... and I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth... though had you no home, I would rather follow you through ice and snow than rest upon the softest pillow in the warmest home in all the land... for you are my god... and I am your devoted worshiper.

Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for although I should not reproach you were it dry, I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst. Feed me clean food, that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side, and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life, should your life be in danger.

And, beloved master, should the Great Master see fit to deprive me of my health or sight, do not turn me away from you. Rather hold me gently in your arms as skilled hands grant me the merciful boon of eternal rest...and I will leave you knowing with the last breath I drew, my fate was ever safest in your hands. --Beth Norman Harris

I reach out and stroke his silky ears as he sleeps at my feet.

One more in a long line of learning opportunities...

2009-07-02T17:42:00.000-07:00

After meeting with our contractor this week we learned that he isn't prepared to go ahead with our deck renovations. Too busy. We began this process with him back in February and...granted there were some delays that I created. Trying to find suitable top coatings for our deck took the longest, but we made our choices and were prepared to move on. Besides...taking our time in choosing the top coatings shouldn't delay the tear-down and construction of the framing, should it?

We asked him several times to give us a 'ballpark' figure for the construction, but he wouldn't be pinned down that way. But this week he freely gave me a figure of $25,000.00 to $40,000.00 for the deck reno based on our "want" list. "I don''t think so", says I.

So I went back to my drawing board...a sheet of cardboard held on my lap with a pad of graph paper on top. New plan. Bugger the expensive top coatings! Tear off the existing upper and lower decks and begin anew. The area that the lower decks covered will now become garden areas and the upper deck will be shrunk by about 2/3rds leaving hard surface deck outside the kitchen and dining room. The remainder of the area now occupied by deck will become roof which will cover the lower deck, thus making a 'porch' round much of the house. This could be done to look nice, but come in under budget.

My friend Dave, who came to our rescue with his big loader last winter and dug us out after ten days being snowbound came by today to say hello. He said he'll bring his dump truck and leave it over a full weekend so that we can load up all the wood we tear out of the deck. I know he won't charge us a lot as I send him lots of customers who want driveways re-built and excavation work done. This will help us get the debris cleared away and leave a clean work area for development. Another friend...also named Dave has already offered to help with the deck project, so if this trend keeps developing, it could end up being an old-fashioned "barn-raising" affair with food and everything!!!

I thought that the cancellation of our contractor would leave us feeling more devastated than this, but we seem to be (old enough) better able to handle disappointments than we used to be.

We just go get an ice cream cone and take a time out...then we start over again.

What do you do when you're too busy to do the important stuff???

2009-06-28T23:11:00.000-07:00

Family and friends keep telling me that I need to take time for fun things; for myself and for those around me. I agree, and I really do try to do that...well, I think about it when I'm not too busy to think about it. I keep busy with my job, working on our 2 plus acres, house work, yard work, half a dozen hobbies and all this on about 5 hours of sleep every night. I feel blessed that I get to do all this in daylight and don't have to work a night shift and try to sleep during the day.

I've been told that my drive to keep moving is due to a Type A Personality, but I think it's because I just have too many things to do and too little time to do it in! My explanation, however did nothing to allay the concerns of my loved ones...so, I finally agreed to take a day off and go on a road trip. Plans were made and two weeks ago Susan and I loaded ourselves into our van with a couple of my fellow "rail" hobby buddies and headed out to Port Alberni to look for The Alberni Pacific's elusive steam locomotive. We found it all steamed up and sitting outside the old engine house in Port Alberni waiting for train crew members to help get the train made up for the run into the forest.

I asked for permission to enter the shop building to photograph some interesting looking machinery that stood silently in the cavernous old building. Small rail operations like this one depend very heavily on volunteers to keep everything running and in a condition that will satisfy government inspectors who drop in from time to time.

Their shops are usually a treasure trove of tools and spare parts that have found their way to work benches and shelves and old wooden boxes piled high with dirty, oily bits of metal parts left over from previous scavenger hunts on unknown locomotives. This shop was no exception...except that there was a family of raccoons living somewhere in there and they were not accepting visitors on the day I was there. So I carefully stuck my head in at either end of the building and took a few photos that I'll share here.

Once the train was assembled and moved to the station, people began to stream toward the station platform for photo ops and boarding instructions from the train crew.

Soon, the whistle sounded and the bell began to ring and the train moved ahead. Steam was everywhere as the old lady pulled her train out of the station and off toward McLean Mill, a National Historic Site some miles distant in the rain forest.

Since we'd already had breakfast in a nice local restaurant, we decided to drive back toward the east side of Vancouver Island and home. An important stop of interest on the return trip was Cathedral Park where the highway cuts right through the middle of a grove of trees, one of which is eight hundred years old!!

I can't really begin to tell you what it feels like to walk in the presence of such incredible living giants. Even though the highway is only meters away, it is silent in the forest. The forest floor is soft and the smell of fir and cedar fills the still air. There was no bird-song, or sound of the wind in the tree tops because the tree tops are over one hundred and fifty feet above the ground. Once we were in the forest, we could not see the tops of the trees but there were signs posted near many of the trees telling of their age and size.

For more photos and information, please see the "Thrums" link on my web page. I used my movie camera in the forest for the most part and haven't figured out how to use streaming video on this blog yet.

Does a Canadian cease to be a Canadian if he/she spends time out of the country?

2009-05-23T20:21:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Prime Minster,

Like most Canadians, My wife and I work hard to keep those tax dollars rolling in to the Federal coffers and, when our day is done, we take our evening meal and later, some together time with our favourite television programming.

Lately, we've been affronted by your party's negative advertising as you tilt at the windmill of Michael Ignatieff and I must tell you that this form of advertising is both an affront to our intelligence and an insult to us as Canadians.

Your ad castigates Mr. Ignatieff for having spent time out of the country. You appear to make light of his speech of long ago to American audiences in which he refers (sic) to America as "his country". Do you really want us to believe that you would look down your nose at any man or woman because they feel as much a part of his or her neighbour's country as their own? Mr. Harper...you love to belly up to the Americans, in particular...the Republicans as you try to emulate them, stroke them and please them; even using FOX NEWS (the Republican tabloid network) to discuss Canadian issues that you seemed reluctant to give to us via a Canadian network.

At least Sir,...Mr. Ignatieff spent time out of the country BEFORE his election to the House of Commons while you, according to your online bio, barely got out of Alberta.

Do the right thing Mr. Prime Minister, act like a Canadian and say only nice things about your fellow Canadians. Do the right thing Mr. Prime Minister and take action to bring relief to Canadians in need...the elderly, the homeless, the hungry, the disenfranchised. Come home Mr. Prime Minister, come home from the Hill and return to the Canadian people who appreciate wise leadership but do not appreciate the weakness that is evident in these attack ads that you seem to have given your blessing of.

You will notice that Mr. Ignatieff has not retaliated against the punitive advertising that you have unleashed against him. This is obviously due to having gained experience living amongst people in countries other than Canada. What a noble Canadian he is!

I think Mr. Ignatieff will make a fine Prime Minister once the next election is out of the way, in part because he has had 34 years of international experience and will not have to rely on coaching from the White House to form Canada's Domestic and Foreign Policies.

I can only assume, because you have not said anything to the contrary that your offensive and distasteful TV ads are wholely funded by the Conservative Party and NOT by the Canadian taxpayers. I should be extremely disappointed in you if it were proven that public funds were used for these purposes.

It's good of you to take the time to read this letter, as I realize that you must be very busy with decisions that must be made in the best interests of our country.

Yours truly,

Bruce Harvey

A personal political view

2009-05-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

With a provincial election in the offing in British Columbia on May 12th, political skeletons have been stepping out of the closets.

We were shocked a few months ago to hear that a large chunk of oceanfront land from a forest lease had been released and turn it over to a land developer. Is it an illegal move on the part of the individual or the government? We won't know unless someone funds a legal challenge, but it "appears" to be unethical at least, and ethics are what we expect from those we elect to public office.

In the past eight years , we've seen a number of gut wrenching and atrocious acts performed in this province. Salmon farm leases which have been raising alarms up and down the coast due to great infestations of sea lice affecting wild stocks. Accidental release of Atlantic salmon into the Pacific habitat have caused concerns among environmentalists over the unknown (and known) effects of introducing a new species into a region. BC Rail, a publicly owned resource was leased to CNRail, an american owned company for 999 years. Hospital beds have been closed while the taxpayers have been footing the bill to send critical care patients to out-of-province medical facilities and patients are forced to undergo intrusive medical examinations on gurneys in hallways; schools have been closed forcing students to spend hours on school buses with no seat belts; extended care homes for the elderly and the weak have been closed, causing families to be separated from their loved ones, in some cases separating husbands and wives who have been together all their lives only to tear them apart in their final hours of life.

