CHILDHOOD ON CLYDESDALE STREET

The Street is gone. The Spirit Remains.

Schou Street Elementary Gives Up it's secrets

Oh Oh Schou Street Elementary gives up it's secrets. Just WHO are these little rascals. Circa late 40's/ early 50's give or take. You know who you are. Clydesdale Street Kids to be sure BUT that and beyond. Say "HELLO" to the Broadview gang!

DO YOU KNOW THESE PEOPLE? Little Rascals

DO YOU KNOW ANYONE HERE? LITTLE RASCALS OF THE BROADVIEW AREA INCLUDING SCHOU STREET ELEMENTARY SCHOOL AND THE HEART OF THIS VENTURE, CLYDESDALE STREET. THEIR ENERGY IS STILL TO BE FOUND AMIDST THE CHANGING LANDSCAPE AND LONG LOST ERA.

Julius Roulette, Jimmy Roulette, Joey (Derick) Dashwood, Francis Dashwood, Donny Dashwood, Phyllis Roulette, Faye Shuhart, Roy Finchum, Teddy Timberlake, Sonny Boone, Gary Hunter, Yvonne Twigger, Ron Twigger, Bobby Tuss, Don Fraser, Doreen Barr, Buddy Gorrick, Dennis Gorrick, David Causier, Joe Bulvey, Terry Brindley, Doreen Happy, Pat Graf, Dyak Kids, Roy Stewart, Kenny Thomas, Mickey Thomas, Merle Starnes, Pat Roberts, Larry Hall, Ellen McMurphy, Sidney Constantine, Edna Constantine, Donny Oliver, Ernie Oliver, Keith Koronko, Dale Koronko, Iris Hays (Married Name), Billy Leech, Donny Baxter, Eddie Grenda, Hank Grenda - (Hank regretfully recently deceased) and the many forgotten where memory fades. Not all lived on Clydesdale Street but they did attend Schou Street School in the Broadview District.

IS THIS YOUR STORY?

IS THIS YOUR STORY? Early Baby Boomers - the War Babies - and those of any age simply reflecting on their childhood memories. Is your street of dreams still there? Have you ever visited the area you spent the carefree, uncluttered times. Your life and times? My street disappeared. Did yours? Perhaps a moment on this BLOG will bring back your own stories. It was a different time however the era belongs to you and I. See if this is YOUR story. Enjoy! (NOTE - NEW MATERIAL SOON!!!!!!! I look forward to adding more in new story material.) Thanks Ed Grenda! Super thanks! Yvonne your pictures are gratefully acknowledged. More to add soon.

BURNABY LAKE - BRITISH COLUMBIA

Burnaby Lake. Shoreline Marsh. The Vigil

Clydesdale Street now Grandview Highway > Right off Boundary
(CLICK MAP TO ENLARGE)

THE COMING TIDE - Burnaby In Change

"Rumble on Clydesdale Street" consists of some 30 chapters in 1st draft. The content is a collection of memorable events, some being amusing, others simply reflective on the life and times of a kid and his neighbourhood. Seen from the eyes of a young child there are moments to laugh with, and, at. There are chapters that can be best described as moments of truth and Clydesdale Street forms the basic foundation of the collective thoughts. In many ways it is a personal exorcism. A chance to engage honesty when honesty was pure. The fact Clydesdale Street no longer exists gave cause to celebrate early childhood. A chance to give the little street, now buried under the highway of progress, one last ray of sunshine.

Clydesdale Street could easily be your street. Charming. Anywhere. Forgotten and lost in a changing universe. Trust readers will judge the content and not grammatical expertise as this on going work is admittedly not Hemingway nor Dickens. Chapters will be posted much like old time serial radio shows where listeners had to tune in regularily to catch the next episode. Trust the lure of your childhood days will conjure up chapters of your own.

NOTE* (A personal thank you to Julius (Nugget) Roulette, where after some 50 years we met again. Julius was helpful in jogging the distant memory pool.)Thank you Julius. Enjoy Jimmy - wherever you are. A further heartfelt gratitude to Edward Grenda for his memory input and too Yvonne Twigger for hers. Thank you for sharing your pictures too Yvonne!
Robert G. Tuss
- No names have been changed to protect the innocent. Everyone was.
Contact - clydesdalestreet AT gmail.com
*30 Chapters posted ! (as of August 29, 2009) MORE PHOTOS SOON!
All Material under Copyright

SCHOU STREET SCHOOL RE-UNION

SCHOU STREET SCHOOL
RE-UNION YEARS AGO.
Can you spot your class-mate?
Only a few but there are many out there with a story to tell.

Thanks To Yvonne Twigger (Nelson) for providing this rare glimpse, reminding us all how time really does fly when we are all having fun. We know that Yvonne is now an artist and thank her for bringing these photos for inclusion.

PS: No. Julius, Jimmy, Eddie, Hank, Roy, Bobby, and others were not here either. Perhaps another time. Perhaps.

YVONNE TWIGGER Before Global Warming?

The Twigger's on Smith Ave! Note the SNOW photo. It is best described as "BEFORE GLOBAL WARMING?" Rarely is there snow these days.

The Twigger family enjoying a Kodak moment outside their home closeby to Schou Street Elementary School. So where are all the photos of kids on Clydesdale Street? Hmmm. I don't know.

PS: Did you know Yvonne's Grandfather first cleared the land for the old Cascade Drive-In Theatre site across from Schou Street School, with his trusty Clydesdale? No! Not the Street! His horse! Oh the Hilarity. Weeping with laughter. Imagine if you can. It is time for another nap.

Dick Tracy Meets Number One

How could anyone forget!

"An Ambush Was In The Making."

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET
Chapter 1 “An ambush was in the making.”

Approaching the front gate commanded inner calm. Fear scrambled over giggling goose bumps. Sensing the unseen, eyes scanned nervously, hair standing like porcupine quills, hearts pounded faster. So fast, panicky feet had no desire to remain still. It never mattered much, whether grown up, or like us little kids, every time the latch clicked it was wise to exercise extreme caution. Moving like rolling thunder it would surely come.

Skin tingled. Throats seized tight. No one knew just where it would appear. Was it from the jagged thorn scratching so desperately at the tired old fence? Was it tucked behind the weeping rain barrel? Was it at the top of the sagging stairs lurking in the dark shadows of the enclosed porch? Anxious eyes played tricks. Oh what tricks.

Once inside the gate, the trial of courage was to scramble up the wooden stairs as fast as one could. Running overtime with the hope the front door was unlocked, or, that Mom was standing there to protect you and friends from the terror waiting with gleeful anticipation.

The untimely was sure to happen. Dashing up the front stairs two at a time, only to meet face to face with the meanest nightmare imaginable. The scourge of Clydesdale Street was primed to pounce. With eyes swirling, a kaleidoscope of changing colors, and a soundboard of unholy screeches came Old Red. This was rooster’s walk. Nobody was to pass easily, if at all.

Old Red was in truth a sleek multi-colored fireball of shiny feathers. The comb on his head was all red. Big. Red. Flopping. Up close it was big. How big? Really, really big. The name stuck.

It was daily entertainment on our block. Neighbours watched the Mailman, the Milkman, the Iceman, the Watkins Lady, family guests, and we, the kids of Clydesdale Street, gingerly unlatch the gate. Always in heightening terror, we then, feeling safe for the moment, ran full speed up the stairs only to be chased back down twice as fast. Laughing knees were common.

If the gate had closed properly on entering the yard, there seriously was the need to dive back over the fence out of harms way. If you were just a kid you ran zigzag, fear fast, around the yard climbing the nearest tree. Red was good but he could not climb nor could he fly.

If the gate did not close properly in one’s haste to run up the front stairs your escape route was clearly back the way you came in. Unfortunately it was with Old Red right at your backside, or on it, squawking and pecking painfully at the ankles or upper body parts.

It was hard to determine who was the more vocal. The assault carried on sometimes for more than half a block either east or west. The trick was to dart straight across the street into the nearest yard. That was good enough for Old Red. He would chortle back into the yard with his chest held high.

What about the neighbourhood dogs? There wasn’t a dog in the territory that wanted any part of the red rooster. When Clydesdale’s dogs heard Old Red in full voice they became noticeably absent. Dogs could not comprehend anything that could mount itself on a victim’s back shrieking wildly and pecking madly away on the head. It was extremely stress related. It seemed better left alone. Benign bones or an old shoe offered no resistance.

Brothers Denny and Buddy, living right across the street feared for their lives when visiting. They feared for their Collie’s too. Like all dogs, they were loose and rambling without restriction. It really was a great time in life to be a dog. The times were different. Dog issues were yet to be debated. For the moment they enjoyed every aspect of life without regulators or collars.

It was shortly after the Second World War. Thoughts were on rebuilding lives, putting up with shortages, and trying to figure out what war ration stamps could still buy. One item all kids found gross was that white margarine that came with a dollop of something neon red. Mixing the two created a rather bizarre orange colored substance. It was smoothed on fresh hot homemade bread. Gosh, the bread was good. The margarine was, well, just gross.

The brothers Collie was named Lassie. Lassie just loved to chase anything moving. In my yard there was always something to chase. We had a big yard. From a kid’s perspective, it felt expansive and could be described as a mini farm on a quiet old-fashioned residential street.

Many properties were quite large on Clydesdale but ours stood out. In our yard there were lots and lots of various fruit trees, berry bushes, a huge vegetable garden, rabbits, wild bushes, a cat, a large chicken coop, and for better or worse, Old Red.

He was more than an attitude. Red I thought was my pet. Well, I believed it. Unfortunately Red did not. Old Red’s aim in life was to terrorize anybody and anything living that came into the yard. This he did well.

Lassie was a regular. He so wanted to chase the chickens, the rabbits, and other things that made their way throughout the yard. It became a daily challenge for the dog. He would assess the risk of running into Old Red, take up the task and jump over or crawl under the wire fence, then race across the yard bounding after anything that resembled a moving target. Ever so often he would bound straight into the beak of Old Red. It was never pretty.

The delivery people, and all of our visitors were always looking for Lassie to get his doggy day underway. His keeping the rooster occupied left the rest of us an opportunity to get in and out of the house safely. Sometimes everybody arrived at the same time. Mom made the coffee.

Lassie always got great treats and never knew why, however, he loved the attention.

Old Red did not understand the reason we had the likes of rabbits and chickens in our yard. It helped feed our family and garner scarce hard dollars. Old Red only knew he had the job of guarding everything. His reward was a low chuckle as he danced after his terrified quarry.

It did not matter who, as long as they were not recognized as occupants, Old Red was right on them. Of course his exuberance carried over to the family the rare times his huge ego was blinded with indignation.

It was not apparent to me at the time that we were a classical working poor family. We had much less in true dollars than most. Luckily most everything we needed to eat was in our yard. To a little kid everything seemed normal and did not come with a burden of guilt. There were differences between us all but we saw them as personality differences not economic. It was different and ever so innocent then. Neighbours actually helped each other without question.

It never occurred to me that I sold things door to door like the eggs, rabbits, and chickens for the express purpose of generating a few real dollars we so badly needed. I was very young. It never really registered. It was never questioned. It was what had to be done and it was done with a smile and a great big heart.

My mother was a first generation Canadian from a family of 17 kids out of Pekan, Alberta. My father was what was called a D P (Displaced Person) in those days. He had jumped ship on Vancouver Island in the 30’s.

The long road from working in the Cumberland coal mines (Vancouver Island) for .39 cents an hour to close friends (the Plecas Family) and (the Grenda’s) giving my Dad and my Mom enough of a start to come to the mainland got even longer.

My first years were in a tenement house on Prior Street near Main Street. It was a time the area was vibrant and alive with shops and busy post war activity. Vancouver’s famous China Town was very near by. A lot of Italians too. I was too little to notice.

I have never really understood how the Clydesdale Street property was acquired, other than my mother’s father, an immigrant farmer, somehow managed to help, as did a small cluster of wartime friends. It was how things were done. Days long time gone when the doors were not locked and everybody knew everybody.

We did not need a ‘Neighbourhood Watch’. Neighbours already helped each other without question. No security alarms, perimeter lighting, or “Keep Out” signs. Old Red was a few years ahead of himself. Security was his thing needed or not. His early morning ‘crocking’ wake up call just was not enough for him. His life needed more meaning. After all, Old Red had lots of time to fill.

One summer day after terrorizing my friends, Old Red in his power mad arrogance, felt he was invincible enough to challenge my Dad. No one did that! Only a surprise would work, went through Old Red’s swollen head.

My Dad, after coming home from his job would tend the garden once dinner was over. The family would all end up doing evening chores especially in summer months. We all shared the numerous things to do. Watering was a high priority each and every evening. The garden wilted heavily under the hot day’s sun.

There were rain barrels around the house (yuck, so filled with crawling things like water skeeters, mosquitoes and movement unknown). We collected this water for the purposes of watering the garden with the mineral rich moisture instead of using cold precious clear water from the taps.

In our house there was a measure of restraint of wasting good water. If it could be used twice or it came from the heavens so be it. That is how it was.

Old Red was on his patrol. Everything seemed peaceful and quite normal. It was best remembered as a shirtless summer evening.

My dad was carrying a rusting pail full of sun-warmed rain barrel water to an area of the garden parched by the days heat. He had just put the pail down and leaned over to pick a few weeds from around the carrots.

As he bent down the drama exploded. Out of nowhere came Red. An ambush was in the making!
A determined rooster running with short wings flapping it is quite a site. Awesome. Mesmerizing. Animated slow motion. As a little kid it looked very much like a small aircraft trying to get lift. The running was awkward. A stiff legged run, with lower extremities out of rhythm like a giant wooden puppet. No strings. No mind.

It came upon you strangely. Old Red was running silent. No sound. Eyes whirling. Then came the irreversible stunning impact of talons and bare flesh. Red had pounced on my Dad’s back!

All in one swoop my Dad reached over his right shoulder catching Old Red by the neck just below his huge head, and, threw him as far forward as he could. Red landed in a heap. His neck snapped. Red lay there motionless and twisted in the dirt. Everything went silent. I could not turn away. My pet lay dead. In an instant I had witnessed Red’s sudden demise.

My father rose cursing loudly. A trait he learned as English became part of his new language. It was a quiet time and it was clear the whole street heard the hollering after the fact. Then, like wll scripted lines came one shout, and, then another from all corners of Clydesdale Street. “We are free.” “The dogs are safe. Yahooo.” “That mad damn killer rooster is soup.”

I could not remember Old Red killing anything, not even worms. He ate them alive. So did we kids. I could not grasp the fact we would be eating Old Red.
Indeed, I could not. I never even knew why Red was called ‘Old’.

I had never come to grasp most of our yard stock ended on somebody’s dinner table. Seeing chickens dispatched was not the same. There was order in that process. Sure, the odd time, when decapitated, they would run aimlessly, their blood gushing skyward until journeys end. It was expected therefore accepted. But not Old Red. Red simply died.

Rabbits. I was not allowed to witness their passing, as it would suggest that next year there would not be an Easter egg hunt. All those coloured eggs did not come from our chickens. Never did I see one Easter egg in their coop.

I never came to grasp why my Dad was being called the neighbourhood hero. A brave Knight to rid Clydesdale Street of crazy Old Red I guess.

I never could understand why there was a yard party with all the fathers bringing homemade spirits, getting drunk and animated much like the headless chickens. They, laughing and singing, while the moms prepared a summer night’s cook out with all the trimmings.

Like the last survivor in his lost legion I collapsed to the ground, tugging aimlessly at the grass.

I saw it different. I had lost my best friend.

RGTCopyright 11/24/02

Fueling Our Imagination - Radio Was King

Clydesdale kids were captivated by radio.

Radio Was Another World. Somewhere.

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 2 “Radio was another world. Somewhere.”

The Second World War was fresh in everyone’s mind. Times were Spartan. For many families make do was make do. If the hardships were there, parents managed well to keep them concealed. For kids it did not matter. There seemed to be lots of kids and we were masters of our own invention.

There wasn’t television, videos, computers, or anything physical that was too organized by over achieving parents. Kids first did their assigned chores then rushed to create their own entertainment. We lost ourselves in wanton imagination. Imagination opened the door to our dreams.

When the chores were done and time roared in, radio was our companion. I loved radio. Sitting eagerly cross-legged in front of the big wooden console, right in front of the scratching speaker, I listened to the radio shows of the day. They spirited the imagination. Radio was another world. Somewhere.

Sending away for the likes of the coveted ‘Lone Ranger Arrowhead’ was something to look joyously forward to. The Arrowhead had a whistle, and a compass I think, or was that a magnifying glass? It didn’t matter. It arrived from some mysterious land where the Lone Ranger and Tonto lived and it was precious. These were very special times.

We could all thank GB Bread. As local sponsors for many radio shows we were fully entertained with the excitement of radio drama. The booming voice of the announcer would first introduce “Brought to you by GB Bread” then began the journey into a world of fantasies.