The latest bit of skullduggery that has come across my desk is the silent auction of BC's rivers to "run of river" power developments. On the surface of things, it probably sounds like a good thing to harness the power of flowing water to produce the electricity that we require to maintain our socio-economic lifestyles, but I take exception to selling those resources which, in effect subjugates the rights of the landholders, representatives of all living species in the province to private companies, whether they be Canadian or foreign owned. With reference to my earlier post about "buying Canadian", I wasn't suggesting that in order to facilitate a "Buy Canadian" ethic we should "Sell Canada" to get there.

Don't think that this is a "BC ONLY" issue, because it may be that poitical parties in other jurisdictions are watching the results of the upcoming BC election. Once the well-funded corporate entities gain a foothold, the loss of your resources becomes irreversible.

You really should go to this link Save our Rivers and take a few minutes to view the video presentation there. Think not only of yourself and your own future, but of the futures of countless generations that might follow you. It's the least you can do for your children, your country and your land. Earth is truly our best option...we must take good care of it.

WHAT IS ELECTION ADVERTISING? (taken from ELECTIONS BC website)

Definition
Election advertising is advertising used during the period beginning 60 days before a campaign period and ending at the end of the campaign period to promote or oppose, directly or indirectly, a registered political party or the election of a candidate, including an advertising message that takes a position on an issue with which a registered political party or candidate is associated, but does not include:
(a) the publication without charge of news, an editorial, an interview, a column, a letter, a debate, a speech or a commentary in a bona fide periodical publication or a radio or television program
(b) the distribution of a book, or the promotion of the sale of a book, for no less than its commerical value, if the book was planned to be made available to the public regardless of whether there was to be an election
(c) the transmission of a document directly by a person or a group to their members, employees or shareholders, or
(d) the transmission by an individual, on a non-commercial basis on the internet, or by telephone or text messaging, of his or her personal political views.

Night Train to Prince George

2009-04-29T22:20:00.000-07:00

It's not "Pappy" Howard, but is "Pappy" Harvey...my dad running a passenger train. ;~}

In 1966, the Rupert Rocket was the most practical and economical method of travelling to Prince George in the interior of BC from all points east. The train, run by the CNR from Jasper, Alberta to Prince George, BC left Jasper after dinner seven nights a week and arrived in “PG” in time for breakfast. During the night, the train would stop at several regular stops, as determined by the timetable; and many more stops would be made at unmarked places along the way. Wherever an green and white flag was encountered, sometimes displayed in front of a small track-side shelter, sometimes from a nearby tree branch…the train would stop to entrain passengers, pick up mail or drop off supplies to bush camps, prospectors, hunters, trappers and Indians.

The baggage car was rocking gently as the train wound its way along the Fraser River west of McBride, BC. During a half hour stop in McBride, the baggage car had been loaded with 76 cans of un-processed milk and cream from local dairy farms, and several items of baggage belonging to people who had come aboard heading for Prince George and points west. The last baggage rolled out of the express shed at the west end of the station loaded with grey canvas bags of Royal Mail. This was all through mail going to Prince George to be sorted and forwarded to communities all over the world. The station agent or his helper piled the mail bags on top of the already deep pile that had come from Jasper. I finished processing the baggage, adding their tag numbers to the report that I would hand over to the station agent in Prince George. The milk and cream had been brought aboard under separate agreements with the dairies and I didn’t have to complete any reports on these. Some of our passengers who were awake when the train pulled to a stop in front of the station, got off and wandered into ‘the beanery’, a railway operated restaurant for toast and coffee.

After comparing time on their watches and discussing the train orders with the engineer, the conductor gave the familiar “All Aboard” call from the platform and lightly climbed onto the coach to check his passengers. The head-end brakeman took one last look up and down the platform and, in one motion picked up the orange stepping-box and swung up into the vestibule. In a series of movements, he put away the stepping box, lowered the vestibule deck into position over the steps and closed the doors. Reaching up to the ceiling he found a cord that connected to an air-operated signalling system and pulled it twice. The brakes on the train were released as the locomotive’s bell began to ring and the whistle sounded twice. The train slid silently away from the well lit station platform and into the rain soaked night.

Running a bit late due to heavy rain, locomotive engineer ‘Pappy’ Howard nursed the throttle in an effort to make up a few minutes on the schedule. The staccato rumble of the diesels exhaust found its way into the brightly lit baggage car as I shovelled a scoop or two of coal into the pot-bellied stove that stood beside the painted steel desk that held stacks of baggage reports, Express Department documents and scraps of carbon paper waiting to make countless records that would be sent by OCS Mail (On Company Service) to unknown offices in Vancouver, Edmonton and Montreal.

Pappy blew the whistle once as I placed the cast iron lid back on the stove and dropped the scoop shovel into the coal bin. Wiping my hands on a paper towel, I walked to the big steel door on the right hand side of the baggage car and, flipping the lock to one side, pulled on the handle, sliding the door open a couple of feet. Little rivers of rain water were running down the outside of the heavy glass window in the door as I squeezed my eyelids closer together and looked outside.

The train was following a gentle curve along the river and the bright headlights, boring a hole into the cold, wet night illuminated a short tunnel that allowed trains to pass through the inside of the mountain ahead. I closed the door and reached for another paper towel to wipe the rain from my face. I would wait another moment or two before having another look outside to see why Pappy had blown the whistle. Although my initial railroad experience had been in Northern Ontario, I wasn’t long in learning that you keep your head inside whenever possible. Railroading among the mountains present new challenges and hazards to workers and travellers alike. Trees and rocks can fall on or near the track at almost any time, but when the weather is bad, the dangers escalate.

As I wiped the water from my eyes, I heard the train brakes go into emergency! The baggage car surged back and forth and began to tilt toward the river. I dove headlong into the large pile of mail sacks and pulled a bunch of them on top of myself. Taking a deep breath, I wondered whether we were going to end up in the dark waters of the Fraser River, or would the train stop moving in time?

Amid the sound of screeching brakes, grinding metal and surging train cars, the train came to a stop, with the baggage car leaning lightly toward the river.

After waiting a few seconds, I threw off the mail sacks that had covered me and opened the side door of the car. I looked toward the engine to try to determine what we had hit and saw the engine standing upright along with the steam generator car immediately behind it. The Express car, which was kept locked, contained all of the valuable packages and high security items that were being transported, was behind the steam generator, and was upright. I was unable to determine the status of my baggage car because it was standing four feet deep in mud, rocks and broken tree parts. Looking backward, I saw that the rear end of the baggage car was still inside the west end of the tunnel.

The door at the end of the car closest to the coaches opened with a loud bang and the conductor came striding in. Marvin “Tiger” Schwartz was well seasoned as a passenger conductor and had seen just about everything that the railroad or Mother Nature could throw at him. When it comes to train mishaps, this was one of little consequence…so far.

Sliding open the door closest to the mountainside, Tiger took a look around and told me to go back to the coaches and conscript every able-bodied man I could find, putting them on the company payroll. We had in the baggage car, a shipment of hand tools destined for a road maintenance company in Prince George and it was Tiger’s intention to put a shovel or a pick into the hands of every man on the train. His instructions to me were to coordinate the distribution of the tools and keep the fire hot to make coffee for the workers.

I came back to the baggage car with every man from the coaches. Not a single man chose to remain behind.

Six hours of non-stop slogging in the mud and they had righted the baggage car and cleared all of the mud and debris from beneath the train.

Once underway again, I dug through a mountain of luggage that had once been stacked and organized so meticulously so that the workers could find clean clothes to change into. It was a madhouse in there for over an hour while 20 or 30 men stripped, wiped themselves down with linen taken from the sleeping cars and climbed into fresh clothes.

When the train rolled into Prince George about noon, I was met by CN Police and RCMP who wanted to inspect the Express car’s contents. I had no issues with their request, as the doors had remained locked since before we left Jasper. While a CN Police officer asked me questions about the time we spent stuck in the mudslide, the other officers went into the Express car and closed the door behind them.

Soon they emerged and, speaking privately with the CN officer they left, only to return with the conductor. They asked us to produce our personal luggage, or ‘grips’ so they could be searched. We did and they found nothing out of the ordinary.

We spent over an hour giving a detailed account of what happened, who was in the baggage car and for what reason, and our movements during the time we were stopped by the mud slide.

Apparently, there had been a large shipment of cash in the Express car, packed $50,000.00 to the bundle and wrapped in heavy waxed paper. When the police checked the ‘valuables’ on arrival at Prince George, three of those bundles were missing.

We later learned that police dogs had located the bundles of money hidden under the tracks inside the tunnel within 100 feet of the site of our derailment. All train crew members were cleared by the police, but we never learned who had taken the money from the train, or how they had done it.

I wasn't always a good boy!

2009-04-17T20:25:00.000-07:00

Capreol was an orderly, well-mannered little town in Northern Ontario in the summer of 1956. Saturday dawned clear and bright just like every Saturday morning should when you’re ten years old.

Softly, I moved about the house making a light lunch and packing it in a small army surplus canvas knapsack along with a few other items that were always carried when one was leaving the house for a day in the woods with my Labrador Retriever named Roxy. Into a paper bag went the two peanut butter sandwiches, one with lettuce and one without.

Roxy didn’t like lettuce. It got stuck on the roof of his mouth and it made him uncomfortable as he struggled to extricate the gooey lettuce from his mouth. I always got a chuckle watching him pushing with his tongue and pulling with his paw, all the while keeping an eye on the remainder of his sandwich. He could only whimper as I would pick up his lunch and pretend to take a bite.

My parents didn’t seem to mind my leaving for a day of wandering in the woods as long as I left a note stating where I thought I might get to during my time away. I always took Roxy with me, as if I had a choice in the matter. When I left the house he was always at my side. So I packed my knapsack with some basic survival items including the two sandwiches, two apples, a can of sardines and a bag of baker’s semi-sweet chocolate chips. The latter was not considered survival food by my mom, but I certainly thought it was a good idea. Into the pack I carefully placed a small sharpening stone for my belt knife, a roll of brass snare wire, an extra pair of wool socks and a metal cup with a handle riveted to the side of it. Holding about four cups of water it was used to boil water for tea, heat up a can of soup, trap small fish, and dig for worms. On occasion it also bailed water from the bilge of boats we had found half-submerged along the shores of some of the dozens of lakes that lay within a days journey of my back door. Stuffed into a metal box was a block of paraffin, which had been previously melted then, poured into a five-cent box of Eddy wooden matches.

This was a trick that my father had taught me and it had proven to be invaluable on many occasions. One could be caught out in the cold and wet he said, at any time of the year and not be without a means of lighting a fire. Paraffin soaked wooden matches were always ready
to burst into flame, even in the pouring rain. Not only would they light wet birch bark and pine needles, but also worked well on dried leaves rolled in waxed paper sandwich wrappings which we would smoke until we could no longer stand up and walk.

Such was the importance of paraffin-soaked wooden matches.

Leaving a note for my grandma who was baby-sitting for my mom who was away for a couple of days, I pulled the packsack onto my shoulder and stepped outside into the early morning sunshine.

Roxy and my best friend Tom were waiting patiently at the end of the driveway.

Walking the two blocks down the street to where town ended and bush began; we tossed suggestions back and forth as to where we might go for today’s adventure. A hike out to Long Lake might be a good thing to do. But we never went to Long Lake without our .22’s and my grandma wouldn’t allow me to take the gun out of the house. I had argued and pleaded with her, but she said that I could do whatever I wanted to when my mom was home, but she didn’t like guns and didn’t believe that ten-year-old boys should be carrying them. Having a gun in the bush was as natural for me as was putting an extra pair of wool socks in my pack. One never knew what sort of situation might arise when one was in the bush and having a gun might save your life under the right circumstances. Heck, she wouldn’t even let Tom bring his gun along!

If any of the neighbors had been awake that early and had seen us walking down the road, carrying packsacks, and dressed for the bush, they would have immediately noticed that something was amiss. “The boys are not carrying their .22’s!” they would say. It is difficult to walk tall when one is unarmed.

Without guns, there was no point in going over to the town dump to shoot rats, and partridge hunting in the spruce swamp a couple of miles east of town by the CNR main line was also out of the question. Target shooting at cans and bottles near the old “Hobo Jungle” at the east mileboard of the Alderdale subdivision which ran from Capreol to Brent in Algonquin Park would be limited to throwing rocks and that didn’t get any votes. We were rapidly narrowing our options to one or two.

Saturday usually meant that the CN yard crew would be bringing a few carloads of livestock to the stockpen for feeding and watering. Sometimes the section foreman would let us help with the unloading and servicing of the animals. Part of the job involved cleaning the manure and mucky straw out of the cars and bring in fresh straw. At the end of the day we would be paid .25 cents or more depending on how good a job we did. Cleaning out the cars was not real popular and the sectionmen would rather pay us boys to do it than to wade into it themselves. We didn’t mind too much because if we offered to do it they would leave early and we would be left alone. Now this created a couple of opportunities for us. We were left in charge of the operation once the animals had been moved into the pens. Once the water troughs were filled and the cars shoveled out, a hose was dragged in. As you might imagine, this presented an opportunity for adventure. There was a lot of muck flying when the cars were being hosed out and if you got splashed bad enough, you had to go home to change your clothes. And chances are that if you went home to change, your mom wouldn’t let you come back. Mothers were pretty disgusted by sons who came home looking and smelling that bad!

Fresh hay and straw was brought using handcarts from boxcars that were kept nearby. Most of the bales were tied using heavy twine that we would save in our pockets for later.

Not only would we get paid for this work, but it was fun too. Once the animals were unloaded, fed and watered and the cars cleaned, the sectionmen would leave the area only to return several hours later to reload the animals into the cars. The afternoon yard switcher would show up after dark, gather up all the cars and put them on a train bound for the markets in Toronto or Montreal.

But today the rail crew had not yet brought the loaded cars to the stockpen. Perhaps the eastbound train had been delayed out on the Ruel Sub. We would check back later.

At the end of the street, we stepped into the bush leaving the town behind us. The bush soon gave way to a forest of spruce, birch and cedar that filled the air with beautiful smells. New sounds reached our ears too, as crickets, grasshoppers, and other insects made the woods come alive with their noises. As we walked along the path that led deeper into the forest, the air became cooler and, somehow, felt thicker than it did in town. Our senses began to work harder as we listened and watched for birds or animals. Being unarmed as we were, we had to be even more vigilant for danger.

Soon, we emerged from the forest into a large, flat clearing in which everything seemed to change. The smells and sounds of the forest turned abruptly into those of the swamp. For now we had entered the realm of the beaver and the otter, the muskrat and the turtle.

Before us lay a large beaver pond created by the beavers when they dammed up the creek that ran through this low marshy area. The swamp was about two hundred yards wide and was one of the most magical places I had ever known. Besides the spruce and birch trees, the tea bush and the mountain ash, there were many varieties of shrubs and flowers. The wettest parts were thick with bulrushes and lily pads, which only partly covered the ponds and backwaters along the creek path. Stepping out onto the dam we began picking our way carefully among the sticks and mud. Turtles slipped noiselessly from the dam into the water ahead of us. Frogs leaped from the top of the dam making soft “kerplop” sound. Redwing blackbirds climbed into the air from the bulrushes. The sound of songbirds filled the air.

There were always lots of opportunities to find trouble here if we couldn’t decide on a destination or an activity for the day. This was a favourite place to play. If I was late getting home and my mother was worried about me, this was the first place she would look.

The swamp was almost impassible if you didn’t cross on the beaver dam and more than once I had slipped off a log or hummock of grass only to sink chest deep in rich, steamy, stinking ooze. I have had to explain this to my mother while she patiently peeled my mucky clothing from my little body. The swamp was not an easy place to get around in, and much was owed to that small colony of beavers that maintained our only means of crossing the swamp. One end of the dam was anchored in the forest at a point near the end of our street and the other end fell at the foot of the CN roadbed near the East end of the stockpen. On the upstream side of the dam was a pond, which covered about five acres. In the middle of this pond was a large beaver lodge and in the summer, the lodge was inaccessible. In the winter, it was exactly in the middle of our ice hockey rink.

Crossing the dam, we pulled off our packs and hung them in a tree just out of sight of the trail leading up from the dam to the tracks. We headed back onto the dam and, just because, we began to dismantle the dam. Anyone who has ever tried to pull a beaver dam apart knows just how tough a job this can be. These dams are an engineering marvel. Built almost entirely of sticks, rocks and mud, the dams hold many thousands of gallons of water, and resist destruction by man. However, with perseverance, two boys can claw a small hole in the dam in about an hour. This will cause the beavers to emerge from their lodge to repair the damage.

We didn’t hear the engine come with the stock cars. We didn’t see the crew leave them behind and go back into the railyard about a mile away. We were totally involved with tearing a hole in the beaver dam and the rest of the world, for that hour, did not exist.

Only when we were satisfied that sufficient water was escaping over the dam did we return to our packs hanging in the trees. It was then that I heard the lowing of cattle. Grabbing my pack, I began to run toward the track for a look. Sure enough, there were several cars spotted at the pens and there were no men in sight. This meant that a chance to earn a bit of cash was gone but, on the upside, the fact that all the men had left the pens meant that there was still the chance that we could do our second most favourite thing to do on a Saturday...riding cattle!

With all the stealth we could muster, we crept closer for a look. Nope, nobody here. Up the whitewashed steps we stole until we were on the long ramp or deck that was between the now empty cars and the stock pens which contained the relaxing cattle. Peering through the slats of the chalky 2 x 8’s of the first pen, I could see about 25 Herefords. Some were munching on hay, some taking long drinks of water from the steel troughs and some just standing and chewing their cud. Breaking in to a cautious run, Tom, Roxy and I checked out each of the pens to look at all of the cows. One of the pens even had pigs in it. We didn’t trust pigs: they were sometimes aggressive and you just couldn’t tell if they were coming toward you because you were offering some fresh grass, or because they were thinking about biting you. It’s always best to leave the damn pigs alone. Cows were a different story. I’d never heard of a cow biting a kid. But they didn’t like dogs, so Roxy was going to have to be sent home. He was pretty good about that. He knew if I sent him home that I’d make it up to him at suppertime. A bad conscience pays big dividends.