All the kids loved listening to the Lone Ranger, Cisco Kid, The Shadow, The Whistler, and other radio characters of our time. Every night was an adventure. Exciting enough to keep you awake reliving the action packed episodes where all you could wish for is being partner to them.

Kids would get together the next day to talk endlessly about the most recent show. It was always with anticipation we awaited the next episodes n the never-ending series. The suspense was unbearable. What fun.

One day I eagerly raced into the front room to turn on the radio only to find my Dad bent over deeply in the big chair nearby. He was cradling a blue coloured letter on his lap and his hands were cupping his face. I knew that letter was from far away. He was sobbing. My Mom stood nearby. Silent. The room felt suddenly cold. Spirits were fleeing. Emptiness everywhere.

I could not listen to the radio that night.

My uncle, Dad’s youngest brother, had been killed in the distant land my Dad came from. My uncle had been shot in the back while having his dinner.

The description left me confused. Shot in the back. Ambushed? War was over wasn’t it? What did it all mean?

It was a time when grudges, jealousies, and hatred’s were very fresh in the lands where war was so strong in people’s mind. My uncle was a casualty of the aftermath. My Dad and our family the victim’s of the circumstance.

This reality of life rather than the imaginative musings of Radio Shows was new to me. I had never seen my father cry nor ever thereafter.

A rush of helplessness blanketed the room. I rushed to pet the cat.

It was forever before the radio was turned on again.

Copyright
RGT

CISCO KID RIDES AGAIN!

"Ahhhhh Cisco" "Ahhhhh Pancho"

Jimmy Was Smart. An Inner Smart.

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 3 “Jimmy was smart. An inner smart.”

Clydesdale Street was indeed “The Street Of Kids.” My house was just a long block east of Boundary Road. On that long block there were lots of kids. Boundary Road divided the district of Burnaby from Vancouver City.

The next block east was a steep sloping Clydesdale Street all the way down into a flat marshy, woodsy area. There were modest houses on both sides going down the hill and some small old farms along the bottomland. Big bushy areas ending Clydesdale Street as I remember it.

The Dyak family had a horse farm, and further on old Mr. Rice had lots of property much of what was covered in lowland trees, bushes, bogs and ferns. Kids were always told to stay away from that rather foreboding area, besides Mr. Rice helped a lot by chasing us away from his property and right back up the hill. Nobody remembers why he was so mean but he surely was.

The Dyak’s were a large family and considered by many, a rough, tough bunch. Clan tough, so it was said. Who started that story kids didn’t know.

Mr. Rice on the other hand was very eccentric. He never made kids welcome. If Mr. Rice caught any kid on his property the outcome could be serious said the older boys. “Some kids disappeared”, they would say. It must have been awful. We did not want to know. Too scared.

About where Mr. Rice lived now runs Highway #1 and a little to the south sports a high-rise hotel and bustling business parks. British Columbia Institute Of Technology sits nearby.

Across from my house there was the brothers Denny and Buddy. Their father was a bricklayer and stonemason. Ironic, as my Dad’s father was a stonemason but Dad decided to become a seafaring man after he was run out of his homeland. Funny about life’s twists and turns.

My Dad’s crime was, at an age somewhat older than all of us kids, he ran fast speedboats carrying contraband between ports high in the triangle of the Adriatic. He had to leave. Young. In a hurry.

Next door to Denny and Buddy was Wayne Crossier. The family was a little reserved we thought. They seemed better for money than many others. Wayne was an okay kid and would join us in many escapades. He was to move soon. We all liked Wayne.

Then there was Roy Finchum on Manor Street, the next block up, but for all intent and purpose he was a Clydesdale Street kid. He was within earshot of the Gorrick’s and that mattered in our little lives, as we would come to thank.

Actually a lot of kids on Manor played with us, especially things like kick the can hide and seek, red rover, and other alley adventure. Their back yards faced onto the Clydesdale kids yards on the south side of the street. It was a natural occurance.

To the west of the Gorrick’s were the two sisters and their brother who lived together and had loads of cats. They never said much to kids and remained distant. Some of us were afraid of them but we did not seem to know why.

Across the street were the Roulette kids. Jimmy, Julius and Phyllis. Julius, who was nicknamed Nugget, was a little older as was Phyllis. Julius and Phyllis played with the younger kids but generally stuck with those a few years our senior. There sure were a lot of kids around and most within just a few years of each other. We all were definitely the War Babies.

Jimmy and I became very close friends. I really liked Jimmy. He stuttered badly. Sometimes it was difficult to understand him. Jimmy was therefore reluctant to say much and was very inward and quiet. He was not shy but refrained from long conversations and kept words to a minimum.

Although not a small kid, he was a year older, he seemed intimidated and considered slow because of the speech impediment. Sadly this caused him to repeat a year in grade school. Most unfair. Jimmy never complained.

In the time many left -handed kids were converted to right-handed soon to be stuttering kids. Jimmy was one. We did not know much about it. It was not good to be a lefty back then. Urban myths were rampant.

The kids who remained left handed surely remember those horrid scratchy pen and ink tools we had. To the kids that would have been the only reason to change hands. Oh boy! It was a miracle when the ballpoint was invented.

No more writing backwards and smearing blue ink over the paper and all over clothes. I can identify with this, also being left handed
and I stayed that way too. Can’t really say if that was good or bad.

Mother’s were torn between advice that being left-handed was somehow evil or at the least made kids dim-witted. Probably there were some truths but for the most part the whole episode created circumstances that kids could not comprehend. Jimmy was smart. An inner smart, and he was funny too.

Jimmy stuttered but he always made sense to me. He was a humble quiet kid by nature. There were very few people that carried life long influence. Jimmy was one. His vision was clear. He wanted to be a Cowboy or a Woodsman. In his life he eventually became both.

Jimmy’s Dad, Louie, was a plumber. His mother, Annie, was the most wonderful person in the world. There was no one, ever, who was as pleasant, and human. She gave every kid comfort. I adored Mrs. Roulette.

Jimmy’s Dad drove a neat black car. A car was considered pretty bold but what did we know. Kids often than not simply accepted circumstance.

My Mom, Dad and I spent many kid fun weekends with Jimmy’s family. Many times taking long car rides to the banks of rivers far away and in forest covered parks like Golden Ears, where open air picnics was the family recreation of the day. Grand days chasing squirrels and playing hide and seek, wearing our holsters, pretend smoking pine cone stogies and hiding in the woods.

Jimmy and I developed a passion for the trips, the different seasons, the open wilderness, and loved campfire evenings wieners and all. Adventures we cherished and would talk about all week. Our immediate neighbourhood had much to explore as well, and, we eventually would know every corner of it.

A gray day I remember so well was when told Jimmy was going to move away from Clydesdale Street. His family lived in a very big house, much like Sonny Boon’s on the second block south of where we kids lived.

The big house was three stories high and stood out oddly on our block. At one time the house was an area Post Office around 1911 and it was called the Ardley P.O, then to become a general store so the stories go. Eventually the house was converted and had tenants on all three floors. The Roulette Family lived there with other relatives on separate floors.

The year, was 1948. Sadness ran deep. Jimmy was moving far south. Just south of the Grandview Highway and right on to Boundary Road, considered the great divide between Burnaby and Vancouver. I thought it was Africa.

I soon realized with a little adventure it was a bold walk up the rising landscape due south to Jimmy’s new home. A piece of cake even for little feet, providing they were not too little. Cookies were always waiting.

Everyone was so happy for the Roulette’s. Jimmy and I were sad but we were all bristling with anticipation and excitement about they having their own brand new home. The garage was already up. Jimmy’s dad was now ready to build their new big house! He never did. Jimmy’s dad died.

Mrs. Roulette stayed on their new property. She raised her kids in what was the converted little garage they had lived in while preparing to build the big house. In my world it was not a garage. I will always feel the warmth and comfort Jimmy’s little house held. I can close my eyes and there it is. Covered in care. Flanked by the vegetable garden and fruit trees.

It was a most beautiful house. The little garage was a most joyous home filled with its crackling wood fire, Mrs. Roulette’s jolly laughter, her sparkling smile, wonderful smells of her famous home cooking and always a ready welcome to everyone.

The Roulette’s were family too me. I had no brothers or sisters. Words fail.

Mrs. Roulette was a very special lady. She would live in the little garage house for her forever. Annie remained close to my own mom all their lives.

Julius, old Nugget, still lives in the big house that was eventually built many years later and sits right next to the little home where the kids all grew up. It sags heavily now. Age has won.

The little garage on the adjoining lot, with all the loving memories remained a testament to family and a very special Angel. I miss you Annie. Dearly.

Copyright
RGT

THE KEYS KEPT DANCING!

We remained awe struck. The keys danced.

It Was Magical

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 4 "It was magical"

Next door to where Jimmy Roulette lived, back over on Clydesdale Street, there were no kids. Mr. Fred Beach lived there. Mr. Beach did not like kids very much.

He did have a nephew Albert who was in some way a bit different we all thought. Albert spoke very quietly and walked with a noticeable limp. I remember both as kind people especially Albert. Mr. Beach was a very nice man but he insisted he did not like kids and wished them away as nuisance.

Mr. Beach was in the war we think. None of us kids really knew for sure but it did not matter. It was said Mr. Beach drank with the Irish. Well. He was on many occasions a very happy man.

Mr. Beach kept a beautiful yard and that may be why kids were not that welcome. Everything was perfect. He would tend to his yard all dressed up like a store window mannequin. Like a store detective in bow tie and suspenders he stood shooing both the dogs and the kids away. It was okay. We did not mind. He was never mean about it. Just British.

At times kids would refer to Mr. Beach as the man who collected little kids heads. In the living room an array of collectibles all related to Indian artifacts were in a big glass case. Included were arrowheads, tomahawks, beads, baskets, and yes, varnished skulls. For little kids it was awesome and freaky. Sometimes Mr. Beach would let us hold an arrowhead or pat a skull.

Mr. Beach spent much of his time, so our Dads whispered, over at a big horse race track somewhere at a Hastings Park. Some days he was grumpy. We could never understand why visiting horses would make anybody grumpy.

At Christmas time Mr. Beach’s house was open to everyone in the neighbourhood. This included the growing army of little kids as long as they were with their parents. Maybe that is why we thought Mr. Beach was in the army. Mr. Beach always called us his” little” army. Besides, none of the kids wanted their heads in that scary display case so being with parents was okay.

Christmas was something special at the Beach house. There were lots of lights and a big Christmas tree. Many homes could not afford electric Christmas lights so it was exhilarating to see the multitude of colors and all. The house was filled with cards, wreaths, Christmas cookies and Christmas cheer. Even the varnished skulls were smiling.

Mr. Beach had a secret weapon. A player piano! A player piano with paper rolls punched full of little holes. Nobody had a player piano! It was marvelous. The sounds were hypnotic. You can still here the music playing.

Christmas Carols where the order of the season. All the favorites and there were song books so everyone could join in. For the kids, dipping into the punch and stuffing pockets with cookies added to the fun filled times.

Sometimes we would be asked to sing our favorite song and all the kids would break out with
“ We three kings of Orient are – smoking on a rubber cigar – it was loaded – it exploded – We two kings of Orient are” After our parents wrote us off as little hellions we got back to traditional carols less another round of cookies. We thought it was Mr. Beach’s punch.

During the year many evenings were spent around this remarkable music machine. Mr. Beach would sit at the piano singing at the top of his voice with fingers dancing on the piano keys. He would then lift his hands off the keyboard and to our amazement the keys kept on a dancing.

Timely songs like “Don’t fence me in. Good Night Irene. Whispering Hope, You Are My Sunshine. Greensleeves. Roll Out The Barrel. Cigarettes and Whiskey, Hail Hail-The gang’s all here, and, all the best Christmas songs”.

It was magical for us kids. Sleepy eyes opened wide and sheepish grins would turn into big smiles. The singsongs filled the air and out into the night. Everybody loved Mr. Beach but mostly when he was not grumpy.

On one late Christmas morning the Mom’s, Dad’s and excited kids were all making their way through the snow to Mr. Beach’s house. The anticipation of enjoying the carol festivities that helped make up every Christmas on our Clydesdale Street was good reason for beaming faces and Yule chatter.

This Christmas morning there was a big black police car in front of Mr. Beach’s house. The house was quiet. Mr. Beach was dead.

On that Christmas Eve, and at about midnight, Mr. Beach was found lying frozen in a ditch. It was a terrible, sad discovery that reverberated through the neighbourhood creating clouds of sadness. A sad, unbecoming departure that would turn that Christmas into one of sorrow instead of joy.

Mr. Beach was found a short distance from the popular Coconut Grove Night Club, just east of Smith Avenue on the then Grandview Highway. Maybe it was even closer to the Barn Dance place called the Flame Supper Club a few yards west of Smith. Kids never really knew exactly where. Parents did not want us to know.

Mr. Beach’s death was attributed to natural causes brought on by excess. Clydesdale Street mourned deeply. Mr. Beach was buried in the big cemetery next to Jimmy’s dad, but his music never really stopped. Listen! You can hear the seasons clearly.

Merry Christmas Mr. Beach.

Copyright
RGT

We Were Never Dull

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 5 “We were never dull”

Going east on Clydesdale from Mr. Beach’s house were more homes, ending at Smith Avenue the cross street before the big Clydesdale hill fell steeply into the flats. The Hanna’s lived on the corner in a nice little newly built white house.

Mr. Hanna Sr. was a tram conductor. Son Bob drove ambulance while he went on to finish his training to become a famous Doctor. The ambulance was parked in front of the house often and it was a sight when he put on the flashing lights and sounded the siren. Bob Hanna gave us turns putting them off and on. For little kids the excitement was extreme. Wet pants followed.

Bob Hanna was to be a very prominent Doctor in British Columbia. Eventually the Hanna’s built a reputed clinic on the corner of Boundary Road and the old Grandview Highway curve that headed eastward to my soon to be discovered Grade School, Schou Street Elementary.

Larry, or Lawrence as we were supposed to call him lived on the east side of Smith Avenue and very close to the big hill. He had older brothers Roddy and Jimmy. They were described as scruffy kids. Not mean, just earthy.

Their mom was a nice lady trying hard to hold a family together during the very difficult times. Larry never really invited me to his house. The house always looked terribly run down. It was shingled brownish red and had old green and white flannel sheets for window covers.

The yard smelled of excessive dog poo more often than not. Where you walked was challenging. Their mom was very nice to all the brother’s friends and offered to share meals with anyone who was hungry. The older brothers in particular would always have friends over. Especially Julius. They were closer in age than the rest of us younger ones.

I really liked Larry. Larry’s dad worked at the Dominion Bridge Works where Bridge Movie Studios now reside near Boundary Road and the Lougheed Highway. There were still a lot of small farms in that area but progress was changing the landscape to Industrial plants.

Larry was a great kid. He always had a smile. His hygiene seemed looking for a bath once and awhile. Sometimes we all did. What a guy!

Larry was one of our most important soldiers that being the kids on the Western zone of Clydesdale Street. His position was at the eastern point of our territory Clydesdale Hill. Nobody fooled with Larry. Nobody.

Larry’s back yard faced north towards Clydesdale Street. From his high back porch he could see the front of the Evan’s Red & White Store as well as houses down along the Clydesdale Hill.

He could clearly see those kids living on and down the hill. We called them Boners. He also could see when the Boners were sneaking up the hill to attack us. Larry would ultimately be our first line and last line of defense.

Larry may not have been a big kid, or anything special other than being a kid. He had one thing no one else had. He had a sling. Oh was he good!
Larry could load a rock and fling it forever. Nobody could hear it drop.

You did not want Larry mad at you. Besides, his house was between the rest of us kids and the way we would eventually have to walk to our elementary school. Everybody liked Larry.

Just below where Larry lived was the house where we were told two sons never returned from the war. The people were very nice but their grief was evident. Larry could look over their yard onto Clydesdale. They were the Hulls. They did not mind our presence around their house.

On my side, the north side of Clydesdale, there were a lot more kids that shared imagination and play- time. There sure were a lot of kids.

There was the Cogswell’s house. Mrs. Cogswell was the self appointed barber for adults and for children where families could afford it. Mrs. Cogswell had two older boys that had recently come back home. We were not told from where. Eventually we found out they had robbed the Evan’s Red & White at the end of the block.

Seemed strange. Living so close, almost next door, the boys obviously easily recognized, even we youngsters found that a bit weird. Like Bonny & Clyde without Bonny, Clydesdale held it’s own infamous yet colorful characters.

Mrs. Oliver had sons Donny and Ernie. She was the cake lady, as kids would call her. She loved to give birthday parties for all the kids and the exciting part was that real nickels were put in the cakes.

Kids would attend anybody’s birthday held at Mrs. Oliver’s knowing that if they were lucky they would end up with a mouth full of nickels. The challenge was not to swallow any. It wasn’t about choking. It was about nickels.