So, as Roxy made his way slowly back over the beaver dam, Tom and I went in search of pieces of binder twine that we would tie, end for end to make a lasso with which to capture a cow.

Once captured, we would lead the cow to the side of the pen near the hayrack, hold it still and ease our weight onto its back. Then it was just a matter of time to see who could hold on the longest. This was great sport and once you had fallen into the goop it didn’t matter how many more times you were thrown.

But before we could round up enough twine for our lariat, we heard the sound of more kids arriving on the scene. Now, we had always considered these stockpens to be our private, secret domain. Strange kids arriving here presented a serious challenge to our sovereignty. Grabbing our packs, we quietly climbed up the steel rungs of a ladder on one of the rail cars and lay down on the roof, hanging on to the walkway on the roof of the car. Slowly, carefully, we crept closer to the edge of the roof so that we could see who might be coming along the platform. Soon, four boys from the “other side of the track” came into view. One of them was carrying a length of rope! It was obvious that they were up to the same brand of trouble that we were there for.

We decided to climb down and pretend that we were disinterested in roping and riding. Instead, we would have to pull out the stops and make plan “B” sound like the more exciting thing to be doing.

Plan “B” was made possible by the fact that both Tom’s father and my father worked for the railroad. We were well acquainted with most of the in’s and out’s of railroad life including, as in the Roger Miller song “King of the Road”……. ”Every lock that ain’t locked when no one’s around”.

Tom and I both had CN switch keys. These were keys that fit the locks on all of the railway’s switches, tool sheds, motorcar sheds, gates and, at the stockpens, the locks that were used to secure the boxcars used to store hay, straw, fusees and coal oil. So…….

We climbed down from the roof of the car to the platform after the four boys had passed our hiding place. Together, we dropped beneath the cars and crept under the platform deck making our way along the track to where the storage cars were standing. There we raised ourselves up to where we could reach the lock on the large sliding door of the boxcar and slipped a key into the lock. With a great snap and clinking of chain, the lock popped open. Removing the lock, we rolled the great doors open a foot or so and wedged a piece of hardwood into the door opening so that the door couldn’t be closed trapping us inside.

Inside the car was dark and dusty. The shaft of sunlight, which entered through the partly opened door, gave the only hint to what was inside the car. To our right, the car was empty except for loose hay, which was scattered everywhere on the floor. The hay was ankle deep and a great cloud of irritating dust rose from it with each step that we took. To our left, there were bales of hay piled with reasonably neatness and reaching almost to the ceiling. “Perfect”, we said, quietly. We can tear down enough of this stacked hay to build a great fort. We could play secretly in here while those other kids were roping cows and getting covered in warm, soupy cow shit. “Perfect.”

Bales of hay are large and heavy. When they come tumbling down from a height of ten feet or so and land on the floor, they make a fair bit of noise like a drum being beaten softly. I guess all the activity of building a hay fort also makes the boxcar rock gently to and fro as well. It wasn’t very long at all before there were four faces looking through the narrow opening of the doorway at Tom and I. “What the hell are you doing,” they asked? “Can we play too?” “Sure”, we said. “But we’re the boss and you’re the workers”.

“OK, but we can’t stay long. We have to go home for lunch.”

“We got our own, so we’re staying”, we said. And we set about doing some serious building in that car.

Some time later, we had a fort like no other constructed entirely of hay within the privacy and secrecy of the boxcar. Every so often, whenever Tom or I thought of it, we would get one of the others to go to the open door and look for signs that the workmen were returning. We were ready to run for it at the first sign of activity near the parking lot at the West End of the pens.

Eventually, one of the four boys said that he had to go home and the others agreed to go with him.

As they dropped from the fort to the floor of the car, one of them spotted a mouse running through the loose hay on the floor. It was heading for a corner in the far end of the car and we all gave immediate chase. The mouse was doing pretty well, as it appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared in that hay. The dust that was raised during the frantic chase was beginning to choke us and our eyes were smarting from it. Noses soon became plugged as we snurfed and snorted. We agreed that we had to get this mouse quickly or be forced to evacuate the car altogether.

So a plan was devised. We would chase it to the centre of the open space and encircle it. Then, we would kick all the loose hay into a pile in the middle and, with the mouse trapped in the pile, we would leap onto the whole mess and stomp until we had him.

The mouse had another plan, however. It bounded across the hay and dove into a hole in the floor near a corner and disappeared. “He’s trapped!” we yelled.

Now it was just a matter of getting him out of the hole.

Everyone knew that the best way to get an animal out of a hole is smoke him out. Uh huh. You guessed it. This is where the paraffin- soaked wooden matches come in handy.

Taking up a handful of loose hay and breaking one of the matches from the block of wax, I lit the torch that was to force the mouse from the hole. The four kids from the other side of the tracks were so impressed with the wax-soaked match trick they wanted another demonstration. And I showed them again how I did it.

This momentary distraction was all the gods needed to get the upper hand on our well-laid plan.

Bits of hay, burning like there was no tomorrow, fell onto the pile of super-dry loose stuff on the floor. I tried to stomp out the fire while it was still small, but too many feet make the devil’s work and soon we were waist-deep in flame and smoke.

It was now time to run!

Tom and I grabbed our packsacks that had been hanging in the doorway and six of us tried to cram through a hole that was big enough only for one. In a near panic, we all made it out onto the platform only to be looking at two very large CN Constables who were running down the platform toward us. They were barking orders for us to “STOP” but I remember thinking that they were very large and I was very small, so I could get through the crack between the boxcar and the platform to freedom and they couldn’t. I had a chance and I took it.

Throwing my pack down between the now-burning car and the one next to it, I dropped through the crack and, picking up my pack I leaped out onto the main line and began to run away from the fire and toward the safety of the beaver dam. I saw Tom emerge from beneath the car and run straight across the track and into the bush toward the swamp. “They’ll get him for sure”, I thought, as I felt my feet touch the ties between the rails.

I was running as hard as I’d ever run in my little life and I could hear the thumping of large, black, polished boots on the ground very close behind me. A deep, booming male voice said, “I know who you are” “I know your father”. “Maybe, then maybe not”, I thought and my feet began touching the ground a lot less often. Then I remembered something my father had told me about walking on the track, which was something we did often. He said that the ties were spaced just far enough apart to make it difficult for a man and easy for a child because of the difference in the length of their legs. “I’ve got an edge…I’ve got an edge…I’ve got an edge…”

I reached my stride and kept it up as I leapt off the track and ran down the path toward the beaver dam.

I had crossed that dam so many times that I could do it running at full speed on a cloudless night in pouring rain being chased by monsters. This big cop didn’t have a chance now and I knew it.

Sure enough, I heard his heavy breathing begin to fall away to the rear. He was panting heavily, and he tried once more to get me to stop by yelling at me. But his frustration level was pretty high and all he could do was mutter something that I couldn’t hear. I was home free.

Running down the road near my house, I heard the fire truck sirens on the other side of the swamp. Taking a glance over my shoulder in that direction, I saw men pulling hose along the track and putting water on the fire, which had broken through the roof of the car. The boxcar adjacent to it, which contained coal oil, gasoline and fusees was also burning on one end. This was going to be a very big news item at the barbershop over the next few weeks.

The taste of fear was beginning to well up in my throat. I knew that I was in deep doo-doo this time. My dad would be very unpredictable when he got home from his trip.

I was about two doors away from home when I saw the police car turning onto our street about three blocks away. Running through the neighbor’s yard and around the back, I crossed the lane into my yard. I knew I had no time to get the house key out of the doghouse beneath the back steps and let myself in, so I just crawled in with Roxy and hid, panting, and listening to my heart trying to get out of my now-doomed chest.

With two Police Officers standing just a couple of feet over my head, and Roxy growling menacingly, I lay, wondering how long it would take to change my name and get a job in a strange city like Toronto or Montreal.

After knocking hard enough to bring the neighbours from their homes, and getting no answer, the two officers walked around to the back yard and talked for a minute or two. Then I listened, not breathing until they returned to their car and drove away.

Roxy stopped growling.

I took the house key from the nail inside the doorway of Roxy’s house and slowly emerged only to fall almost into the arms of a large policeman.

The Police car returned in about five minutes and I got a free ride down to the CN Police offices where I got to sit in a room with the other boys who lived on the other side of the tracks.

One of the officers came into the room and asked me to name the other lad who had evaded them by diving into the murky waters of the swamp. I said I didn’t know him. The officer shrugged and said something about how I was going to have wait in a cell until they found him or until my parents came for me.

In the next hour or so, the other boys were led out of the room and were taken home by their parents. No Mom or Dad.

Only then did I think to ask about the fire. “Was there much damage?” “How were the cows and pigs?”