One of the flanking houses did not have kids but did have a man we were almost as terrified of as we were of Old Red. Everyday he would walk the center of Clydesdale westward to the few shops on the corner of Boundary Road and Clydesdale then back to his house. He never said a word.

He always had his dog with him. The dog sometimes carried small packages in his jaws. Many times it was just a newspaper. The dog walked with pride.

The man however carried something else. He carried lots of garter snakes in his pockets. Live squirming garter snakes. He would tie them in loose knots. He would hang them around his neck. Wriggling. Falling to the road. He was plain weird. We kids gave him a wide berth not because we were scared of snakes. We were scared of him. The dog we liked.

An empty lot filled with trees was a source of pleasure. There were thick alder saplings that swayed wildly in the wind. The older boys were better at the pastime than the little ones only because they carried more body weight. Lighter kids filled their pockets with rocks.

The adventure was to climb up as high as one could until the sapling began to bend. Quickly kids would climb some more and as the tree began to really bend, screaming some valued phrase from a super hero, we would ride it all the way down to the ground.

The tree would snap back with some force or simply break. Either way, everyone paid heed to the danger of being whipped by an errant ride returning to an upright position or the breaking pieces flying about. Clydesdale Street held such fury.

The Glider House was next. Three kids lived there. Joey the older boy, Donnie, and then there was their younger sister Francie.

The Dashwoods stood out on our street. Their father had a hobby that was boggling to kids. He flew gliders! We had never seen one before. It was a major event when he brought one home and worked on it in the yard. We could only imagine soaring high, silent like eagles. Wow.

Kids loved the Glider House because not only did they have silent flying machines they had a makeshift swimming pool! This was not a neighbourhood of wealth and to have the makings of any kind of pool was a magnet for all the kids. It was small, actually a cement box half- heartedly sunk in the yard but it served well to beat off summer heat.

Mr. Glider Dad was a shrewd businessman. He would not let us kids into the yard without first paying. It was a tribute of a nickel, some jawbreakers, or gumballs. Never free. He taught us the value of pleasure. It costs.

Joey and Donnie spent a lot of time with the gliders and also had different interests from most of the kids. They were both older. We were too young. Joey was very smart. He also had a monthly subscription to Looney Tunes for their newest comic books. On the bush lot next door he and the older boys built a tree house.

Every month Joey would take the latest edition of Black Hawks, Hop-a-long Cassidy, Superman, and other favorites up into the tree. The smaller kids were invited up when the new editions arrived. Joey would read the picture frames on each page of the comics to all the kids. Waiting for each month’s new comics was something grand. Many kids could not yet read so they also brought some of their own favorites and Joey was happy to read out loud what the writing said. We all liked Joey.

Francie was our age and a real Tom Boy. She was also one highly hyper little red headed girl. It seemed red anyway. Maybe that was her temper.

Our ages together did not make puberty, but we had an innocent passion. How would we have known? This was a time before being politically correct. This was still a time when genetics and natural instincts held court.

Francie and I got into big trouble. We would both jump on the bed standing up holding hands, stripped naked and bounce up and down for long periods of time. Was there a plan or some premeditated mindset? Not at all. It just felt natural. It felt good.

We were sure it was not what our parents would be happy about but we did not know exactly why. The thing we did know for sure is that one day Francie’s mom came in the room and caught us laughing, clutching, grabbing, kissing, bouncing and dancing, all very naked. Opps!

It was a long time after before we were allowed to play together again.

Funny. Life’s special journey comes with twists and turns. A few years after the anniversary of our actual puberty, Francie and I met again in different worlds and actually teen dated, with pretty much the same results. Oh not that, but, emotional charged necking that was down right blood warming. Red I think. I liked Francie a lot. Then our paths abruptly changed again. I never saw her after that.

Many years past to find that all the Dashwood kids grew up well and found great places in their lives. Joey became a successful Hotel owner and Donnie became a very successful Developer and Home Builder in the gulf islands.

Francie? Well sometimes I still wish I knew. Charlie Brown had nothing on this little red haired girl. She was an original. A really fun member of our little band of hell raisers and she never stood down to anybody.

One thing about the kids of Clydesdale Street, we were never dull.

Copyright
RGT

We Had Made The Ultimate Explosive!

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 6 “We had made the ultimate explosive.”

Back at my house there was our big Persian cat Blackie. His face was squashed so much only I thought him pretty. Blackie was my close friend and companion much like Old Red yet obviously different.

Blackie took care of the mice and field rodents around the yard but was smart to keep clear of that ornery rooster. The rooster and the cat got on kind of. The cat slept inside. Old Red didn’t.

My house was always busy with the neighbourhood kids, but even more so with family visits from the prairies. The most celebrated was my Uncle Jim and Aunt Betty. Their only son Richard was a little younger than me.

Aunt Betty was my mom’s younger sister. They were extremely close. Uncle Jim had been in the Air Force as an Instructor. He was a good boxer too. My Uncle Jim was noted for his drinking with the Irish as well. It came naturally being Irish. Mr. Beach and my Uncle Jim were soul mates at times.

My aunt and uncle came to live with us for a while and Ricky turned out very much the little brother I did not have. Being an only child it was hard to choose between the rooster and the cat as to who gave that personal family comfort. Rickey was of the human vintage and was an acceptable option.

The house had a large, in proportion to a little kids view, sunroom. It was on the morning side facing over an array of plum and apple trees. It was made of small wood framed windowpanes checkered from top to bottom.

Every morning, especially those in the late fall and winter, the household found their way there. The morning sun was ever so warming. The sunroom was where ironing got done, coffee was sipped, and Ricky and me running and crawling between everybody. The room was the morning social center.

One day we both got up earlier than our moms and dads. Even the cat was somewhere fast asleep. Usually that was by the wood burning stove in the kitchen. The stove was central to both cooking and kitchen warmth. Blackie was quick to figure out a sleeping area close by. Smart cat he was. We were having kid fun. It was like the fun Ricky and I had the year before when I visited the family gathering in Alberta at our Uncle Nick’s.

There was a sofa in the sunroom very much like the sofa we enjoyed the year before at Uncle’s. We jumped on it. Rolled off of it. Fought playfully on it. Threw the cushions around and looked for coins down in the crevices.

Being kids of course meant doing most everything with abandonment. I took a tumble off that sofa in Alberta and broke my right arm. What I remember most was my nurse. She kept me entertained with everything to keep me from screaming all night over my badly broken limb. I wasn’t very brave.

She was an important part of the experience. She was friendly, funny, beautiful, and always made you feel you were her special friend. I wanted to marry her. She said she would wait for me until I grew up.

In the sunroom at my house, some one-year later there we were again jumping and generally creating chaos without any parental supervision. This time, unfortunately it was Ricky’s turn to go afoul with the laws of physics. His jumping and bouncing became pronounced and highly out of control.

It was so much out of control that he took a header off the sofa on to the floor were he rolled quickly towards and through a few sunroom window panes head first! All I could do is reach out grab an ankle and scream.
Loud. Very loud.

There was Ricky hanging out the window, glass broken everywhere, myself lying on the floor hanging onto his one ankle with all my might. He was squirming, screaming, and making my life very difficult. I was crying so hard with the anticipation I would not be able to hold him. It was one story down smack on to hardpan. To both of us it might of well have been twenty.

Rickey’s mom came running into the sunroom with terror written all over her face. My mom was right behind. I looked up. Tears streaming down my face, cuts on me from the glass, cuts on Rickey’s legs and blood smears all around. Through all of this I still had his ankle now in both hands.

My aunt reached over me and grabbed Rickey, pulling him back through the broken panes. Boy. Blood is a panic button. Everyone was in hysteria. Ricky’s head was like those crystal pieces covered in shining white flecks pocked with oozing red. Rickey and me got royally spanked as soon as blood and glass was cleaned out of our wounds.

Never did we figure that out. We guessed the adults were in more traumas than we were. Theirs obviously overshadowed ours. Rickey and I concluded that Uncle Nick’s sofa back in Alberta had a lot more coins.

From that moment on Rickey always reminded me, and, those around that his older cousin saved his life. In hind site that was a likely truth. I was less able to save Rickey when he died in a horrific car accident in his late teens. It was just after proudly entering his father’s footsteps into the Air Force. It hit Uncle Jim and Aunt Betty hard. Rickey was their pride and joy.

It was good to have known Rickey. There were many good times.

There was an instance were two other of the kids on Clydesdale joined Rickey and me in making a new kind of “bomb”. The kids, who shall go nameless, in keeping with the fact they may still be living nearby, Rickey and I, all had a fascination for fireworks and explosives.

It was only a few years after the close of the Second World War and such fascinations were natural. Many conversations by friends of our father’s were centered on stories from the Theatres of conflict. We just found it exciting as kids. There was no understanding the reality of such stories.

The thought of big explosions and buildings disintegrating under the blasts were vivid. This was the fuel of our imagination. Four of us became Bomb Masters!

One day, we four were plotting our aim of taking over the world. We found ourselves in the basement of my house. Our thoughts were on creating an explosive of such magnitude our Boner enemies, living down the Clydesdale Street hill, would retreat in blood draining panic. We were going to concoct the most powerful explosive anyone ever saw!

How we heard about it escapes memory but somebody hinted pee mixed with water and soap left to ferment in a sealed jar would create a terrifying explosion.

We had to do it.

Taking an empty mason jar from my mother’s basement shelf of preserves was step one. We also opened a full jar of Bing Cherries picked from our trees, black and rich in sweetness. Yum. It seemed appropriate under the covert activity we were about to perform. First order of business was to eat the cherries. Boy did that juice ever stain.

Each of us dropped our collective drawers and took turns peeing equally into the jar. Unfortunately a lot got on our pants and hands. What did we know about controlling flow?

I added some rainwater from the wood barrel just outside the entrance to the basement, bugs and all. We put a few pieces of my mom’s homemade lye soap into the jar and then took turns mixing the ingredients thoroughly.

Oh. How it did foam! We were frightened it was going to explode right there and now. Quickly we put the sealer on and then screwed the lid on tight.

You could see the grins on our faces. We had made the ultimate explosive!

We clambered up a barrel and placed the jar on a basement rafter, way back in the shadows where nobody would disturb our creation. Only we knew.

As we covered up our clandestine operation there in the grey shadows of the basement, we contemplated how to explain our wet pants to our parents. The best thing we could come up with is Old Red scared us bad.

We never gave our science another thought. Who knows? Maybe the jar is still there. Pity the one who finds the jar and drops it now.

Wham!

Copyright
RGT

A Smart Cowboy Knew How To Save The Day

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 7 “A smart Cowboy knew how to save the day.”

The kids of Clydesdale Street had enemies down the hill. We needed a Fort. We were munchkin street warriors. One and all, and, that included Francie. Every successful army needs a field nurse. Francie took her job very seriously. We boys loved getting hurt. If we did not get hurt, we pretended.

My yard, under the parental eyes from the sunroom to the east, then again towards the heavy treed area due north of our huge Bing cherry trees and of course past the chicken coop at the back, were prime areas to possibly build Forts.

To the east a buried earth and plank Fort was the only possibility. The major down side was parents could see most everything from the sunroom above. To the North a Forest covered log and brush habitant. Hidden from everyone. Oh the choices indeed.

Tree Forts could be made but would not hold everyone as we saw when visiting in Joey’s. Kids had to have a Fort regardless. It was kid’s law. We had to build one.

There was a narrow graveled break between my back yard and a large tree and underbrush forest flanking where Mrs. Cain lived. Albert worked for the Cain’s. He was also Mr. Beach’s nephew but he was also Mrs. Cain’s brother. Wow! Too complicated for us kids.

The forested land may have actually belonged to Mrs. Cain. Too all us kids it was simply raw untamed wilderness fit for exploration and land to conquer. We did. Albert helped a lot always with a wink and a knowing smile.

Our first build, was overlooked by the sunroom and to the watchful eye of my Mom & Dad. Dad even attempted to help. Now there was a Dad who could not build anything. A liability even in the eyes of those far less experienced and most certainly much younger. He was voted out right away. He would mumble and cuss a lot after that.

We carried on. Digging proved relatively easy, even for small hands and feet. Lots of shovels began to expose a hole with some width and depth you could duck into and crawl around. A magnificent structural success by any standard was our conclusion. Trouble was, only a few of our army could use it at the same time. It would turn out it was not as big as we wanted.

We were a diplomatic bunch. We took turns and those that could not get in took up outpost positions like Centurions, Pirates sitting in the fruit trees, or simply took off.

The Fort had cardboard floors. There was an ingenious entry way where you simply backed in. The roof escapes description but there was one. It was clammy, musty, and close in there. What a summer. We felt like Lords of the Manor. We had a Fort! Our very own hide-a-way.

There was a point brought up somewhere in the building process about the fact the walls were not shored with anything excepting end posts. The posts served to hold up our sod roof overlaying planks and the old newspapers.

There was also some concern from parents that if there was a roof collapse kids could be suffocated. They were just concerns. Our building expertise exempted us from paying much attention.

The weather during these young productive years was still very much four season. Winter can be described as really cold and snow every year was a given. Late fall was the blustery, wet rainy season just before the ground tightened with frost. Over time all this would change.

That fall it rained. It rained some more. Then it rained again. In that the Boners never got close to destroy our Fort it was unfortunate that Mother Nature was determined to take sides. We were losing to her frenzied tantrums that set our underground Fort awash.

The roof got very soggy. The water seeped in and the floor turned into a watery pulp. There wasn’t any drainage. As the wet earthen walls began to collapse, the dugout was filling with muck. The roof finally caved into the murky pit. All our weapons, a priceless loss of comic books and a bag of left over booty from Halloween were somewhere under there.

No children were lost. Pride was. Next spring we would have to make other plans. Underground Forts were a thing of the past.

Spring brought life in abundance. Grass was beginning to poke out from under the snow. Blossoms were beginning to unfold on the abundant number of fruit trees spotted around the yard. The colours were wildly different because there were so many different variety of trees. Even the bushes were sprouting fresh buds and yearning to open to the new sun.

You could smell the earth. Clean. Fresh. Ready for another year. One of the most vivid expressions of spring for me was after the snows retreated and the land was covered with the tufts of straw like, dead grass.

Every spring I looked forward to raking these tufts and getting them to stand up as best they would. The Scythe was used for long and tangled grass to close to the fence and buildings. The Scythe was taller than I was but I managed to dance with it very well.

My Dad would, on the first really warm week, light the dead grass on fire. It was a yearly tradition to burn off the yellowed grass once the snows retreated.

Oh. What a wonderful smell. Tufts of grass were smoldering everywhere and some in small open flame licking at the sky. The sweet smoke swirled around the yard in lazy patterns. Nobody complained. It was what you did to prepare the land for digging over the soil and planting the new garden.

Too me it was always a journey of excitement and not a meaningless chore. Everyone with gardens, and that was most everybody, burned off their dead grass. It was normal to see smoke rising over the whole area carried on slow moving air currents. A moldy old blanket made for great smoke signals.

Smoke drifting from the close by horse farms added to the smaller garden plots burn on Clydesdale Street. Ours was the biggest yard on the block people said. There was lots of work to do in the spring. Curling smoke was everywhere. Running through the pillows of smoke was great fun.

Grass fire! All the kids loved it. We knew. It was time again to suit up.

We turned it into fodder for our imaginative minds. It was like our Radio’s had come to life. It was a life on the range with Cowboys and Indians fighting battles over land. Homesteads burning. Columns of smoke and ash.were flying everywhere. Soft earth under our feet still damp from winter’s grasp gave spring a new freedom. The Cowboys and Indians got busy.

There was no feeling sorry for the Indians. Some of the kids loved playing the part of Indians. Taking supple saplings and making a bow was lots of fun. Crafting arrows was a talent not all of us had. Those that did made very good straight arrows and their Bows were pretty good too. They had some advantage over cap guns.

The Cowboy’s job was to strap on holsters and search through the choking smoke for signs of survivors. Loading up our guns with fresh caps we set out to round up the scattering stock while keeping a wary eye out for the Indians who set the land ablaze.

The arrows were more the objects of a wary eye. They hurt lots. Retaliation was not equally efficient unless you threw your guns, caps and all at your foe. Regardless the raging fires puffing up from the grass was cause for care. We had to save the livestock!

There was a need to get right into the thick of it all. After all we were heroes out to save the territory. Our yard animals never really caught on. They did their best to hide out in their coops and pens. Old Red couldn’t handle the smoke so we were clear to do our job.

With eyes searing and clothes smelling of grass fires we were always forced to take a bath before going to bed. Darn parents did not understand that Cowboys did not take baths very often and especially during such intense and meaningful duty.

A smart Cowboy knew how to save the day. Cowboys just slept in the cool basement near the coal furnace wrapped in an old army blanket ready to challenge the next mornings adventures.

Heck. That’s what Cowboys do.