“There was a lot of damage”, one of the officers said. “The mainline is blocked and the passenger train is stuck out at the Yard Limit Board while the yard crew tries to get the remaining cars loaded and out of the pen area”.

A little later I was brought a small lunch and a bottle of pop. I hadn’t eaten all day and I was now beginning to get my appetite back. As I sat in silence and ate my peanut butter sandwich, I wondered what was going to happen to me. My dad would be upset. My mom would be disappointed and my granddad would look at me, his eyes rimmed with tears. Each of these reactions by itself would be enough, but I couldn’t conceive of facing all three of these people with the guilt and shame I was feeling at this point.

An officer came into the room and told me that there was someone on the phone that wanted to talk to me. I went with him into another room and took the phone. “Hello”, I said, with a hint of question in my voice. “Bruce”, my mother’s voice said sharply, “you can stay where you are until I’m not upset anymore.” She hung up.

Now it was my turn to cry. I cried for an hour until the door opened and my mom was standing there waiting to take me home. She looked calm.

My father, an engineer on steam trains, had been out on the road and had come home after midnight only to learn of his son’s deeds at the stockyards the day before. I was asleep when he came into the house. He didn’t wake me.

In the morning, my mother told me that I should go into their bedroom and face my father. He was still in bed and rolled over to face me, asking me what happened on Saturday. I told him the whole story, leaving nothing out. When I was finished, he told me that he appreciated my honesty, but was forced to give me a spanking with his belt. Discipline would be later in the day, maybe after supper.

I had all day to think about it. My dad had, to this point, never hit me. He had threatened to on more than one occasion, but had never fulfilled the promises. This time, I was sure, he would carry out my sentence.

Finally, after what seemed to be the longest day and the quietest meal, he called me to the living room where he was sitting in his big easy chair. He loosened his belt and began to pull it slowly from around his waist. When it came free, he slowly doubled it in his hands and held it so that the buckle and the loose end were firmly held in the palm of his right hand.

He began to move slowly to the edge of his chair, not taking his eyes off mine. I couldn’t even breathe. I was trembling and shaking at the same time and sweat began to form and run down the middle of my back. My bowels began to tighten and I tried to speak. Dad began to remove his leather belt.

The sound of the front doorbell sent a shock wave running throughout my body. My father’s whole demeanor shifted and I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved because of this very timely interruption. It chimed again. Dad began to get up to go to the door but his pants began to slide. “Get it”, he said, “but tell whoever it is that we’re busy and ask if they can come back later”.

Pulling open the door, I looked up to see a tall stranger who stepped forward and handed me his card. He was a car salesman from North Bay, he said and he’d driven for nearly two hours to bring a car that my father had expressed an interest in seeing.

Hoping that my dad wouldn’t turn this man away, I took his card and asked him to wait.

Looking at the card, dad shook his head and slipped his belt back into his pants. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

It was well after dark before the salesman left, driving the car he’d come in, and I was tucked into my bed, pretending to be asleep.

My father must have been a firm believer in the axiom that to delay a man’s, or boy’s punishment beyond reasonable limits, assuming there was some hope of redemption for the miscreant, was cruel and unjust. He didn’t carry out my punishment except to make me promise that if I should ever go near the stockpens again, he will take off his belt and “tan my hide with it”!

I never went back to the stockpens and my father tried to punish me only once after that day. He only partly succeeded and that’s another story.

A new sportsman in the family.

2009-04-07T21:38:00.000-07:00

Grandad and dad...far right.

My grandfather had been a well known sportsman. He coached hockey teams and baseball teams; he was a successful curler, bowled a great game of bowling and took pocket money from the young sharks at Del Papa’s pool room in Capreol. He also put together the Capreol CNRA band (see photo in earlier blog).

Dad, below

My father was also very athletic. He played hockey, baseball (bare-handed) bowling, snooker, swimming, fishing and hunting. Of course, one would assume that I would follow in those esteemed footsteps. My dad got me playing hockey when I was just a bean. I was doing ok until some kid chipped a tooth on the goal post…then my mom stepped in and told my dad that she wouldn’t allow his love of sports to destroy my perfect teeth as his had been. So my dad figured that if I was properly outfitted with all the latest hockey gear, my teeth would survive and I would grow up to be a hockey player. I remember sitting on a bench in the boys change room at the Capreol Arena. I had taken out of my duffel bag all of the gear my dad had brought for me to wear. There were shin pads, elbow pads, shoulder pads, helmet, gloves, socks and too large hockey pants. I’m sure there was more, but by then I couldn’t see past my chest protectors. I was wearing more gear than the goalie.

At one point during the game, I took possession of the puck and headed for the opposing goal. After I had covered about 20 feet, I was overtaken by every player on the ice and lost the puck without delay. How embarrassing!

OK…since I couldn’t skate fast enough wearing all of that protective gear; it was time to change sports. Spring brought a brand new softball, bat and glove to our house. Dad and I spent hours playing ball in the vacant lot next door to our house. My grandfather would join us from time to time. I was lucky to have had two such great coaches. I felt my confidence growing.

It was time to move up to the big league. A few of the older kids from farther down the road came by to invite me to join them in a pick-up game in an empty field next to the railroad tracks. Remember, I had a new ball, a bat and new leather glove.

Now, these guys were older than I was, and I felt really proud to be playing with them. They helped me learn all the new rules and when it was my turn at bat, they let me swing about ten times before I got a hit. They fumbled the ball so many times that I ended up on third base, heart pounding, knees covered with dirt and sweat beading up on my forehead. The next batter up smacked one out into deep center field and started to run toward first base. He rounded first and headed for second and everybody was yelling. What a noise…it was all so exciting! I heard my name being called out. The yelling and cheering grew louder and more frantic. I was so excited I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. The cheering and yelling ramped up to new heights as the runner rounded second base. The fielder had let the ball fly and it was coming in to the infield. Again, I heard my name; everyone was cheering for me, but I didn’t quite understand what they meant. They were all yelling “BRUCE….RUN HOME…RUN HOME..”

So, I ran home and sat on my front steps. My mom came out and asked me what happened and why was I at home while the older boys had my ball, bat and glove. I told her the whole story; how I’d hit the ball after about a dozen strikes and the guys fumbled the ball so many times that I made it to third base and another guy hit the ball and was running around the bases and they yelled at me to “RUN HOME”. So I did.

A couple of the guys came to the house to bring me back to the game for another try. They were sure having a lot of fun because they were still laughing when I got back to the ball field.

There has always been an angel on my shoulder

2009-04-04T21:02:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, news coverage of the search for a 10-year old boy missing in BC evoked disturbing memories for me. The search in BC went on for days. People searched with dogs, infrared tools, planes and helicopters to no avail. Eventually the search was called off without having turned up a single clue to the boys’ fate. His family and friends were devastated.

Having once been lost in the woods near Capreol, Ontario, the news stories surrounding the plight of this unfortunate boy and his family have caused me to re-live my own experience.

It was late October 1956 (?), and the townspeople of Capreol had turned out in droves to attend the funerals of some of the towns' finest young men who had drowned when they were caught in open water as a storm struck their canoes on a hunting trip. My mother suggested that, because most of the townspeople would be attending the services, it would be best if children did not attend. I asked if I could take my five year old sister for a day-hike in the woods near our home, returning in time for supper. She agreed, saying that my friends Tom and Lynn might also like to go along, as their parents would also be attending the funeral.

As we walked along the road that led to the beaver-dam crossing of the creek nearby, we talked about where we would like to go and how long we would like to stay. It was agreed that we should not go too deep into the woods. Neither my sister Susan nor Lynn had any experience in the bush. They felt uneasy about going out there. Tom and I both had spent countless hours wandering the hills around Capreol and felt quite at home there. We did our best to make the girls feel comfortable about going on the hike.

We had planned to go out for only a short while, and had decided not to wander too far. It wasn't necessary, therefore to bring along my usual knapsack stuffed with all the necessities of bush travel; knife and sharpening stone, snare wire, waterproof matches, dry socks, snacks, compass and map. None of these things would be needed today, because, after all we weren't going very far and would be home for supper.

The four of us, ranging in age from 5 to 10 years crossed the beaver dam and climbed up into the hills for a couple of hours of hiking and playing. Roxy, my Labrador retriever came along with us, as he never missed an opportunity to go exploring.

Time and distance seemed to melt away as we enjoyed ourselves in the warm autumn sunshine. The leaves of the oak and maple trees were in brilliant fall colours and the air had a slightly cooling effect on our faces.

As the day wore on, we scrambled over rocks and logs, climbed hills and rolled down sunny slopes that lay deep with dry grasses, blueberry bushes and brown leaves. The fact that we were getting hungry, and hadn’t brought along a snack made us decide to head back home for supper. Tom and I had been out in these woods many times before. We knew this area like the proverbial ‘back of our hand.’ Normally, to determine the return route to our starting point, we’d check out things like direction of water flow in creeks, angle and direction of the sun, and the length of time we’d been moving in a given direction. This day was a little different in that neither Tom nor I had remembered to bring a compass…or a watch. Well, it was a classic case of thinking that we were only going to be gone for a couple of hours and wouldn’t need the kit we normally carried. I have always felt very comfortable in the wilderness; I was tutored by a couple of well seasoned men from a very early age. So, at 10 years if age, I felt confident that I knew where we were and how to get home before dark.

We had stopped for a rest beside a tiny creek, deep in a narrow valley and it felt good to let our muscles stretch and relax. I climbed to the top of a nearby ridge to get my bearings. Looking around I discovered that, while it was still bright, the sun had disappeared in an obscuring haze. The haze was just moving in and I thought that if I had climbed to the top of the ridge only 15 minutes earlier, I might have gotten a couple of bearings to use for plotting our exit route. In the region we were hiking in, all water flowed eventually to the west side of Wanapitei Lake and I was intimately familiar with the shoreline along the west side of the lake. I made the decision to move downstream, based on lessons I had learned from my father and my uncle who had spent countless hours in the bush of northern Ontario.

The realization that the sun was getting low and I was not really sure about our location was a sobering one. Looking around, I found that I didn’t recognize any of the hilltops that were still visible in the gathering haze. However, I still felt confident that we could be out of the bush in an hour or so, but there was a pang of fear rising in my young chest, nonetheless. I gathered the group and explained that we would follow the creek for a while and would soon be on West Bay road and on the way home.

We followed the creek for about a half hour through thickening brush that we finally had to climb around because it was too dense to crawl through.

The shadows deepened and crept into the hollows with gathering speed. We sat down on a large, flat rock to discuss our options. The temperature had begun to drop as the day took on a deep purple late-afternoon hue. We stopped to zip up our jackets. I gathered loose birch bark and stuffed it inside my sister’s jacket so that she would stay warm in spite of the late October chill that was falling on us.

The creek that we were following took a turn just in front of a large rock outcropping and disappeared into a very large, dark swamp. With light rapidly failing, I decided that we needed to gather branches, birch bark and whatever else we might find that would help keep us warm overnight…because that was what we were faced with now. There were no tears, but we all had a few anxious moments while we considered the possibility of spending a night in the bush alone and with no fire and no food.

We were lost. The forest had taken on a mystical air, removing any clues that would lead us to safety.

As darkness fell, the temperature dropped even further and, knowing that we had to take advantage of the remaining light, I set everyone to gathering fine strips of birch bark from nearby trees. This we stuffed inside our jackets and pants for warmth. Then we started to pull branches from cedar trees to make a bed to lie on and also to cover ourselves with. The trees and hilltops were now just a silhouette against the sky. We lay down on our bed, covering ourselves with cedar branches and began to cry softly.

The long lonesome sound of a steam locomotive’s whistle drifted through the hills. It called and called, but each time we heard it, it seemed to come from a different direction.

Then....the sound of an outboard motor... putt, putt, putting for about twenty seconds, then it stopped. Again, it started and ran for a moment, then stopped. We had only one chance, I thought, to get the attention of whoever was trying to start that motor. I was trying to imagine where the sound was coming from, as there was no indication that there was a body of water nearby, but that didn't really matter. All that mattered was that there was a human being nearby and we had to get his attention. I said, "the next time that motor stops running, we have to yell and scream as hard and as long as we can, because if he gets that motor running he won't be able to hear us and he'll be gone."

The motor stopped once more and we made a tremendous racket. We continued to scream until we couldn't yell and scream anymore. For a moment the forest fell completely silent. We waited…nothing…only the sound of the wind picking up in the trees. One by one, we sank to the ground…dejected, disappointed and fearful.

Then..... A man's voice called out from the dark forest....”We see you”. "Stay where you are.... we’ll come and get you!"

Fifteen minutes later, two Capreol men who had gone out deer hunting after the funeral services emerged from the darkness. When I explained that it was a good thing for us that they were having trouble keeping their outboard motor running, they said they were walking and didn't have a boat. The sound that we had heard, thinking it was a boat motor, was actually a diamond-drill operation quite some distance away. The hunters carried the two girls while Tom and I walked along behind with Roxy.

When we arrived home, some time later, we found that there was a massive search and rescue operation underway as the town had mobilized to try to find us. Even CNR had been involved. The railway shut down its operations on the Alderdale Sub east of Capreol and sent out a steam locomotive and crew to blow its steam whistle in the hope that we could hear it and use it as a beacon to find our way out to the tracks. We heard the whistle blowing, but the sound echoed and rolled through the valleys and hills and sometimes sounded like the train was running in a circle around us.

Every light was on in the house as my sister and I climbed up the steps to the back door. Roxy wandered into his doghouse and we stepped into the kitchen. The house was empty, and one of our neighbors came in moments later to tell us that our parents were on their way home from the search and rescue centre that had been set up downtown. When Mom entered the kitchen, Susan and I were sitting at the table; eating from steaming bowls of homemade soup that she had ready for us.

We slept in our own beds that night…and not on the ground beneath cedar boughs and the cold autumn sky.

The two men who rescued us that night were railroaders from Capreol. Their names were Ernie Souliere and Ralph Lennox. They both passed away before I found out their names, and I never got the chance to thank them. By posting this story and their names in this blog, I hope to bring to them the appreciation that is their due. Thank you both so very much...from the four of us.

I also want to thank Lois Ling-White and Larry Ayerst for their help in determining the names of these two heroes, Ernie and Ralph.

Be a Friend to an Elderly Person

2009-04-02T22:09:00.000-07:00

After reading this poem, please click on the link below and watch the 7 minute video. You'll love it!

BEATITUDES FOR FRIENDS OF THE AGED

Blessed are they who understand
my faltering step and palsied hand.
Blessed are they who know that my ears today
must strain to catch the things they say.
Blessed are they who seem to know
that my eyes are dim and my wits are slow.
Blessed are they who looked away
when coffee spilled at the table today.
Blessed are they with a cheery smile
who stopped to chat for a little while.
Blessed are they who never say
“you’ve told that story twice today”.
Blessed are they who know the ways
to bring back memories of yesterdays.
Blessed are they who make it known
that I’m loved, respected, and not alone.
Blessed are they who know I’m at a loss
to find the strength to carry the cross.
Blessed are they who ease the days
on my journey home in loving ways.

Author Unknown

http://www.caregiverstress.com/2010/07/a-reminder-that-laughter-is-the-best-medicine/

Buy local, buy Canadian, buy what…?

2009-03-31T22:45:00.000-07:00

I’ve been selling renovation products such as siding, soffits, roofing, gutters, decks, railings, patio covers and sun rooms for the last nine years. I will only sell products that I believe to be well made and will do what their manufacturers claim they will. If I have to worry about whether the products I sell will outlast their warranties, I can’t tell my customers that I am confident they are spending their money wisely. It’s part of being Canadian to be concerned about these things.

And therein lays the problem.

When I was younger…so many years ago, you could find “Made in Canada” written on just about everything. I didn’t realize at the time how tenuous this was to be, perhaps because I thought that we (Canadians) would continue to grow as a manufacturing nation. We were at the forefront of engineering, design, research and development, medical innovation, science and technology, transportation, ship-building, aeronautics and …you name it. We were showing the rest of the world how to do it. These words may seem a bit ‘over the top’ for most of you, but if you take a look in your clothes closet, your kitchen cupboards, your garage, your garden shed, your … well, just go down to Canadian Tire, The Bay or Sears and read the labels. It’s damned hard to find anything that’s “Made in Canada” in Canada anymore.

We’ve been turned into a nation of consumers which has lost its ability to provide for itself. Every time another Canadian company is sold to foreign interests, a part of me dies. Occasionally, a major Canadian phenomenon dies on the vine due to interference by our own politicians. (see my earlier post re: the death of the Avro Arrow; an amazing Canadian enterprise)

This is “un-Canadian” and is a very scary position we find ourselves in.

Consider this…if, and I emphasize…IF…one of our largest trading partners suddenly became our “enemy”, where would we get the products that we had come to rely on? For example, think about where our computers and all of their components are manufactured. And if this was the same country that manufactured all of the batteries, pots and pans, clothing, shoes, light bulbs, and window glass we depend on for our every day existence…think of what your life would be like, in a matter of one week… if all of those products disappeared from the shelves with no chance of being replaced within the next two years!!! I say two years, because I believe that is how long it would take to find alternative sources for these goods, or…to gear up to manufacture them in Canada. We’re not currently in a position to manufacture much of anything. We gave that up decades ago in exchange for cheaper goods made in another country.

Most people can’t ever visualize such an outrageous thing as I’ve portrayed above. “Ridiculous”, you say? Well, perhaps it is. But what if a cold war re-emerged between the east and the west? What if Russia and China formed an alliance which eliminated trade agreements between China and North American markets? Canada’s exports would suffer immediately, but we could find other markets for our export goods. But what about the goods that we import from China? That’s where we would feel the greatest pain. Neither can we find alternate sources for most of those products, nor are we capable of manufacturing our own any time soon.