Copyright
RGT

The Ragged Little Army Was Heading Home

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 8 “The ragged little army was heading home”

It was Spring. It was time to turn our attention to building a new Fort. This time we chose an area back in the big trees and tangled underbrush beyond the blossoming cherry trees lining the back of my yard. It was just beyond the back fence and across the little graveled lane. It really wasn’t a lane as much as a rocky trail.

Our Dad’s all got together and lay out a Horseshoe pitch along that lane. Recreation was homemade back then. Evenings light remained until late in the night. Summers were special. Long, warm, lazy hours where dreams would come to flower.

Just after the dinner hour, and providing most chores of the day were complete, the fathers could not wait to hear the magical sound. CLANK. CLANK. CLANKCLANK - CLANK, CLANK, CLANK, went the metal shoes. Everything stopped. Fathers bolted for the door.

One of the houses to the west of ours, over beyond the big blackberry bushes, that demarked the western property line, is where the horseshoes were kept. The duty of the evening for the Shoe-Keeper was to clank those shoes as loud as they could be clanked.

The moment the sound of the shoes resonated up and down Clydesdale you could see fathers, house by house, walking briskly to the call. Some even running, seemingly possessed, they were obedient to the man. It was game time! Moms would turn to the kids to finish the dirty dishes. Ughhhhhhhhhhh.

We thought the Dad’s signal had the makings of a system we might put in place to insure warning of any impending raid by those Boner kids down on lower Clydesdale. We would give it more thought once we had a new Fort built. A brilliant war plan indeed. Oh we schemers.

As kids nobody gave us much mind but clearly we were not just amateurs anymore. We knew not to build anywhere to close to the horseshoe pitch. Having the Dad’s within earshot or even knowing there was a hideout close by just could not happen. It had to be built further towards Mrs. Cain’s place and back out of site of the rocky little lane way.

We needed to insure we did not get too far over because Mrs. Cain had guard ducks. She raised lots of ducks and they could quack louder than most dogs can bark. We could not have that. This Fort was meant to be our secret.

Over the weeks we organized shovels and picks. It might have been funny to adults because the tools were as big if not bigger than we were. No mind. This was important work. If two kids had to carry a heavy pick so be it.

Cutting fallen branches was easier than digging. This time we would make the shallow floor impression really comfortable by putting down thick leaf bows. We found the necessary building posts, to give the structure support, in the densely wooded area we were in.

It was distanced off the small gravel laneway. We could not even see the back of my house. Not even the chicken coops or rabbit’s hutch. The rickety fence of the backyard could not be seen either. We were now invisible.

This was the perfect retreat for the kids of Clydesdale Street. The woods were thick here. The underbrush was heavy with salal and other growth. Both started to thin out as you went east and north where you would run right into the Cain property with their underbrush all cleared and trees thinned. We were now “Fort Masters”! Ha!

It would take forever for the Clydesdale Boners to find out about our Fort. Being buried deep in our territory and away from civilization we had the perfect headquarters to mount our dreams and chase our imaginations. There was a sense of freedom here. Escape was good.

Everything was as we had planned. Our parents suspected, but never asked nor pursued where we disappeared for hours on end. It was so perfect.

Sometimes all of us kids had duties and obligations that keep us away from the Fort a few days at a time. We felt safe never fearing an attack or fort raid from our dreaded Lowland enemies or even that our parents would sell us out.

One late summer day the kids gathered once again to hold a gathering at our now extremely well hidden enterprise. The seasonal foliage did its work. A cloak of invisability prevailed.

Where Mother Nature did her utmost to destroy last years efforts with torrential fall rains she now gave us a heavy covering of deep green camouflage and a full canopy of protection from prying eyes.

Some kids had short memories even over just a few days. They themselves lost a sense of where the Fort was. This day in particular it was not hard to find. Approaching the immediate area a most foul odor caught our nostrils. For the weakest of us the odor generated both dizziness and nausea, followed by heaving, retching, and an expulsion of gut burning bile. These moments preceded by first losing lunch. It was just after the noon hour.

Getting right up and close to the Fort we could see the entrance cover was thrown back and clearly the situation was coming from within. There was no discussion necessary. Our Fort had been sabotaged. We backed away in horror. It just wasn’t so we thought. The stench could not hide the reality of the moment. Covering our noses we fell into retreat.

All the kids couldn’t believe it. Running from the smell, questions began. What? How? The Fort was well hidden. Nobody snitched to the enemy did they? We were overwhelmed. Some cried.

Leaving the Fort and finding our way back out to the little gravel lane and good fresh air it all became clear. We watched in disbelief the mailman walking towards us from the area of the Horseshoe pitch. It would seem the culprit was before us. On his rounds the mailman somehow found his way into the bush looking for an adequate relief station. He discovered our Fort. He took it upon himself to relieve himself inside, fully, on his daily walk. It didn’t take many days.

The kids of Clydesdale Street quickly dispersed. We never went back. We did not want to know what he did with our comic books after he read them.

Our continuing vulnerability to the frequent raids of those kids down the way on Clydesdale hill was evident. They could find us in the open now. We were scared but only briefly.

We were exposed. We could see that they would attempt to intimidate us one at a time. In the open there was nowhere to hide except home but that did not seem appropriate for hardened warriors. Nobody was supposed to run and hide at his own house.

There had to be a way. There just had to be a way.

We thought of our Dad’s signaling system with the Horseshoes and came up with a plan. There had to be a way to insure protection from the swarming Boners and we found it.

Plotting out where everybody lived insured there was enough distance between each kids house that an audible signal would activate a chain reaction insuring all of us knew we were being attacked.

The general weaponry of the day was wooden swords, sticks, rocks, and crafted
shields of wood or metal and then there was Larry. Larry and his sling.

Larry was the point man. He knew when they were coming up the hill and he began the signal. Bang. Bang. BangBangBang Bang Bang BangBang.

Little kids did not have absolute autonomy and still had to spend time at their homes doing chores, and family things. This made any single kid vulnerable when asked to go to Mr. and Mrs. Evans Red & White store.

The store was located very close to the top of Clydesdale hill, considered the end of our territory. Sometimes one could run to Mrs. Cogswell’s house just up from the store. She thought we came for a haircut. Good grief. Home was a long block away and besides it was not appropriate to run there. That was left for sissies besides none of us enjoyed haircuts anyway.

Sometimes being a sissy was okay if nobody was watching. Usually you would not go to the store without your trusty sword, or, sharpened spear. Carrying more than one thing back from the store made that difficult. Running in full flight was even harder.

When Larry heard or saw the enemy coming he would run out and start flaying with a big stick or his brothers hockey stick, on the ever-present 45-gallon oil drums most every family had around. There was not any such luxury of garbage pickup nor yet the invention of garburators. Heck. There weren’t even sewers.

These drums were used to burn the daily refuse from in and around the houses. Some days kitchen refuge smoldering throughout the neighbourhood choked the air with smells so foul we gagged our little selves to vomit.

Some Houses simply piled their garbage then found an appropriate spot in the yard and buried the lot of it. They were probably the first citizens concerned with polluted air however the solution had its drawbacks. Leaching oooz and smelly muck holes were everywhere.

There were yards nobody visited even at Halloween.

Bang. Bang -Bang. Bang. Bang-Bang-Bang.

Larry’s wild banging on the drum was picked up by the kid closest to Larry’s house, who in turn ran out, and started doing the same thing. Down Manor and Clydesdale the signal traveled. A pumping adrenalin rush that put beads of sweat on the palms accompanied each kids frantic effort. Every kid now knew we were under attack. The Boners were coming!

As each of us picked up the signal it would ricochet down the block where another warrior joined in. No matter if it was lunch time, dinnertime, or in the middle of chores, we had a duty to insure the chain was not broken.

Until we knew the banging was confirmed by Roy at the farthest point west it never stopped. Roy Finchum lived up on Manor Street but close enough to Denny and Buddy’s house to pick up the call to arms. Parents quizzically stood by and watch as each kid armed themselves with their respective weaponry.

As each of us ran from our yards and headed east on Clydesdale, right down the center of the street, the war cry was gaining to a riotous squeal. The sounds were an ear splitting crescendo of savage war cries and beating shields. The army was on the move.

The trick was to let the enemy get over the hill, onto our territory, and engage. The thrill of the battle was always with us. All the soldiers could not wait for our anxious Nurse to treat the wounds. She could sure fight too.

There were wounds. This was not a playful tête-à-tête. The kids really were at difference and there was never a holding back when you hit somebody. It is amazing at how good homemade shields, like using makeshift 45-gallon drum covers, were at offsetting real injury. Little hands would suffer greatly.

A real tragedy never befell us. It was remarkable the lack of serious hurts. We were just little kids but our hearts were big and our heads hard.

Once we had the enemy boxed in Larry would come up from their rear. Larry was a ferocious fighter. The Boners just never saw him coming no matter how many times they attempted to invade us. The battles were never long but intense enough to cause a few injuries. By the time the parents had gathered their senses that another battle was on, it was over. As we beat the invaders back and they started to flee there was good old Larry just a loading his sling and letting go. Wow. Was Larry good!

The ragged little army was heading home, some crying, some yahooing, and a few fearful the parental punishment would be harsher than the bruise or two they sported. There were many visits between all the parents discussing this pre-school carnage. We did not understand the fuss. It was the way. Besides, bumps and bruises healed fast after warm hugs and kisses, especially from our nurse Francie. Moms were okay too as long as none of the other kids saw them happening. After all, we were soldiers with our army ready to fight another day.

Nothing stopped the continued skirmishes until one fateful fall day both sides found ourselves face to face at our, soon to be attended, Elementary School. Schou Street Elementary. We were condemned to a reform school, so we thought. It was horrible to imagine.

We had heard about such places. It was where bad kids were sent to kid jail. We knew there was such a place on Myrtle Street down some blocks below the Cain’s property and edging towards Still Creek. Actually it was a Catholic Orphanage in a dark, large, barn like building well hidden in the trees. Heavy woods that hid it from general view kept it removed from prying eyes. We knew where it was. This was not it. Schou Street Elementary was different. It had playgrounds.

We were confused. Worse yet, it was a nightmare come to life. The Boners were there too! The mean kid who led our sworn enemies on Clydesdale hill was no other than the son of the Principal Mr. Brown! Even though we did not really know what a Principal was. The shock was numbing. We just knew we would all die.

Larry lost his sling at the first recess.

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RGT

We Soon Forgot We Were Good Friends

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 9 “We soon forgot we were good friends.”

During the height of our warring years, the kids were not so much a modern (for the day) warrior, as more one of our own design. Something in between would better describe the invention. Some time Cowboy. Some time Pirate. Some time Soldier. Some time Fantasy.

Many fancied our efforts as a wild band of swashbuckling buccaneers. Captain Kid and the Pirates of the Caribbean would have been put to the plank. Denny and Buddy were of this cloth. Other kids wanted to be like their dads with a little war surplus clothing thrown in. Whatever the choice there was no mistaken we were warriors. Our feet were the oars on our ships and the wheels on our tanks. Larry was just plain ole Larry. Larry and his sling singing as it twirled.

Sword fighting was big no matter what. Carrying a sword was good anyway when Old Red was around. All the kids could also identify with swashbuckling pirates. Being a pirate and wearing an eye patch was special.

We fashioned great weapons. When we did not fight our enemy we fought amongst ourselves. This was not a good time to wear a patch. There were duels most evenings around the time the Dad’s were out at the Horseshoe pitch. Their clanking covered ours. Sticks banging on shields was loud.

One particular duel carried all the way from my yard, across the street, up the walkway, and on into Denny and Buddy’s. Denny and I were in a feverish battle. Swords flaying. Our hands were feeling the blows on the metal shields right up to the shoulder. Little muscles were cramping. The life ebbing out of every pore but we warriors do not give up. My stamina fleeting, Denny’s sword kept pounding and pounding. He was not to be denied. The pounding continued. We soon forgot we were good friends.

Tiring, I began to retreat but there was nowhere to go. I won the first round but Denny now had me on the ropes and there was nothing I could do except give up. NO. Not yet!

We were touching on Denny’s carport or was it an unfinished garage? What really was not clear is how I started to bleed profusely. There was no warning just warm sticky blood streaming down my face.

A protruding nail perhaps on the side of the garage caught my left cheek just under the eye tearing down to my jaw. Denny had worn me out and as I turned away from him I stumbled and fell against the side of the structure. My cheek simply opened up. The scar of that day still remains as a reminder how pugilistic we were in our imaginative roles. Reality stuck.

Denny was one good fighter. A very strong kid he was. He helped his dad carry bricks and rocks around as part of his chores and obviously gained an early entry to hardening up his body. In my case, being the scrawny bean sprout I was, my best offense was to hit and retreat. Running became less a passion at times and more a matter of necessity. I could run. Denny went on to be a Golden Gloves Champion. I kept running.

Although Larry was the greatest asset to the Clydesdale crew, Denny was no slouch either. There were those normal occasions of course were we ended up just all being plain kids. Comic books were a satisfying alternative.

Exploration for some kids was a yearning to reach beyond Clydesdale Street and discover new vistas. We knew, to the east, our chance of exploring in peace was limited by the Boners. Knowing the challenges we clearly had to expand westward. Well, at least to Boundary Road.

To the west on Clydesdale was the safer route to discover a kid’s bigger world. Everything was much simpler then. Blue skies prevailed.

Just a little walk west was Boundary Road. It was where Boundary, north south, first intersected 12th Ave. which became the Grandview Highway south for a few blocks on Boundary, turning abruptly east, leaving Boundary to continue due south. Confusing? Not yet!

12th Ave directly east became my Clydesdale Street at Boundary Road. Now it is about confusion. What now of Clydesdale Street? Clydesdale Street is now Grandview Highway, the entrance to Highway #1 east and in reverse it is 12th Ave. going west. The short of it all Clydesdale Street subsequently vanished. Clydesdale Street, in name yes, but kids memories are planted deep in the soil below the tire worn asphalt.

Boundary Road, when Clydesdale Street flourished with post war kids, had on the south east corner a few shops like a butcher, grocery store and pharmacy. The building is still there some 50 odd years later. A tattoo parlor and lawnmower repair now graces the premises.

Monuments to yet an earlier time and beside the stores, where the new 401 Motor Inn now stands, was the Sunset Motel, a rickety old style roadside establishment right out of pre Route 66 era. There were many such motels along the route joining Burnaby to New Westminster.

It was owned in part by close friends of my Mom and Dad. Mr. and Mrs. Martin who would become significant in my family’s life however I would foolishly resent them for helping. Eventually we would move away from Clydedale with their help. They did too.

Directly across the street on Boundary and to the west was virgin bush lands and we kids were all told never to venture there. Big animals lived in the bushes. Besides it was Vancouver or Africa or something. All we knew it was a divide, a barrier, the end of our Universe.

Much activity was going on behind all those trees and bushes. Houses were being constructed for the returned war veterans. Land was being carved out of the heavy forested area a fast as it could be. War veteran families were jammed into the old Sunset Motel waiting for the houses to be finished. Families and lots of little kids all crammed into a small area. Nobody played with anyone from the motel. Our parents saw the transients as a very bad influence even though, all they were doing is waiting for their own homes. Kids just saw kids.

We avoided going there to play, but Roy Finchum’s house, being on Manor Street was pretty close to the motel. The decaying Sunset Motel was right on the corner of Boundary Road and Manor. Hard to avoid, being close.

The kids at the motel seemed to know they were unwelcome. They did not care. It was not a big deal for them. They played amongst themselves on the motel grounds most of the time and we continued as usual. We were thankful they liked us anyway. Whew! Boners on one side and these kids on the other would have proven devastating for we Clydesdale scamps. The idea of being a sandwich did not feel comfortable at all.

The name of the motel was appropriate as sunsets from the Sunset Motel were spectacular. You could see forever the sun falling from the sky. The old motel is long since been replaced but the magnificent sunsets remain.

There were a few houses on Clydesdale due west before reaching Boundary Road. They began on the other side of the dense blackberry bushes that bordered the west side of where my house was and still it remains to date.

Almost to Boundary were two brand new houses built on my side (north) of the street. All the parents saw change coming with the addition of these modern homes joining our very eclectic group of residences. These were talked about as being state of the art for the times. They sure were fancy.

One of the houses had a very tall steel tower topped with another narrower silver rod reaching high for the sky. It was called an antenna. The kids were in awe. We were told the man living there was a Ham Radio enthusiast. Dumfounded we could only imagine why would anybody be so excited about a radio made out of ham and what did the antenna do anyway? Sometimes it was hard being a kid. He had a collie dog so that was okay.

Boundary, due north, headed down a quickly descending grade that led the way to the most coveted journey of our lives. The railway tracks! Running parallel to the tracks was Still Creek where we enjoyed pole fishing, guerilla swimming, and just plain exploring where it came from and were it went.

The “ whys” occupied us continually? How far away did it go? Could it be another side of the world? We thought so. We knew for sure digging a deep hole would get us to China so traveling far to the north had to go somewhere.