I’ve been concerned about this for years, but what really brought it home for me is having to defend myself and my business to customers who refuse to buy products that aren’t made in Canada. I try to explain to them that even products that profess to be made in Canada are, in all likelihood simply “assembled” in Canada; the parts, or components having been made in various other countries far across the seas. The same applies to food we buy in grocery stores all across Canada. The bulk of the brands or labels we purchase state things such as “Canada No. 1 Grade” of “Packaged in Canada”. In truth, these products originate in the United States, or Mexico, or somewhere in Central America, or New Zealand, or China. These are sources over which Canada has no control over quality. That’s not to say that Canada is at all interested in quality control…but that’s a story for another night, eh?

Capreol High School - 1961

2009-03-24T23:12:00.000-07:00

Well, I've been walking down memory lane and sharing some things that I recall from the earlier years of my life. Ok...not many of you have memories of Capreol that are as old I am. So, I'm going to move ahead a few years and review the year 1961 at Capreol High. We'll have a look at the young hopefuls and their teachers. Oh, the storied lives that we have lived! And who could have accurately guessed where we would be in 2009. Regretably, some of our number are no longer with us, and we can say "They were so young" because even though our bodies bend with the years that we have lived through, our minds still think as if we were as young as we were in the photos that are to follow.

Ready?

As we browse through these photos, you'll notice that grades IX, X and XI look so young. However grades XII and XIII seem to have aged considerably beyond the three to five years it took them to get there. How did that happen?

Grade IXB

Grade XA

Grade XII

Grade XIII

Mr. Lugli was away on the day the photos were taken.

That's it for today. I'll try to fill in the blanks with names from the "Northern Monarch of 1961" when I get back to my keyboard.

After several attempts, I finally leave home..

2009-03-20T22:25:00.000-07:00

At sixteen, I walked down to the CN office in Capreol and told the woman behind the counter that I wanted a job on the railroad. She said that if I was sixteen, I could fill out an application for work as a labourer on the "extra gang". I knew that Extra Gangs were large groups of men which went from town to town and station to station all over the province doing grunt work on the tracks. The work was very hard, the conditions were terrible and the pay was minimal. It was just what I was looking for.

I went home and told my mom that I was going to work on the Extra Gang for the summer. She became strangley silent but didn't show any emotion. Instead, she went to the phone and called her brother who was the RoadMaster in the territory west of Capreol where I would be working. He told her not to worry; the work, the conditions and the pay were all so bad that I wouldn't last a week before I'd come home for dinner (even turnips, perhaps).

Two months later, I went to the gang foreman and told him that I was going home on the next train so that I could go back to school. He had my paperwork all made ready and made arrangements for the train to stop to pick me up and take me home.

When I left the gang, it was working near Armstrong, Ontario and I was hundreds of miles from Capreol and my own bed. I had no cash with me because I'd had the timekeeper send all my paycheques home to my dad. When night fell at the end of my first day on the train, I thought about curling up on a chair in the coach, but every seat had a butt in it, so I couldn't get comfortable. About midnight, the baggageman came by and said there was a pile of Royal Mail bags in the baggage car that I could sleep on, so I moved my gear into the next car and immediately fell asleep on the mail bags.

I don't know how long it took to get back to Capreol, but I was glad to step down onto the platform from the coach and look up to see the white sign with black lettering that read "CAPREOL". I was finally home and only a half hour from my own bed. I hadn't given that much thought all summer, but now that I was so close, it was the only thing on my mind.

Proudly, I walked through the night, the air a little chilly as it usually was at the end of August in Capreol. My uncle Buck had been right...the work was very hard, but I kept with it and soon my body got hardened up and the work seemed to be easier. On this night, I was feeling as strong as a young horse.

Totally alone in the middle of the night, I walked the last two hundred yards down my familiar street. I could see my house, darkened on the inside, but illuminated on the outside by a streetlight across the street. Vaguely, I noted that dad must have gotten a new car while I was away. It didn't look like something he'd choose, but he'd recently gone from a Cadillac Coupe de Ville to an Austin A-40 sedan...so, anything was possible.

Slipping my door key into the lock and turning the handle, I stepped into the kitchen and turned on the lights. I set down my duffle bag on the floor and went to the refrigerator and opened the door. While I stood in front of the open fridge like a deer in the headlights...a woman's voice spoke, saying..."Bruce?" "Your mother asked me to tell you that your family has moved to Sudbury". What the hell? They had sold the house and moved 20 miles away to the big city! And they didn't even think to send me a telegram to tell me about that little item.

I had another 20 miles to go and there were no buses or trains or any way other than to start walking. Honestly, I don't remember how I got to Sudbury, but at dawn I was picked up beside the road by a member of the church youth group and taken somewhere for breakfast. After breakfast, she found out where my parents were now living and drove me to our new home.

It was a nice little house; probably about 50 years old and not too far from the downtown area. The rooms were small, but comfortable and my mom was beginning to settle in...except for one or two strange occurrence. First, her underthings would occasionally disappear from the clothes line and, strange men would sometimes come to the front door looking for certain women. When my mom told them that there was no one living there by those names, the men would show her money that they held in their hands, insisting that they could pay if only she would let them in.

My parents had purchased a recently de-commissioned whorehouse!

LIfe Was Good Back Then

2009-03-16T22:42:00.000-07:00

Sellwood Road, Capreol...1950

My mom tried to make me eat turnips. No matter how much butter, salt, pepper or gravy you can put on turnips, they are not designed to be swallowed by 9 year old boys.

So, I announced that I was leaving home. Mom said that was OK, but I would have to dress warmly, pack my toothbrush and carry a sandwich in case I got hungry.

"Fair enough", I said, and off I went with my backpack over my shoulder.

Without any idea where I was going, but knowing that I would have to make a plan, I walked downtown, ending up on the station platform. The sign on the station said, "Brent, 145 miles"; "Foleyet, 148 miles". I knew my way to Brent, having made the trip, accompanying my dad on the locomotive a couple of times. But I didn't know anyone there and was pretty sure that I wouldn't be as welcome in the CN bunkhouse by myself as I was when I was with my father.

Foleyet was a different story. My mom's sister lived there with her family and I had been there many times. I knew that I would be welcomed there. I had never been made to eat turnips at Aunt Vi's house.

I sat on the bench in front of the booking-in room where all train and engine crews reported for duty and I waited for the first westbound train.

As luck would have it, a freight train came down the mainline and the caboose (van) stopped in front of the office. The incoming crew got off and the outgoing brakeman got on and lit the marker lamps that hung on the rear of the van. Within a few minutes, a soft yellow light warmed the windows on the side of the van and the brakeman got off and went into the office.

The outgoing conductor stepped onto the platform and turned to talk to me. He noticed that I had my packsack with me and appeared to be ready to board a train. When he asked me where I was going, I told him that I was running away from home and going to Foleyet to live with my aunt. Then I asked him if he would give me a ride on the van. He said he'd think about it and turned to go back into the office.

In a few minutes, he emerged and told me to get on. He agreed to take me to Foleyet.

After settling me into a nice wooden chair with a pancake shaped cushion, the train started to move and we were on our way.

The brakeman sat up in the cupolo and the conductor sat quietly at his desk writing for a long time. Eventually, he got up and asked me if I was hungry. He made me a fried egg sandwich on toast that he made by removing the cast iron plate in the top of the stove and holding the slice of bread over the coal fire with a long fork. That was the best fried egg sandwich I'd ever eaten and I was surprised how tasty toast could be when it smelled of coal smoke. There wasn't a turnip in sight.

The train rolled along in the summer night, the only sense of motion being the clickety-clack of the wheels on the rails and the occasional passing of the full moon through the pine trees along the right of way.

Listening to the music of the rails, I fell asleep, curled up in my wooden chair near the coal stove.

Sometime in the night, the train came to a stop and there was stirring and talking in low voices in the van. I woke up, laying on a soft mattress, covered by a scratchy woolen blanket. Sitting up, I could see lights outside, and a station platform and men walking toward the van. The conductor who had let me ride with him held out his hand and helped me onto my unsteady legs.

"It's time to get off", he said. "We're in Foleyet".

I thanked him for the ride, the sandwich and the great time I'd had and got off the van and headed toward Aunt Vi's house, about a block away.

As I turned the corner, I saw that her house was all lit up like it was supper time...and aunt Vi was standing on the back porch in her cotton dress and flowered apron. Her hair in a bun on top of her head, she called out to me to come in and sit down for a bowl of soup and a piece of toasted home-made bread. She said she "had a feeling" that I was coming to visit her and she'd stayed up to welcome me.

Many years later, I learned that the conductor had gone back into the station at Capreol and phoned my mother to tell her that I was at the station, intending to "run away from home" to travel to Foleyet. She said if he was willing to take me there, she'd phone her sister and let her know that I was coming on the freight.

I rewarded Aunt Vi by coming down with the mumps and I was sick for a week.