Across the tracks a distance we knew there were milk farms just before where the Bridges Movie complex now stands. Cows were everywhere. It was here many of our parents, including mine, walked or rode to get fresh dairy products before Glenburn Dairies started going house to house with a horse drawn cart. This was too far a field for little kids out on their own.

To the east Still Creek found it’s way to Burnaby Lake, mudflats and swamplands, filled with mud, oozing bogs, skunk cabbage and ferns. To the west, running under Boundary Road we tended not to explore the creek at all except to build swimming holes. That part of the creek was meandering far into the Horse Farm territory, far beyond our site. To the very far west was surely to find Africa.

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RGT

When We Were Cowboys!

Comics. Radio. Lone Ranger to the rescue!

We Wanted To Run

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 10 “We wanted to run but we were already run out.”

Kitty corner from the small shops at Boundary and Clydesdale were rolling lands dropping away to follow the grade down the hill to Still Creek. There everything leveled out into flats before rising sharply once again. The Horse farm, from top to bottom, flanked Boundary Road on the west for as far as little eyes could see.

This was cowboy country!

Not like the Dyak’s down the Clydesdale hill where their farm was heavy with trees, flat, dark, and forbidden, this farm was open, bright, hilly and very large. To the kids it seemed to go on forever. From the corner of Boundary and Clydesdale the view opened up wide and it is unlikely there is a better sight of the North Shore Mountains from anywhere inland. Sweeping views. Majestic. They still are, although my eyes might see a little more in the horizon. Even little kids appreciated how big our world must be. Imaginations were continually ignited by the possibilities.

Our fertile minds were always exploding with our imaginations running overtime. How far west did the horse farm go? We knew it went north all the way past the railway tracks and Still Creek ran through the bottomlands of the big farm but how far west we wondered. If there were horses could there be Buffalo. My Uncle Jim had told us that rolling grasslands had Buffalo with big furry heads and horns. We never saw any.

Looking north to the mountains conjured up our prolific thoughts even more. Were those the mountains where bear, deer, and other wild animals lived? We had heard it was. We heard people got lost and eaten over there. We heard that beyond those mountains was another land with hairy bogyman.

We always discussed how one day we would just keep trekking north until we got to the mountains. I mean we were well able to protect ourselves. We had lots of experience in that. Getting over the mountains might be harder.

Those kids that ever carried the thought forward were few. Denny, his brother Buddy and I got as far as what today is the Lougheed Highway that intersects Boundary Road east and west.
The cow farms were just across the way. We dare not be seen because our milk lady would surely tell our parents.

There were too many risks this far from home. Jimmy usually stopped at Still Creek to check on his muskrat traps. One day he wanted to head north but not yet.

Cows were different than horses anyway, so who really cared about exploring around goofy animals who ran away from you, excepting the big mean one that charged every time we crawled through the fence. It just did not seem worth going further in our venture, or, we simply lost the thought. We could be distracted easily.

The Horse farm along Boundary Road was different. Horses were friendly. This was a huge farm owned by Doctors and they bred racehorses. Of course we did not know that then. To kids it was just a farm and those were horses. What kind they were didn’t matter too much. They looked like Cowboy horses. The land was officially part of Hastings Heights prior to 1911. Maybe the land was to become houses but it seemed so much more appropriate as a farm.

No one ever challenged we kids finding our way across Boundary Road and into the big fields on the farm. There were no Boners and we did not tell our parents anyway. There were outbuildings reasonably close to the road so we felt safe we could run if anybody or anything came along we could not handle. Heck. That was not likely.

The horses loved us. We brought carrots, apples, and fresh greens from the gardens. We pulled fresh dew damped grass from along Still Creek. The horses would go crazy. Munching furiously, generating copious amounts of green foam around their mouths, and with their eyes exploding, we taunted with handfuls waiting. Our friendship with the big horses flourished.

When we showed up horses from all corners of the farm would gallop their way to where we stood. It was so very exciting. On dusty summer afternoons swirls of dust would rise from under their hoofs. At times in their exuberance they would run us over.

To insure we could find a safe retreat we chose one of the old barns that leaned sadly near the Boundary Road escape route. To our knowledge it seemed to contain mostly drying hay. The stench was nauseous.

The horses had better lodgings some distance away. What a discovery! Our very own ranch house far from home with our own horses by our side was exiting. Sure there was daylight seeping through the warped and worn siding. The knotholes so big that light danced everywhere and the roof tilted heavily. It was a little cowboys dream.

Grand it was.

It was time to put on our Tex Ritter or Gene Autry clothes and holster up the guns. We never forgot our buckaroo hats either. The sun could get hot out there on the range.

One summer day four of us Clydesdale kids made our way over to the horses. The day was hot and sticky. This day the horses seemed agitated. Horses tended to be that way at times. When they saw us we figured out pretty quick they were making a beeline to us, and through us. We turned and ran dropping our offerings as we went. Nobody looked back.

The object was to get to the safety of the old barn as fast as small legs could physically manage. It seemed forever. One by one we made it. There really was no rush because the horses stopped wherever they found the goodies we dropped. The last few yards of flight would have been with less anxiety had we looked back. The horses were not even close. We were so proud we could out run them. Ha. Ha. We were the best!

Within the safety of the barn we settled down to determine if we should stay or move on out. The decision was made for us. Out of nowhere came this kid. Not a kid like us but a big kid. He was carrying a hunting knife and it was not in its sheath!

Fear gripped we four. Real fear. Fear so bad we stood frozen in our place. This was not the Boners we knew from lower Clydesdale Street. In a gruff voice the big kid wanted to know what we had in the knap sacks. There were two and they were of the surplus army kind. Okay. So they did not go with our cowboy outfits but imagination said they were saddlebags so it was an acceptable alternative.

We would carry our exploration tools in those bags, horse food, and whenever we could, get our mother’s to put a few sandwiches in there as well did not hurt. This kid grabbed the knapsacks from us.

We wanted to run but we were already run out. The kid also carried that large knife confusing our thoughts of flight. He menacingly told us to sit down in a corner all together. Nobody challenged. He went through the packs and finding sandwiches he ate them with ravenousness abandon. We sat terrified.

The kid said if we moved he would kill us. Even as kids we saw the threat was real. We were stuck in the barn, far from home, not an adult around.

One of us tried to run to get help from our parents or anybody we could. The big kid tripped him, kicked him and told him to strip off his clothes. We were horrified. Then he made all of us strip. We were far to young to be embarrassed but there was no pleasure in following his wishes. The fear began to turn into shear terror. You could hear the sobbing get louder.

We heard about bad people that hurt little kids not understanding hurt came in many forms. The four of us were captives held against our will. This was not imagination. This was for real.

It seemed like hours were passing by. They were. It was now late afternoon. The barn was so hot from the beating sun. It stank with the composting hay. The air was so close it was hard to breath. Time stood silent.This kid kept looking outside to see if there were threats of exposure to his doings. Nobody came.

The kid made us pee then sit in it. He would make us pee on each other. It wasn’t hard to pee. We were getting the pee scared right out of us. He abused, physically, one of the kids. Not a terribly bad way but certainly not in a friendly way. He used the knife to cut one of us enough to bleed. The jagged straw cut into our bare bottoms as well. There had never been such a terrible circumstance for any of us.

It was now dinnertime. Surely our families would be missing us. No. Often we would all disappear without acknowledging time. Our parents knew we had our lunches packed so they knew we were not going to be hungry. It was a different time. Kids had freedom. We had great lives. Sometimes. The air was heavy, humid, smelly. This, was not a great time.

Between tears we pleaded to go home. We wouldn’t tell anybody. We would keep this horrible kidnapping a secret. He could keep our holsters and guns. He could keep the knapsacks. As the hours began to pass he thought about it and his reply to our pleadings that was one of us could go home while he kept the others hostage. If, and only if, they would bring back another knapsack full of food would he let us go? Who would volunteer? We all volunteered.

The big kid said he would carve us up and leave us dead if anything went wrong. He meant it. There is no describing the fear. Faced with the real thought of being badly hurt or possibly really killed certainly had our attention. We sat huddled in a corner of the barn, scared silly and scared naked. What might happen was scrambling our active minds.

Just as it started it ended. We looked up to find the big kid was gone. Nothing. Vanished. How can little kids spell relief? Blubbering. Shaking. Shear trauma relief, so uncontrollable. Laughing and crying there we stood. Very dirty. Very humbled. Very naked. We dressed faster than we ran. It was to remain a secret.

We could never tell our parents or anybody including our fellow warriors on Clydesdale Street. We would never be allowed to return to the farm site if our parents knew. The other kids of our street would surely slip and tell their parents or as we thought think we were the lesser the brave and that would not do.

Maybe the big kid was just hungry. Maybe he was on the run. Maybe he ran away from the Catholic Orphanage near by on Myrtle Street. Maybe he had planned to make the barn a temporary refuge. Maybe he liked to frightened little kids. To we the survivors we forgot about the reasons but I would bet none of the kids there ever forgot that day.

The encounter never stopped us. We continued to visit the farm but we never went back into that barn. A lookout was always posted. We all learned how to make slingshots. We learned from Larry. Cap guns were a thing of the past.

The barn was soon to meet an unfriendly fate. Perhaps our story did get told to parents or maybe the farm owners felt there was a need to better protect things, we did not really know. All we know for sure was that an older neighbourhood boy was given the task of checking the barn and surrounding area on a regular basis. His name was Sidney Constantine.

Sidney had a sister named Edna. They were just a little older but still within school ages. Edna was fun. Mr. Dashwood’s demanding pool fees gave way to the kids taking sod from around Still Creek and blocking up the little creek thereby backing up the water. This would form a really good swimming hole, something that was extremely rare in our area.

Of course the backed up water eventually created problems along the way and city workmen had to come and unplug the creek ever so often. We told them it must be the beavers. They always winked.

When we had the creek backed up, jumping in and playing in the swimming hole was so inviting, so much fun. It was generally hot and we boys would take everything off and cannonball in. Even if pants were left on they would soon fall off after a few jumps.

Sidney’s sister Edna loved the water too. She would join all the boys, taking off her clothes and never think about it again. None of the boys thought anything of it either. Francie was far more conservative. Younger too. No one saw her near the swimming hole. Ever.

One fateful day smoke in the air was really very thick. Everyone ran to see where it was coming from. As families all gathered at the corner of Boundary and Clydesdale we could see the infamous barn was blazing sky high. Dark billowing smoke with yellow flames flickering through. There was a roar in the air. The fire smelled a lot like our little annual Spring grass fires. The notable difference is this was dry, choking smoke and tons of fly ash from the burning hay. As compared to the sweet, clean scents of yard fires this was a spectacular array of smells, sights and sound.

Families stood watching it burn all the way to the ground. Sidney apparently was in the barn and he was smoking. He fell asleep or he misplaced his smoke. The hay caught fire and when Sidney realized the urgency of the situation he grabbed a container and threw the liquid on the fire. As it happens the container was full of Kerosene (coal oil) that was still used frequently for lighting lanterns in the evenings.

The explosion seriously burned Sidney and he did not return to school for many months. He had bad facial and body burns that disfigured him. Fortunately he survived but the barn did not. Our little ranch house on the horse farm was gone for good. Fine ash covered the ground.

We did not visit the horses very much anymore. They would often watch us walk on by, down Boundary Road to the creek. Some would gallop over looking for their treats noisily making their presence known. We gave our best but never again climbed over the fence. Maybe we were just growing up. Growing up seemed so permanent.


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RGT

We Screamed and Screamed!

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 11 “We screamed and screamed waving all of the time.”

The railway tracks and Still Creek never failed to fire up little kids imaginations. We would put our ears on the tracks waiting to hear the hum and buzzing from the rails. It was a zinging sound, magnifying, as the train got closer. It tickled the ears sending vibrations into the nose.

When the faintest sound was heard we went wild with excitement. All of us stood screaming as the big train came into sight. There was the sun bright light coming silently down the tracks. It grew larger with every moment. The fast approaching ball of light was as if the sun was rushing down the tracks soon to engulf our waving souls. Soon it was upon us.

The ground shook. The rails were buckling with the weight. The smelly-creosoted wood ties digging deep into the gravel bed were awesome to watch. The vibration was so pronounced we bounced were we stood. The sounds were so loud we could not hear ourselves. We screamed and screamed waving all of the time.

We would raise our arms and pretend to pull the whistle cord. The Engineer responded in kind blowing the whistle in short bursts. We knew it wasn’t directly in response to our wishes. There was the Boundary Road crossing coming and the smiling Engineer had to blow the whistle anyway. The kids did not care why. Believing in our efforts made our day.

The mournful sound of the big engine’s signal was mesmerizing. The train was howling, clacking, and the swooshing of the passing cars intoxicated our senses. There could be nothing so exhilarating. As the train would sweep by we tried to stand as close to the rails as possible. Dare double dare. Our pants remained dry most of the time. Then silence.

As the train disappeared on the horizon we stood there in our thoughts. Our little bodies still vibrated from the sudden rush of sound and movement. Were did that wonderful huge awesome train go? Throughout the day kids kept reliving the moment as many times as we could. Toot. Toot.

The horizon, with the vanishing rails kept our deepest desires alive even at bedtime. Kids said they lay awake for hours fantasizing jumping onto the train and letting it take them off into the distant not knowing where that was. I was one. Lying awake imagining the journey was so exhilarating. How exactly to jump onto the train never came up.

The haunting trains could be heard from all our houses into the late night. Clicking down the track they would go. Click-Clack. Click-Clack. When asleep, it was not hard to awaken to the wailing whistles and pretend we were the Engineer’s guiding the way to that unknown destination “Some-Where-Ville”.

Our parents were most annoyed when all the kitchen chairs were lined up like rail cars. Tied together with butcher’s string they created the occasional scene when parents attempted to put them back where they belonged.

Everyone wanted a little wooden train for their birthday but the chairs could carry the cat, the cut logs for the kitchen stove, and other goods of transport. Putting everything back where it belonged was usually left to the parent’s, as we all would disperse to hunt for worms in the garden.

Much later Jimmy and I would discover where the rails went as we both exercised our curiosity about Still Creek, it’s fish, tadpoles, frogs, snakes, and muskrats. The tracks and the Creek ran in the same direction east and west. We would choose east towards Burnaby Lake. Brave as we were it would take a little more time.

Meanwhile the train was a golden part of every kid’s desires. Everyone had a different story on what riding the rails personally offered. All the stories we told came down to the same thing. The tracks led to the unknown and it was paramount kids discovered the unknown. Driving curiosity fueled our passion for both discovery and learning. It also got some of us in lots of trouble.

One thing for sure, our collection of flattened pennies was piling up.

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RGT

His Eyes Were Bug Wide

11/24/02 Copyright –RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 12 “ His eyes were bug wide. His jaw opened to his chest.”

At my house there was always a ‘people’ activity. One crisp fall day close friends of my Mom and Dad moved in with us for a while. They had a boy named Mark but everyone called him Marcie. Who called anybody by their grown up names anyway.

Marcie was different. He seemed so odd compared to any of my other friends on Clydesdale Street. Marcie was a child with Downs Syndrome. The description of the time was he was a “Blue Baby”. Being kids it was puzzling because Marcie did not look blue. Another mystery we could not comprehend. Ham radios and blue kids was more than we could understand.

It never occurred to me Marcie was anything other than a plain old kid. Marcie had already amassed a large comic book collection for a kid so young. Anybody with comic books was like the rest of us. Just a little kid.

Marcie was my age and yes, he was clearly very different. Other kids could not capture his spirit or his position. He did not talk the same. He did not think the same. He slobbered. He ate funny. He laughed funny. His whole world was consumed with comics. There were reasons he best knew.

Kazaaam! Did Marcie ever have great comic books! He had every new edition carefully wrapped and a second one for reading or trading. I never knew if this was his idea or his Mom and Dad’s.

Marcie’s Dad was a floor finisher. Ben was a very nice man as was his wife Sylvia. Their son, although so different, was very special to both of them. They really loved Marcie a lot.

Marcie always called me by both my first and last name tightly woven together. I got embarrassed. He did that forever. Very loudly.

I grew to really like Marcie regardless. As a kid, by nature, I could not show such devotion to my Clydesdale pals because their view was he was kind of crazy. There was never a moment I felt awkward defending Marcie. I did however let him find out about Old Red his own way.

Marcie attached to me to such a point it became for a kid rather difficult. I was told to take him with me out to play every time I wanted to leave the house or go visit my friends. I did not want to. I would sneak out. I choose to be selfish. The relationship at times was stressful for everyone. The adults would talk about it at dinner time but not all that often.

Understanding difference is complicated. Marcie had something the rest of us kids didn’t. He had a sixth sense. He understood better than our parents, and, he felt my detachment as well as the fears other kids could not hide.

Marcie, so resigned would bury himself in his mountain of comic books. He would not be heard from for hours on end. I thought he was lonely. Marcie was never lonely. We kids were the lonely.