I've been tardy...can you forgive me?

2009-03-10T20:57:00.000-07:00

Do you know anything about this band? What was it's name? Who were the musicians? Where was the photo taken? Here's a hint...it was taken in 1930.

OK...no takers?? Another hint? All right...this is the CNRA BAND and the photo is taken in the GILMORE HALL in Capreol. Next question...does anyone know anything about Capreol's CNRA?

Hi everybody!

This is just an update to tell you why I've been running silent for the past couple of weeks. When my wife and I moved to this house in September of 2007, we knew that the house and property (2 acres) would need a lot of work to bring it up to our standards. It's a 1978 house that hasn't seen any upgrades since it was new. So just about everything needs to be fixed, upgraded, re-built, tossed out, painted, replaced, cut back, built up or burned...and not necessarily in that order.

Since it's all about "time and money", we created a budget and prioritized the work that needed to be done. Some things, like the main bathroom (must be upgraded), outside decks (to be torn out and rebuilt) were placed at the top of the list. At the same time, the previous owners were to have cleaned out all the outbuildings, leaving them clear and clean. This didn't happen and we found that we had to take more than a dozen trailer loads of garbage and junk to the land fill or the recycle place. There were a number of unseen things that had to be looked after before we could start our renovations, the the program was delayed until autumn 2008.

We had a plan. We began with the cleaning and then began painting. We ordered new Energy Star windows from the company I've been working for, and started getting ready for the short, west coast winter that we knew was just around the corner. Winters here on southern Vancouver Island are not usually very severe. Usually, any snow that falls will melt in a day or three and the tulips bloom before almost anywhere anywhere else in Canada. Nature, however had different plans made for us, as she did for all Canadians. I've lived in Capreol Ontario, Jasper Alberta and other places where winter is really winter. But here in Duncan on Vancouver Island is the only place I've ever lived where I was SNOWED IN for 10 days!!!! Yep...we couldn't get off the property for 10 days and it would have been much longer if we hadn't met a great guy named Dave White who brought his front end loader through the blizzard from Crofton and dug us out.

Well, it just keeps on coming...the snow, that is. There's not a lot...but it keeps on coming, and the weather is still cold...well, minus 7 is actually cold...in Duncan.

Then the wind came up and blew down three trees that were growing about 50 feet behind the fence between our house and our neighbors place. Since these trees are about 85 feet tall, they took out the fence and crashed to the ground only 20 feet from the living room where Susan was having her morning coffee. The rukus woke the dog...momentarily.

The neighbor and I decided that it might be prudent to take down the more dangerous of the still standing trees closest to our house. We brought in some local loggers who tested the trees for viability and, by the time they were finished, thirty trees had to be removed. Most of them had developed what is known as 'cone rot' which causes the base of the tree trunk to rot from the inside.

It's not over yet. There is still so much to be done but all the people we've met during the early part of our reno's have been such a great blessing to us. Things are looking much better today than yesterday.

I have been working on my next blog posting which requires that I locate some photographs that will help you understand the depth of the experience I want to tell you about. Finding the photos, writing the text and editing the whole thing is a great part of what I really enjoy about blogging, or telling the stories that have made up my life. I'm learning that if I take care with the overall composition of the blog entry, it will accurately re-create my experience(s) as I lived them and as I remember them.

If I don't take my time, you don't stay long on my blog. That tells me I haven't done my job.

I write down my memories in this blog knowing that some of you will remember the events I portray differently from how I remember them. However, we all live our lives completely differently from each other. Many things influence how we see, or experience any given moment in time. Our mood, or the feelings that we had in the seconds just prior to the event; the people we are with, the clothing we have on, the food we have eaten that day...all have an effect on how we view events and relate to each other.

After three or four of us have been to a theatre to see a movie, each of us will have a different opinion of the characters, the plot, or the popcorn. What I hope for is that you will enjoy my memories and that perhaps you share some of your stories by leaving your comments on my blog...or begin your own blog and share your stories with eveyone.

I have a "Capreol" story in the works, and I also have a "Rocky Mountain railroadin' " story in the works. I know that some of you are watching to see if I will tell some stories about my childhood in Capreol, or at the cabin on Wanapitei Lake's West Bay, working in Stobie Mine or about the kind of troublesome things that I was involved in as a boy. Oh no, I wasn't always a good boy. Sometimes I raised a little hell...and got away with it.

Thanks for dropping by, I appreciate it...really.

Passing Trains

2009-02-25T22:24:00.000-08:00

The photo is real, taken January 7th, 2000 by B.Ruskin at Oyama, BC on my final run with CNRail. The story is strictly fictional.

TRAINS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT

The crossing gates come down as you turn the corner. Your first thought is that you might be able to make it across the tracks before the train comes, but the children are adamant. They must stay and watch the train go by. The crossing bells ring and the lights flash red, on and off as the long red and white painted arms lower smoothly to block the crossing. You stand back a bit in case the train is moving so fast that it kicks up a blast of wind that will leave you covered with dust.
The track lies in a gentle curve in both directions and you check to see how far away the train might be. Off to the left, you can see a headlight but can’t tell if it is moving or standing still. If you could only be sure you might have time to get across the tracks before the engine arrives. The kids want to stay. Maybe they’ll see the engineer and give him the wave, you know … the tugging motion in the air that asks him to blow the whistle just for them. You expect the whistle to blow anyway. Don't they always blow the whistle far too long at these crossings?

But the whistle doesn't blow yet. Is the train ever going to come? Well, we're just out for a walk, so why hurry? Anyway, it's getting closer now. Your son can make out the type of engine and the engine number.... he’s so excited! The train swings into the curve, ghosting toward the crossing. Its big power plant rumbles with a low, ominous growl, and the ground responds with a tremor that can be felt in your legs. The train approaches with the authority all its own. It has a presence that is not to be challenged.

You gather your children closer and encourage them to look away as the locomotive thrusts its intensely bright lights onto the roadway and sidewalk.

You feel the excitement rise in the children; their small hands grip yours as they lean toward the oncoming train. They wave feverishly, hopeful that the engineer will see them and acknowledge their request for a blast on the whistle and a wave.
Awareness grows intense as the train emerges from the darkness. A huge diesel engine, hidden behind the weathered, rust-streaked steel panels of the locomotive’s body, presses its hot, oily breath into the cold with a low, determined growl. The headlights sting the shaking ground, and the whistle blows from high on top of the darkened cab. From somewhere within that commanding presence, the insistent clanging of a warning bell reaches out through the gathering tension.

There he is....his face is illuminated by the lights from the control panel in the cab.

You look up to see his hand emerge from the open window. He sports a dark beard, bright smile, and steel-blue eyes. Your heart stops. His hand stops. Those eyes, his eyes....are riveted to your own and you live a lifetime in a few seconds.

At that very instant, your entire world falls apart. Everything you’ve worked for, believed in are all in jeopardy, coming crashing to earth … spiraling into the dirt under the rails, beneath the train.

From time to time, you've met someone … at a party, or in an elevator, anywhere, and you've known that there was a connection of some sort. He spoke to you as if it mattered, as if you mattered. You thought how refreshing it was to bask in the glow of his obvious fascination with you. He wasn’t simply passing the time of day. For that moment you were important to him. How often has that feeling come to you in your own home? It doesn’t happen anymore.

Occasionally, in a quiet moment, you question your ordinary existence; you admit that you have thought about your life and the path you’ve chosen for yourself. Could you have done better if you had waited for “Mr. Right?” It hurts knowing that you married a ‘nice’ guy, and not the “right” guy, but too many years have gone by, too many connections are now cast in stone…

This was something quite different. He's the one! And he's going by on a train! You'll never see him again. He looks back over his shoulder to take one more look at you while you turn slowly to follow his face long after the engine disappears around the curve.

Your heart beats with the cadence of the wheels on the rails as the boxcars lumber past. Your marriage has been acceptable: two cars, a house in the right neighborhood, two kids and a fitness membership.

What more could a girl want? What do you want? It’s the one thing you’ve never asked yourself, expecting an honest answer. What do you really want? If you could reach back in time, without being haunted by the pangs of self-reproach, what would you change? How would you live your life today if you had not settled for less?

You love your husband, right? Yes…of course, but you can't picture his face. You do remember that engineer and you only just glimpsed his face, lingering only long enough to spend an eternity in his eyes. The crossing gates climb to an erect position, resuming their sentinel duty.

The train is gone and you feel oddly alone. You stand stunned, your children pulling at your hands. Your heart is pounding; the love of your life has just swung through your life and disappeared without even touching your hand.

The Day They Brought This Country Down.

2009-02-19T22:01:00.000-08:00

February 20, 2009

The fiftieth Anniversary of the Cancellation of the CF105 Fighter/Interceptor by the Conservative Government of John Diefenbaker.

February 20th, 1959...the day that Canada voluntarily gave up its pride.

Ever since that fateful day, we have been trained to believe "No, We Can't".

Countless Canadians still live in pain brought about by this decision; some live with the shame of it.