There were many other times Marcie and me did play together and I never found it much different than playing with any other kid. Marcie could see I really was a good friend but he never pushed the edge whenever in my simplistic child manner shunned him for my Clydesdale Street warriors. He understood well where I did not.

Marcie’s Dad drove a car. A car at the time was still considered an oddity to families like mine. We did not have opportunity. My Dad and Mom did not drive and more than the wish too they did not have the money anyway.

The difficulty of transportation was severe. The bus did not come anywhere near were we lived. It stopped a few miles west of our house on 12th ave (Grandview Highway) at Rupert Street. The bus stop was very much west of my favorite horse farm in this unknown territory. That was a very long distance even for adults, and my Mom, Dad and I walked it many, many times. It was part way into Africa. That is how I knew.

In the winter it was no different than walking to the North Pole. It was too cold for Africa I reasoned. Not only the distance weighed heavily, but also the bus was never frequent so standing outside waiting for it was both tiring and bone chilling. My Mom and Dad, whenever there was the need for heading out to the big city stores, had to carry the purchases and me, asleep on my feet. They did so without complaint.

Marcie’s Dad had a brand new Austin. It was tan in colour. His generosity extended to offering to teach my Dad how to drive and they could then share the car. What an opportunity! I could not believe it. Life was really good.

One day Marcie and I were stuffed into the back seat of the Austin. Ben was going to show my Dad how to drive. First Marcie’s Dad got behind the wheel with my Dad sitting next to him. The car started and we were underway. Cheering, Marcie and I clapped and yelled with enthusiasm.

We drove west to the corner where we turned right and started down the hill on Boundary Road. This was just like being in Jimmy’s Dad’s car. We were on a roll. It was exhilarating. Ben continued showing my Dad how the gears needed to be changed and how to use the feet with the brake and clutch.

I really liked when we turned the corner. A little arm came out to show which way we were going to turn. Amazing. I could not imagine.

Driving down the hill we passed by the Horse Farm, the infamous sagging barn, and passed over the rail tracks and Still Creek onwards north. We even passed the Lougheed Highway. This was virgin territory. So were we. We drove up the coming hill all the way to Hastings Street.

Marcie’s dad turned the Austin around and back we went quickly past all the land we knew, up Boundary, over the rail tracks, past Still Creek and south to the top of the Horse farm. We turned left on Clydesdale and returned to my house. What a thrill. My Dad would now try to remember what the procedure of driving was and history was made.

We were parked on the roadway in front of my house. Marcie and I once again tumbled into the back seat. My Dad took the wheel and Marcie’s dad became the instructor sitting in the front passenger seat. Before this ride was over Marcie’s dad was closer to sitting with us than further facing the terror up front.

My Dad was not made to drive automobiles. A skilled quartermaster, I learned later, there wasn’t a boat he could not control. When I was first born my Dad was still a seaman and worked on the Princess Nora, a famous West Coast Freighter plying the waters off the West Coast of Vancouver Island. Once settled on Clydesdale Street he left the sea, at least for a little while.

Marcie’s dad gave the instruction to start the car. Another great ride for us so we thought. My Dad started the car. Everything was ready to go. He put the car into gear. Well, sort of in gear. The grinding could be heard over Marcie’s dad’s scream to let the clutch out or something like that.

The Austin began to lurch with coughing convulsions. My Dad stepped on the gas. Really stepped on the gas! As we shot along Clydesdale westerly the engine roared wildly. Marcie’s dad frantically yelled for my Dad to shift the gears. Not good. That move sounded much louder than the first time.

We were reaching the corner at Boundary and we knew this ride was different. We cowered in the back seat screaming. The turn right at Boundary was successfully made but not without some heavy leaning to the left. The little arm telling us which way we were going did not pop up.

Toppling over was more than a fleeting thought. As we streaked down the hill the car began free falling. Weaving wildly, first towards the Horse farm side of Boundary, then again quickly back to the east side and once more. Marcie and I were thrown side to side and pillar to post. Marcie wanted a glass of milk.

The brakes were on to the floorboards but so was the throttle pedal. My Dad’s feet were glued to them both. Hard. He did have both hands on the steering wheel but we still were rocketing our way back and forth across the full width of Boundary Road.

The smell of burning brakes, the grinding of the gearbox, and the roar of the engine somewhere over the red line identified our panic.

All this time Marcie’s dad was half standing in the passenger seat. His grip on the seat turned knuckle white. His eyes were bug wide. His jaw opened to his chest. Marcie was doing something akin to “Channeling” by the sounds of it.

I could not speak. I was screamed out. We were sure Marcie’s dad would fall over backwards landing on us both. We cringed with eyes tightly shut and waited for the crushing impact.

My Dad was talking loudly and very fast in his own language not to anybody in particular. He was attempting to understand the staccato instructions from Marcie’s dad. Even Marcie and I could not understand Marcie’s dad anymore. His voice was too high. Fear was our companion and the rooster was laughing.

We made it to the train tracks and for all our luck there was no Engineer blowing horns of greetings. As we rumbled wildly across the tracks with the brakes still burning we were so grateful for small blessings.

The ride was soon over. My Dad finally lifted his foot off the gas pedal, threw the gears so it seemed into reverse and Marcie’s dad found the emergency brake. The stop could be described as instant. Marcie’s dad unceremoniously turned the ignition off and jumped out of the car. There was this immediate silence.

Marcie’s dad, could be identified as the calmest, respectful and most understanding father we knew, He never had a bad word for anybody. It would be hard to recall a more docile, reserved man. Unfortunately this was the one time in his life he found himself outside his persona.

Scrambling out of the little Austin took seconds. We walked home from where it sat.
My Dad was to never drive again. Ever. All the cursing got in the way.

Soon after, Ben, Sylvia and Marcie moved from our house. No hard feelings but a matter of time passing. My parents kept in touch for many years and I still saw Marcie but only once in a while. Much later both Ben, then Sylvia died. Both died far earlier than they should have.

Marcie was forced into an institution. A difficult time for him to be sure but Marcie accepted knowing he was with good people who better understood his differences. In hind site Marcie was a marvelous human being. He carried himself proudly and lived on for many more years. I just did not acknowledge our early years and let go. Marcie never let go.

Late in his life I had been told that Marcie was frantically looking for me. Why me? He traveled from the institution frequently, visiting first, the old neighbourhood so changed, and, then into new ones far too the west. Searching. Constantly.

He visited my parents often all by himself, traveling by bus always asking, “where was Bobby?” I had no idea as my time took me to far off vistas I only imagined as a child. Maybe I simply lost our connection. Perhaps being selfish continued to coat my own vision on true friendships.

Marcie died after a long and full life. He did live too the fullest. Marcie never once saw himself different and always had a happy disposition. Marcie remained the child forever. A wistful wish many of us hold.

When Marcie died he still owned every comic book he ever had. A neat chronicle of comic book history well documented and complete.

Before his passing Marcie had kept searching for me year after year. I knew he was but continually choose to ignore it. I was to learn much later he wanted me to have his life’s work. His wonderful collection of comic books he knew was our bond of childhood memories and good times. Marcie somehow always knew his time was soon near. Marcie knew a lot.

Marcie and I never found each other and that great life long collection, so clearly the soul of this wondrous child, simply disappeared. When Marcie died he died rich. Marcie died rich in completing his life’s cycle in harmony with time. Marcie was the tower on the bridge of truths. His light shines forever.

"May Heaven have comic books."


Copyright
RGT

A Nickle A Glass

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 13 “A nickel a glass and the nickels piled up quickly.”

My house, as many of those on Clydesdale was a true reflection of the times. There was coal to heat the house and a wood burning stove for cooking.
An icebox kept perishables at least cool in the hot summer months. Parched summers came upon us quickly. The years were speeding up.

Houses on Clydesdale Street spanned the ages and some were very new. It was generally an older area. There were those that defied description. Perhaps rules were skirted.

Without sewers and adequate garbage disposal, houses found ways to handle this. Families with cars could always drive their garbage to the dump located to the west along. Others simply piled it, then buried it, in the large yards they had.

Things that could burn were so, in the oil drums or in our situation much of the kitchen materials were fed to the chickens. Nothing was wasted.

One house was built on stilts. As kids we could not figure this out and it was no matter. The real interest was that the house, as most, did not fit any formal building codes. Things like septic fields went wild, seeping into the open ditch on one side of Clydesdale. Fermenting in the heat.

The ditch was on the high side of the street where it found it’s own life. The ditch was a magnet for kids. Putting the smell aside there were things unexplainable lying stagnant amidst the yellow green bubbles. Slime was thick and so was the water. Dogs never drank from the ditch.

The house on stilts did not even have plumbing! When having to go to the bathroom it was a matter of a hole cut in the floor and things would merrily drop openly into a pit dug underneath. You could catch the sight of dropping debris through the open space between the pit and the main floor of the house. Licorice sticks traded hands to the kid who guessed exactly when.

Much of my time was taken up with chores. The job of cleaning the coops and hutches fell to me. Collecting the eggs every morning was dangerous when one considered that Old Red was skulking somewhere about.

The chickens would put up such a squawk, feathers would fly, and Old Red would always come to the rescue. The strategy would be to catch the chickens brooding around, get into the chicken coop, shoo them out the door and close it behind you. The chickens needed to peck around the yard anyway. Once the eggs were collected the gauntlet was there. Run.

With Red now gone the adventure took on an air of mediocrity.

During summers all the kids had ways of making a few pennies and one was to set up lemonade stands in front of their houses. There were lots of lemonade stands and the competition did more damage to our little army than those pesky Boners down the block. They of course also had stands.

We were fighting the same battles all kids through time did. Stands were set up. Moms made the lemonade and there we waited for a car or somebody to pass by. In the time cars did not pass on Clydesdale with any frequency.

So there we all sat. The screams of “LEMONADE – GET YOUR LEMONADE resounded for hours at a time. Into the quiet we yelled.

Here my fortunes were better. I concentrated on selling fresh eggs all stacked neatly in a straw basket. Far away neighbourhoods would come to buy and have a glass of lemonade too. I would also trade for socks, mittens, sweaters and other homemade goods. One day it was an old wooden sleigh. The metal slides were rusty but no matter. I could imagine the fun when the snows would come. What a trade!

When there was fruit or ready vegetables I put them on my little stand. Kids abandoned their stands and ran over to grab and run with the fresh fruit I had displayed so carefully. No matter. Fruit of all kinds, there was plenty of. It was okay. I threw precious eggs at them anyway.

Business was not very good for liquids, as anyone can imagine. Lemonade got hot very quickly. Even we could not drink it. Ugh. Fortunately there was the odd customer rush. Parent’s bought from one of the other kids and not their own. In the end we all ended up with enough to run off to the Evan’s store and get some jawbreakers, licorice sticks or a cold soda pop.

This was our passage into Mr. Dashwood’s yard and a splash in the pool. Yippee! Summers were indeed hot. One slow day while sweltering in the hot vapors rising from the street top, an idea formed. It was obvious we kids were all selling lemonade! Too much competition on Clydesdale Street I thought. There had to be something else. Plain old water worked at times but it wasn’t the draw of choice. Besides nobody wanted to pay for just water even with ice in it. Sweetened with hard found sugar, it still lacked market.

My Dad brought an old skill from his homeland. Every fall an old truck would pull up to the house. Boxes and boxes of dark purple grapes were unloaded by sweaty men talking away in a foreign language. The grapes were put into a press they brought with them. The press that crushed all the grapes seeds and all. There it was. An idea was born.

Sometimes my dad danced on the grapes with his bare feet. When I did I would sink to my neck in the grape juice and slippery skins. The color of deep red would take weeks to come off my skin. The waft of fresh crushed grapes found comfort in my nostrils. A taste began to formulate very early in life.

Big oak barrels with the juice of grapes fermenting over the fall and winter months. A liquid perfectly aged to a young spirit filled drink by late spring. Great headaches were assured by summers end. I could see the promise. Yes I could.

When business turned boring and all of us sat out there wilting in the heat, I had the magic formula! Tapping into my Dad’s wine barrels was easy. There was more than one. They were big. There were gallons and gallons and gallons of juice. There was not the problem of spoilage under the blazing sun. Keeping the liquid cool was secondary. A nickel a glass and the nickels piled up quickly.

It was about the time in the following fall, when another load of grapes were coming, that one of the large barrels had an onerous hollow thump to it. My Dad discovered a ‘leak’ in one of the barrels because he knew that it had held last year’s harvest right to the brim. He knew it did not evaporate so it must have leaked out somehow.

Little did he know I got a lot of nickels from most of the Dad’s in the neighbourhood. I thought it honorable nobody told him.

It did turn out to be the last year of that enterprise regardless. The next year my client’s were noticeably fewer. My dad found the leak. I also gave up the lemonade trade but the eggs, fruit and vegetables continued. With money being so dearly in need there was no room to decide otherwise. Enterprise is where you find it turned out to be a valuable skill later in life.

Copyright
RGT

The Secret Signal

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 14 “It must have been their secret signal.”

Kids found fun in simple ways.

Most of our houses had an icebox. Some neighbours had root cellars that kept some things cool but not cold. When summer came only an icebox would serve to keep spoilage at bay.

Garvin’s Ice & Fuel Company had a horse and wagon that regularly found it’s way along Clydesdale Street. Under the hot summer sun the wagon would stop and the Iceman would open the little back door. Gushing out came the icy clouds. He would take his pick and carefully shape the blocks of ice.

Once done, the Iceman would take his tongs, grab and throw the blocks over his back onto a leather poncho and head off to somebody's house. He did this repeatedly down the block with trickles of water dripping down behind him. The horse stood motionless. We hardly could.

We kids were exploding with expectation. The Iceman was on to his next delivery. The door to the back of the wagon would on many occasions not be closed properly. It would be ajar enough to exhaust the clouds of cold vapor.

A quick swing of the door and there they were! Ice diamonds! Chips of hard, cold, chilling ice were everywhere. Some large enough to fill your hands with dripping ice, water melting quickly away. Slurping took on meaning. It froze the tongue and cheeks. Lips too.

Oh. It was heaven! Taller kids climbed into the wagon and helped hand out chips we could not reach. If the big kids were not around one of us would get on our hands and knees letting another step up on our backs and then in to the wagon. The excitement of the caper had us in hysterical anticipation.

Everyone grabbed as many chips as we could, then darted off the road and into the tall grass to enjoy the fresh coolness as ice water trickled down our throats. Teeth first screamed with pain. Our mouths lost all sense of feel. Fingers went numb. UMMM.

We saved the bigger chips to keep our lemonade as cold as we could. The rest we savored and if our eyes could roll full circle they would have.

The Iceman’s big horse would just look over his shoulder and with a mighty snort drop his breakfast behind him. It must have been their secret signal.

The Iceman always knew his wagon was under observation and subject to attack. On every visit he would make sure he chipped enough pieces of ice so we all could enjoy the booty. We never knew he was on our side.

One time the horse decided to move on without the Iceman, and worse, with two kids still in the back of the wagon. The wagon brake was unsecured and the horse just lazily plodded on picking up speed as we ran after him.

We were not sure what to do. If we yelled for help our raid would be exposed. Of course not knowing the Iceman clearly knew about it anyway it was terrifying. What would he do if he caught us? Would he never come down our block again?

I think it was the horse. He was just making the raid a little more interesting.
The two kids stuck in the back of the wagon did not think so. You could see the panic in their faces as they stared out in helplessness. Silently gesturing wildly. What could we do?

We all ran along side the wagon and kept telling the horse to whoa. Well. He would not whoa. He fixed his eye on us, ground his teeth, snorted heavily, expanded those sneering lips and quickened into a trot.

Real fear quickly set in now. The old horse was going to run off to Africa and we would be punished for it. The kids in the back would be eaten or found frozen amidst the ice blocks. It was awful.

Jimmy had a way with animals. He ran a little faster and held out his hand with his ice chip. The horse stopped dead in his tracks, reached over and guzzled up the chip all the while licking Jimmy’s hand dry. The horse was just thirsty. The boys stuck in the back of the wagon jumped down with some more ice chips and the horse thanked us we thought.

Surely we were the original Ice Bandits. This was the life! We could feel it. Even the horse found pleasure in our escapades. We could see it in his smile.

All the while the Iceman watched out of the corner of his eye unable to contain himself. He knew his old horse would never run far. We never heard his laughter. We would again wait for the wagon another day. The horse would knowingly be ready.

Copyright
RGT

Spiders Bite But Ants Would Tickle

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 15 “Spiders bite but ants would tickle.”

It was great being a kid. There were so many things to occupy our ever-expanding horizons. We could invent anything and learn much.

With nothing to do on sultry summer days, especially at noon when the sun was high, there was time to bring out the lead soldiers. The soldiers would be positioned in the hot sun positioned in regimental formation. A few would melt under the mid-day heat. No matter, we carried on. The enemy had legs. Their danger was everywhere. We were ready. There was a duty to stop the ferocious charge.

Bright ideas were needed. Here is where the Lone Ranger arrowhead came into it’s own. This was pretend time, and your lead soldiers were in a mortal conflict defending the sidewalk from the hordes of invading ants. The arrowhead had the all mighty weapon. A magnifying glass! Yes!

As the ants rushed towards your defensive position it was time to pull out the arrowhead, focus a beam of sun light through the magnifying glass and blow up ants. Pop. Puff. In a cloud of smoke each ant would explode.

The rising smoke held a strange odor. The smoke was sickly sweet yet acrid. As more and more ants rushed towards the brave lead soldiers it became harder and harder to focus long enough to stop each one. The ants exploded as quickly as the beam fell on them. They just kept coming. Soldiers stood beaten. We were no match for their army however never would we yield.

If you did not have the Lone Ranger arrowhead handy a piece of broken glass could work but nothing completed the gruesome task as well as the arrowhead. You could trade an arrowhead with another kid and get almost any possession they had. Blowing up ants was hard work.

Warriors had to keep their skills sharp. The ants were challenging foes. Trying to defend against the marauding forces taught kids that numbers mattered unless you were equipped with the tools to overcome the odds.

Sure it was nerve racking. Sure it was brutal. Sure valor was fleeting. There was some comfort in reducing the enemy. Spiders bite but ants would tickle.

There was always the ever-present blade of grass. Putting it between your palms and blowing through and over the taunt blade gave off a big screech.

When ant fighting it was duty to announce your position by blowing on the blade of grass. The green trumpet of success or defeat could be heard over the silence of kids playing by themselves. You knew when other kids were in their own yards also suffering retreat or exhilarating triumph. The sound identified whom by the varied applications of exhaled air changing the pitch.

Eventually our expertise on instruments grew. Older kids showed us how to locate dry soft wood sticks. They had a pulpy center that we learned to hollow out and then cut openings on the stick. Like a small flute, when fingers were put over these openings the sound changed in pitch. Magical. If we could not hollow out the pulp from the sticks we smoked them.

Between our stick whistles and fresh blades of grass it was easy to amuse our simple wants. Clearly an orchestra it was. An orchestra never finding itself in tune but it sure could get the neighborhood dogs attention.

Slingshots were getting fashionable. There was the perfect ‘Y’ of a branch. Everyone spent a lot of time searching through the abundant trees for the perfect crotch. Some flourishing fruit trees suffered an ill-timed fate. There was no quarter on locating the perfect wood. Yards were not off limits to us.

Rubber tubing was difficult to find. Everybody waited for Dad’s car to get an un-repairable flat. The tires all had tubes. My Dad did not have a car so the search was even more difficult for me. You hoped a friend would share with you or you went door to door asking for an old tube. The neigbourhood was not to keen on this approach. They knew what you were making.

Desperate you looked at what you could trade. Eventually there was the lonely outpost called a gas and repair station. There you could find a strong piece of tube. There was no mind. We were always welcome at the station.

There was nothing safe once we were all armed. Larry never switched. That trusty sling was a reminder of what little ‘David’ could do. ‘Goliath’ got the message once and that was good enough for Larry. We knew Larry could outshoot us yard for yard. He was the best. We all really liked Larry.

Slingshots ready. There was some unfinished business now. We had the necessary weapons and our courage was high. We had it in our mind to wait for that bad Mailman to step back into the bush again, knowing he would head to do his Number 2 in our tearfully abandoned Fort. No Quarter we thought. An ambush was planned. We had all learned a lot about ambush from Old Red.

Indeed one day we hid and watched the Mailman come down the gravel lane. He was whistling away. As he began his entry to the bush we came out from our hiding place. We gave him a little time to be out of our site. The trees echoed in pain as the barrage of rocks, simultaneously launched, found their mark. Bouncing off tree trunks, branches, and bulleting through underbrush the rocks just kept flying.

We could not see anything but green. It was shooting in the dark. Then the sound of loud swear words, cursing profanities and yelling of Oooowwww Ooooooooo Oh $#%@!!!! Oooooo roared out from the trees. This was not the trees in pain and we knew it.

Running was always something we kids could do well. Disappearing from adults was second nature. Away we went half in fear and half in victory. Laughing so hard we would stumble over our little feet as we fled with knowing satisfaction. We got him!

What revenge we thought. Unfortunately the mailman wasn't finished. Nobody owned up so we all had our slingshots taken away. The kitchen wood stove got mine. The smell of burning rubber took days to clear.

We made new ones.

Copyright
RGT

CLYDESDALE KIDS WROTE THE SCRIPT!

Marlon Brando had nothing on us!

Gum Boots Finished Off The Look

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 16 “Gum Boots finished off the look.”

The original Hells Angels were formally grouped as an official Club in March 17, 1948. They were former World War 11 pilots, bombardiers, navigators and gunners who craved the thrills they lost as the war came to an end only a few short years before. Self-designated ex-U.S. war veterans branded as “born to be wild”, these young dare devils found a new kind of freedom and thrills in the noisy, hard-riding Harley Davidson and Indian motorcycles.

Their name was a favorite nickname for World War Two fighter planes, and of rebel flyboys who took extreme risks and refused to conform to the rules and expectations of the military.

The returning airmen could have been our Dads although they were only similar by age grouping. None of our Dads had a motorcycle and did not fit the description of thrill seekers regardless.

We kids were a little young and barely able to reach door handles. We were not “born to be wild” nor chose to be. We were just kids. Wild was a relative term. The freedom of childhood, thrills of living carefree, and, outside of our own parental conformity was however steeped in the same kind of historical diary. Never did we know our formal notoriety.

Expectations we were unclear about. It seemed coincidence the American Flyers and the kids of Clydesdale both adhered to the same central theme of freedom, thrills, the abandonment and the comradeship we shared.

The kids of Clydesdale Street may likely have been the very first Motorcycle Riders ever assembled as a Club, all be it unofficial. We were active as early as 1947 a full year ahead of our counter parts official organization, but how were we to know. We never even knew where America was.

Of course we did not have “R-E-A-L” motorcycles. The Club, we had!
Our imagination could not be deterred.

Nobody had yet heard of real Motorcycle Clubs but we sure loved motorcycles. There was that something about them. They were special. None of us as yet even had a bicycle. Some were still on hand me down tricycles.

When we saw our first motorbike we were awestruck. A motorcycle was so exciting. It burbled and sputtered then roared off leaving behind a trail of cloudy blue smoke. Pretending we had a motorcycle made kid sense. Studying the motorcycle, what we needed was handlebars and happy feet.

Off we went into the trees again this time searching for the perfect branch. The right branch that we could call our handlebars was hard to find. Once again it came to sacrificing fruit trees at times. Hacking branches was hard to explain to moms and dads.

We finally got smart and realized the fruit trees had to be pruned soon and with that in mind we knew there would be inventory ready made. No one had to risk parental reprisals and that was good.

Some of us carved our perfect branch with little cuts; personal nicks and even painted them. The kids with less imagination, no access to paint and did not care just had a branch. A new bike everyday was one more branch.

You could see the kids proud to have great motorcycle handlebars. Woolen mittens were out of place but served as our riding gloves. Goggles were common. Gum Boots finished off the look.

There were endless runs for the kids of Clydesdale. We would get on our make believe motorcycles, start up the handlebar branches, and holding them so we could steer, all run together down to the Evan’s store. The noise of roaring engine sounds and the clomp of our rubber boots gave the Evan’s time to cover the jawbreakers and gum before we got inside.

Once there, we parked our branches. We went in on mass, clomping loudly, and with our pennies and nickels ready to buy up the store. When it was hot we would stop much longer and have an iced soda pop out front.

Adults had to weave their way through us and usually ended up stepping on our branches. That was so not proper. We saw that as wanton disrespect for our ‘Wild Ones’. The fact we existed could not be denied. Clydesdale Street ranked with the best we knew. Of course, we only knew us.

Soon we would begin school. The branches were discarded.

My first honest to goodness motorcycle was a Christmas present from my Dad’s friend. Gordie Hall was a fireman. He was a real fireman. All the kids thought he was really special. Imagine a real fireman. How we were thrilled.

There was the Christmas he visited and he brought something wrapped in crisp red and green paper with a ribbon. It was for me. Jumping up and down almost toppled the Christmas tree. The cat ran. How wonderful. How generous was Mr. Hall. He and Mrs. Hall did not have kids yet.

Christmas in my house generally meant knitted sweaters, socks, and mittens both from home and distant relatives. The hopes of something different were dashed by the reality our family could not afford store bought luxuries. Necessities were paramount. Imagination offered warm comfort.

Great holiday feasts made up from our garden inventory, and lots of my Dad’s homemade wine is how we compensated for material gifts. For adults it was okay but kids had private dreams. Vegetables, duck, chicken, rabbits, preserves, homemade bread, Christmas cake, pies, cookies and sing songs were the order of the time. Truly the spirit of Christmas prevailed. Material wealth would have to wait.

The Christmas wrapping was quickly torn off and there it was. A shiny enamel blue and white motorcycle with slotted side exhausts and hard rubber wheels. It was eye popping. It was truly wondrous.

Mr. Hall showed me the motorcycle’s secret. Taking the metal motorcycle he would rev it up by quickly running the wheels on the wooden floor, and lifting it off then running it again. The motorcycle came to life. It was as real as can be.

The toy would roar and through the perforated side exhausts sparks would fly. I was transfixed. It was a wonderful site. My motorcycle. Never had I received such a gift. The anticipation was unbearable. Mr. Hall handed the shiny motorcycle to me and there I was quick to the task. Nothing could stop me. The whirring noise and the sparks were thrilling.

How was this possible? Where was the motor? Friction created by the wheels run over the floor created the noise and shot the sparks through the double exhaust. The wooden floor was soon to feel the wear and tear.

I did not know how to thank Mr. Hall. He really captured a kid’s imagination turning it into instant reality. That meant something special. It never escaped me how kind he was. He just said “Call me Gordie.” I did. My Dad and Gordie went down to the basement to double check the wine barrels were not leaking.

Mr. Hall did not return the next Christmas but I still had the motorcycle. My Mom re-wrapped it for me so I could tear the paper off just like the year before. Was I ever so excited! It still made noise. It still sparked.


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RGT

Time Seemed To Stand Still

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 17 “Like many trauma’s, time seemed to stand still.”

There was new excitement ahead as we gradually weaned from our handlebar mania. Some of us graduated to push scooters. They were fun but less imaginative. You didn't need googles. What new could be so exciting we would wonder aload.

Our Dad’s were going to help us make race cars! Soapbox cars. Excitement was everywhere. All the kids who jumped to the chance were soon to challenge each other in bona-fide Clydesdale Street races. Before building any cars there was the need to determine where to race.

The area of Clydesdale Street we were on was plain old flat. Boundary Road was steep but out of the question. Too dangerous the Dad’s thought. Smith Avenue was a good hill but lacked the steeper long run necessary to get the soapbox rolling at maximum speed. It also had too many crossroads. We could also crash into Mr and Mrs Evans Red & White Store.

Then there was the Clydesdale hill. Steep. Long. Enemy territory!

The Dads had a solution. Both groups of kids could build soapboxes and we would challenge not only ourselves but also the Boners and they could challenge us. The prizes were never sorted out we later found. Fast Food climax after events were still to be invented.

The fathers, of course, would supervise both the race and provide security for all the kids. We could live with that. Sounded like a plan. Nobody could sleep. The parents were on to something here. This peace keeping could work.

The kids scrounged around everywhere dismantling baby carriages, wagons, or anything that had wheels. The soapbox cars were from the ridiculous to the sophisticated. Vintage Apple box was the pride of the Broadview area.

There were those that were simply a rough plank with wheels, some with spokes, some without, and fitted with a rope steering mechanism. Kids just sat on the plank with their feet against the front cross member controlling their direction rather crudely with the attached rope. Their legs pushed on one side or the other helping direct the stripped down racer. Once underway there was no stopping. No stopping contributed to the credit of the ride.

There were others made from traditional wooden apple boxes, discarded packing crates, or various sheets of rough wood pieces tacked together. The scene was upstaged when Joey Dashwood came cruising in with his Army Jeep Pedal car. A store bought pedal car. Everyone stood in Awe. Joey beamed with confidence.

Wowee everyone thought. It had real steering and push pedals that moved the little jeep like the big motorcars. Joey’s dad had bought him the jeep from our swimming pool access payments was the best rumour. Jealousy got us nowhere. No matter there were serious failings. Too Joey’s credit he survived.

Once rolling down the steep Clydesdale hill little feet could not keep up with the pedals that now had a mind all their own. The pedals like wild pistons worked frantically all by themselves. Legs involuntarily followed, pumping furiously while knees crashed under the steering wheel.

Getting feet caught up under the pedals was the racer’s greatest fear. Unfortunately there was nowhere else for feet to go. Tiny brakes did not hold either. The jeep was soon dispatched to yard duty.

No matter how smart all the Dads were, somehow, the homemade soapbox variations were missing one or two elements of high importance. Brakes came up often. Too many running shoes shredded and tree stops were common.

There is always another kid who could stand out in the crowd and that was Sonny Boon. Sonny was King of the down hill racers. He would bring his “Wizard Wagon”. What his ride had that nobody else did was that Sonny’s wagon wheels had ball bearings.

Wheels with ball bearings, and, who would have thought that could make a difference! Sonny just glided by grinning like crazy. He was going too fast to laugh. Sadly, Sonny did not have brakes either.

The Dyak’s from down the hill were generally considered rough and wild but they sure could race with the best, especially Buddy Dyak. With Buddy it was not so much his vehicle but his passion. Eventually he went on to real stock car racing enjoying great success. The rest of the kids lost such hopes much earlier in their career.

Buddy had a big cheering section with his large family, especially all the sisters, screaming encouragement. Nobody would question the support. There were too many of them.

Building a soapbox from scratch took talent. My Dad would build mine much in the manner he drove a car. A wooden platform from something, a discarded crate, old wine barrel staves, and pirated wheels from my cherished, all time kids favorite “Little Red Wagon”. This made up the principal parts. I wondered loudly about the future of my wagon.

After that the assembly followed little design. I think my Dad thought he was building a boat on wheels. Even to a kid it was not hard to see the wheels were just too small and the steering was suspect. The steering wheel was a 2 X 4 with wooden wine spigots on each side acting as handles. The other Dads just winked.

How the front wheels were controlled by the steering wheel was an instant fear. The wheels seemed attached to the body in a fixed fashion. The steering wheel seemed nailed to the dashboard. It was point, hold on and go.

Stopping was not an alternative.

Remembering the first run down Clydesdale hill took years. The fear retarded the thought deep into the recess of my shock struck memory. The best of recollection was, much again like my Dad’s entry into driving. This time I did not have Marcie to hold on too.

Slamming my feet to the bottom of my soapbox and gripping the spigots for dear life I simply hung on and waited for the terror to end. The steering wheel did not steer. The left front wheel, then the right front wheel did not stay on. Like many trauma’s, time seemed to stand still. Forever and ever, and, then the disintegration of the jinxed soapbox broke the spell.

In a few short minutes the soapbox went from an enterprising experiment to pieces of kindling and broken dreams. Never would I win a race.

Building the next soapbox by myself was a brand new opportunity. I could improve on the first attempt easily. There were some pretty good ones out there. Going up against those talented Dads was going to be a challenge yet I could see daylight. I had learned so much.

There is no doubt I did not learn enough. What I did learn was I had evidently inherited my Dad’s building skills.

Sure. Some kids went on to race at big soapbox events far from Clydesdale Street and with great success. Racing a soapbox never entered my mind again.

Copyright
RGT

So Sweet It Was.

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 18 “So sweet it was.”

Fall held a kids imagination in its hand. The summer heat was gone. There was a biting reminder winter was soon coming.

Leaves turned color quickly then dropped to carpet the many pockets of woodlands around Clydesdale Street. My yard held, it seemed, zillions of fruit trees. The proliferation of leaves and colour was of such abundance I could hardly wait to do what everyone did every fall.

The spring grass burning, still strong in our nostrils, gave way to the most wonderful aroma of damp burning leaves on those crisp, cold, fall days. So sweet it was.

When the neighbourhood began the fall leaf burning, it was of such wide proportion the burning, stinking, household refuses in those crumbling oil drums gave way, all be it temporary.

It was time for some of the kids to abandon their collective habit of roasting wieners and potatoes in kitchen’s smoldering refuse, switch to yard leaves, and clean sweet bonfire cuisine.

My yard was special. The garden was harvested and the added discards gave the fragrant fruit tree leaves such bouquet it was hypnotic. Every fall there were the embers of the fires glowing against the early arriving darkness.

There were always potatoes still hidden in the patch and it was another thrill of the hunt for the kids. We dug with our hands ever so frantically. It was like the Spring Easter Egg hunt.

Kids came from all over and left their Dad’s to attend to their own home bonfires. We took the shovel, when we found one, and began to truffle for forgotten potatoes. There was no potato pig to help us.

With our treasure intact, we took sticks and buried the potatoes deep in the hot coals still glowing with licks of flames, as small puffs of air brushed over the slowly dying fire.

Hot Cocoa kept us company as we waited anxiously for the potatoes to bake. Once ready we would dig out the potatoes now with skins burned black and crispy. Hot. Hot. Hot. Very hot to handle but the rewards were worth it.

Breaking through the charcoaled skin the potatoes opened with puffs of rising steam. Taking rarely available real butter, salt and spoonfuls of fresh heavy morning cream, we smothered the potatoes with glee. Cooling came quickly as the night air cloaked around us. Closing our eyes we dug in. Ecstasy! MMMmmmmmmm Sooooo wonderful. Blackened, crisp burned skins and all, we stuffed our anxious faces.

Sometimes an errant squash or pumpkin found its way into the dying embers and there was a dinner of champions. Hot, smothered in melted butter, covered with salt and pepper, we joyfully dug in. With blackened faces smeared by the burned charcoal shell, and squinting teary eyes from the lazily flying embers, we went to our beds happy and full.

Prior to every yard leaf being consumed by fire, kids would search for fallen treasures. Big multicolored leaves were the spoils. Earlier in the year when flowers were at their bloom special flowers like roses, tulips, thistle, and many others we had no idea about, were also collected.

Pressing flowers was the hobby of many moms. Kids, foraging for mom enjoyed the pass time too. Many of us started our own book of pressed flowers. In the fall we searched for big colorful leaves before the burning and we pressed them too.

It was a frequent and a relaxing pass time to look at your collection and wonder how long the flowers and leaves would last without crumbling orsticking to the pages. Kids did not know it could be forever. Back in the attic there still maybe a book full.

Fall held so many fascinating adventures for the kids of Clydesdale Street but winter brought certain fear. Some parents were pressed to keep houses heated. Cut wood or coal cost money many did not have. Times dictated.

It was truly hard times and if there were creatures like chickens, rabbits, ducks, or other animals that a family might rely on for additional income or personal consumption it made all the difference.


As members of the Clydesdale community my family seemed different than most others. My parents spoke different languages more often than not. My Dad in particular was mixing up all the words so it was hard to figure out what he was saying. Neighbours liked him regardless. He smiled a lot.

We enjoyed a larger property than many on our street. Because of family background we assumed the role of small plot farmers and that was natural. The fact money was an issue of want, much of what we had was for self-preservation not so much being anything more. Besides Mom liked gardens.

Other families did not subscribe to the life we did. The fathers went to good jobs and some mothers did too. Denny and Buddy Gorrick’s mom Jackie worked part time as hat check girl at the Coconut Grove Supper Club up on the original Grandview Highway near Smith Avenue.

Their mom was very pretty. Most moms stayed home tending whatever moms did whether it be gardening, sewing, putting up preserves and the other domestic activities. Kids helped whenever they could or more so when they were told, which was often.

The Cain’s, lived below where we lived and they had lots of ducks. The ducks liked to race for their dinner. Could they ever quack! The property was big. They were quiet folks and exceptionally reserved but ever so kind. Very English my parents said. They did not enjoy a hoard of kids but one on one there was acceptance. Treats were ever present. I liked Mrs. Cain.

Throughout the area there was this mixed and eclectic gathering. In terms of time frames it was already an old area. It was an area in transition. Houses were infilling larger properties and the bigger farms were about to disappear.

Winter could be cruel. Seasons felt so distinct. The demarcation of the four seasons seemed so definite. Spring was fresh. The air was clean. Summers were sticky, teeming hot. Heat at times put even we kids under. Without our “ice diamond chips of ice” to cool us down, there were days that filled everybody with lethargy, sandpaper mouths, and a desire to hide in cool dark basements.

There was relief at the bottom of Clydesdale Street in the forest and bushes that were taboo for all of us. Unfortunately we could only imagine relief excepting in the all trees and bushes behind and close by where we lived.

Of course, the Mailman managed to dump on that.

These were the days Mr. Glider Dad raised the price of admission to splash and play in the cement box pool. He even charged extra to spray kids with the garden hose. We did not mind. The sun would be hot enough to fry eggs on car fenders. Even the Iceman’s horse wanted into the Ice Cart.

The kids would head on down to Still Creek and block it up with sod once again. The older boys could do it faster than we little ones and indeed we usually got in the way. Our own swimming hole, were we could actually get wet beyond our knees was our way to really cool off.

Sure Mr. Dashwood could splash us with the hose and we would scream with glee, but the makeshift swimming hole on Still Creek with it’s slippery tadpoles, and worried fish was better.

Edna was there!

Copyright
RGT

Oh The Shivers. Those Were Black Moments.

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 19 “Oh the shivers. Those were black moments.”

Fall brought cool crisp evenings and wet misty mornings.
There was something magical happening. Mother Nature gave notice of each changing season. Fall always opened with obvious hints painted onto our breath, now so clearly visible as we ran down Clydesdale Street.

Winters were cold. Bitter cold. Wrapped in woolen scarves, wearing two pairs of pants and sporting newly knitted sweaters, (why were the colours always wrong); an adventure outside was still unpleasant. Double mittens were cumbersome yet necessary. Many of us lost at least one over the summer during our motorcycle escapades. Giant icicles now formed everywhere. They stuck to the one mitten we had. The icicles left wool on your tongue.

Summer activities long ended. Jimmy continued through fall to be the Pee Race Champion but once the pavement got icy cold the challenges slowed down. Bottoms became numb. The races ended for the year when there was nothing left but a frozen trail far short of it's intended journey.

Those that did not race the soapbox weekends usually just sat together at the top of the hill and pee’d through their shorts. The contestants sat side by side at the ready. The winner was judged by both the fastest and longest trail running down Clydesdale Hill. Jimmy won all the time. Nobody was sure why.

In my house coal was always scarce and good wood for the kitchen stove absent on many occasions. The house was given too be cold but never the kitchen for long. The kitchen remained the last bastion of warmth come hell or high water.

My little sleigh, gave me independence both as winter entertainment and a source of hard sought pennies. Contributing to the family needs was turned into another imaginary adventure. Becoming the “ Wood Man” I would.

For a variety of exchanged services between my Mom and Dad the Cain’s would let us obtain cut wood from their property. The wood was cut into cord and neatly stacked throughout the trees on the Cain’s property. My family was at liberty to obtain firewood for our kitchen stove or alternatively for the fireplace as necessary. It made the coal last longer.

It was a chore and not all that easy for a little kid. Never pushed, it was prudent to obey not because of parent’s dictation but having a hot stove served well for all and that included Blackie. Mr. Cat slept nearby.

Planning out the adventure was easy. I was going to be a Woodsman! One dull old cross cut saw and my sleigh for the hauling put me in business. The saw had little functionality but pretending to cut logs was part of the culture.

Waiting to get the boots on was the hardest part. Snow falling and bitter cold. Cheeks never thawed so it seemed. The scene repeated itself throughout the winter months. As soon as the bundling up was over there was the rushing to the task. Boredom came easy.

There were so many wonderful times shared with my friends but there was shear enjoyment chasing my own imagination privately. This was one. It was the love of the job.

With snow falling frequently, and drifts to plod through, the distance to the Cain’s dramatically increased. Pulling the empty sleigh was not a problem even on the rusty, pitted runners. After all, filling in as the big Clydesdale “horse” might make it easy. One way.

Once to the woods the mind worked overtime. This was the best part. Searching for the selectively piled wood through the trees was with magnified anticipation. There was the logging area! Beautiful cut wood frozen together in high piles.

Too often the cross cut would fall off the sleigh and disappeared into the deep snow. Logging activity would have been better served with an axe or even just the handle.

Never ever was it difficult to envision sleeping bears in the woods. There was always the chance of stumbling over a deer. Deer beds were common. None of us ever saw one that I know of but the signs of occupation existed.

The ever-riding fear a wild animal would rush out from the trees kept me on edge. One could only hope. Getting excited with that likelihood could not be denied. It served to keep the blood moving warmly no matter what. Cold was abated.

The only thing, besides an errant rabbit, that ever did come bounding through the trees was Lassie, Denny and Buddy’s collie. When alone amidst the trees and pumped up it sure looked like a hungry wolf about to sink fangs deep. Running through the frosty trees with Lassie right behind was a fantasy in the making. Telling the other kids you were chased by a wolf down in the forest!

Wow! Fertile imagination made things really happen. Kids would believe, allowing for adventure and active participation, living out the stories during long winter nights. So what if stories missed details. Everyone made up their own. We knew how to scare ourselves silly.

With Lassie by your side no wild animals would likely attack. Maybe just Old Red but he was gone now. The collie now transformed into my husky as protector from the unseen eyes peering through the trees. If he only knew. Albert always kept an eye out to insure there were no forest monsters waiting to devour me.

The frozen wood was not that easy to break apart. An axe handle would help but foraging for a good wooden branch did just as well. A nice thick branch served as a mallet. Hitting the pile of wood repeatedly would break loose the cut blocks. Arms vibrated with the shock. Sometimes there was danger.

Chopped wooden blocks to a little kid were still pretty big. The logs were frozen, heavy, and hurt a lot when they toppled from the top of the pile onto your head. Pieces of ice or covering snow would also most always find its way down the back of your neck. Scarf or no scarf cold slivers got through. Many times the frozen pieces slide down your back all the way to the top of your underpants and trickled lower. Oh the shivers. Those were black moments.

Wearing a surplus army helmet over the toque was mandatory. This effort surely came before safety legislation to be sure. It was great to be a pretend pioneer! It was harder adjusting the earmuffs.

Loading the sleigh was easy. The trick was how many pieces could be put on the sleigh. The snow depth, if fresh would sink the sleigh. Too much weight meant multiple trips back and forth to the house. No fresh snow and a hard morning crust would allow moving larger loads without bogging down.

The wood was needed so it did not matter what the day was like. After serious calculations and gaining experience the loads were well balanced. At times logs got lost along the way. There was only so much wood the pretend Clydesdale Horse, namely me, could pull no matter the day. One had to keep moving, thereby avoiding the freezing of limbs. Everyone would look for the stray logs at spring thaw if necessary.

Huffing and puffing through the dense trees with a massive load in tow was hard work.
Mrs. Cain would encourage detours for a ready feed of “hay” prior to setting out across the divide pulling that heavy sleigh back home. Imagination was set aside as the hay materialized into steaming cups of hot chocolate.

A moment to warm numb feet and dry soaking wet mittens, or, mitten as it were. The stopover would usually last long enough for clothes to dry to a warm clammy dampness. This was considered the camp house in the woods. Elsie Cain was always kind.

Now refreshed, the logger could get the horse ready for the final leg home. There waiting was another round of hot chocolate while sitting in front of the cozy snapping, crackling fireplace. The flames toasted little toes.

There were times the sleigh would simply stop, sink and could not be budged. The load had to be abandoned were it was. The wood would have to be carried to the house one piece at a time or by my account wait till spring.

It was good fortune if Dad was home because he would take over the balance of the delivery. I would help all be it reluctantly. I would show him where the load was stuck. I was shivering uncontrollably and my fingers had no feeling. I could not get all the snow out of my boots.

It wasn’t fun now.

Copyright
RGT

They Were Just Mean Faces On Little Legs

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 20 “They were just mean faces on little legs.”

Winter held more excitement in the form of sleigh rides, riding a coal shovel, cardboard or inner tubes sliding down ice and snow covered roads. Little runs were easy as Clydesdale Street was positioned cross street on sloping terrain. The big run remained off limits but never for long. The glorious Clydesdale hill dropping quickly to the east was the ultimate ride.

Just like Spring Soapbox races Clydesdale hill sliding was the making of thrills and spills each winter. The nagging issue of our enemy controlling the slope of the hill and low land area made for anxiety attacks.

If we could get through the snowballs thrown as we slid on by, there still was scary Mr. Rice at the end of the run. Oh boy. The Dyak’s generally let kids hide out till parents came running but that was not an every day occasion. Buddy’s smiling sisters would also be waiting for us.

Getting back up the darn hill was even more challenging. Parents decided there was need for further overall supervision. That dampened things but safety from the gloating enemy was necessary. There would be a truce during great hill slide days as Dads and Moms stood by. Many kids felt it might be better to simply accept the barrage of snowballs than the embarrassment of our parents guarding our little necks.

If a kid fell off their sleigh, cardboard slide or inner tube they were subjected to face rubs in the snow, ice balls, and the loss of the sliding vehicle. I lost my sleigh one year and my yard logging enterprise was untimely suspended.

Carrying the ice-cold wood by hand broke the spell of my imaginary vision turning things back into adult reality. I needed my log carrier. Very much.

It took days to get my sleigh back. Negotiations in these circumstances were best left to the parents. The damage made the sleigh pretty useless as a log hauler, and, it would never slide true on any hill again. It was back to more primitive means.

That year a lot of us kids lost good sliding hardware. Revenge would have to wait for spring. No kid could accept winters being ruined like this. Not being able to slide on the snow-covered roads was a collective catastrophe. The stress of non-participation really hurt. It hurt even more than slamming into the odd parked car.

Getting another sleigh or coveted inner tube was not an option. Losing a shovel was worth a months grounding. Extras were just not available or there was little money to spare for such frivolity. We could brood a long time.

We even had to believe those Boners kids kept last years snowballs in their icebox over the summer months that turned them into rockets of ice. They really hurt. Welts lasted and Mom’s cure beat all. Many kids cried even before the missles hit them just thinking about it.

We did not even know many of those kids by name. There were the Brown's and Timberlake’s and many others. Which ones exactly were our nemeses we did not know. They were just mean faces on little legs. We only knew the kids down that hill had it in for all of us up the hill.

The Evans Red & White store was a magnet for confrontation. Those other little kids did not have stores close by and Evan’s was their closest candy supply. Eventually we caught on. Sometimes we hid in wait and as they approached we lay into them with soft gooey tar balls made from roadwork surplus going on up Smith Avenue near Eddie and Hank Grenda’s house.

In winter we threw frozen ditch water.

Ha!

That kept them thinking. In our distressed moments we hid tar balls in our snow projectiles but ditch water really was far more effective.

Sleigh riding was still overall a fun time for all. We put aside our differences so we could enjoy the exciting rides down Clydesdale hill. It was fun to watch the tumbles and listen to the screams of ecstasy.

Kids really did not carry grudges for long it seemed. As we began to grow older, each year our interests were beginning to find new direction but it was ever so slowly. Nobody turned their back on those Boners because they were always close to ambush from behind.

No matter. We had a good stock of icy ditch water.

Copyright
RGT

THE WORLD'S WORST ACTOR!

Captain Marvel - Super Hero but no Cowboy!

The Rest Of Us Never Stopped To Ask Questions

11/24/02 Copyright - RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 21 “The rest of us never stopped to ask questions.”

The Grenda’s were a few parallel blocks south of Clydesdale at the corner of Norfolk. Annie and John were extremely close to my parents. They had met in Cumberland British Columbia, where they all worked in the coal mine. Annie and John were really nice people. They stood in as witnesses being the Best Man and Bridesmaid when my Mom and Dad married in 1939. Cumberland was the start of a life long friendship for them.

The Grenda’s helped get my parents to Burnaby way back when. Actually they helped each other. A trait of friendship lost in this day and age for the most part. How they ended up just a few blocks apart is not clear. To a kid it just was natural friends and family lived close by each other.

John Grenda was a bartender now. Annie stayed home and had a large garden just like we did. There were two kids Eddie and Henry. Eddie was a little older and crazy about sports. Hank followed soon after. When visits were scheduled it was known we would end up in the basement banging pucks all evening long. I think it was when I decided hockey wasn’t for me.

One common bond was Eddie and myself began playing the accordian long before our sixth birthday if recollection is correct. Our house had a bay window facing on Clydesdale Street and it served as a stage for Eddie and I too give concerts for our mothers and friends while we, sitting in the bay window with our bare backsides to the street played away. Renditions of Christmas Carols and such songs as Whispering Hope, Lady of Spain and others were played as a duet for the delight of the families. Eddie and his family were living with our family for about six months before the Grenda's settled on the corner of Norfolk and Smith Avenues. Our accordian playing took us through our early elementary schools years at Schou Street with us lugging, or shall it be said my father and Eddie's father lugging the instruments to school concerts. Heck all anyone had to do is stand outside the house on Clydesdale Street and view our bare backsides as we rejoiced in accordian duets loud and even on key! We were the pride of Clydesdale Street and our mothers and fathers were delighted we took to the accordians although to the laughter and giggles of our small friends. Like who played the accordian anyway?

Although our Moms and Dads kept a life long connection neither of the brothers and I continued an association. Sports never crossed into the art of make believe for me. My fantasy was much easier to start and end.

Creating adventure had the substance of every kid’s own making. Getting up for early morning practice only to freeze my bum seemed strangely out of place. Hockey, in particular, required skates and other equipment. I didn’t have any.

Eddie and Hank’s house was strategically situated one block north of the ever-developing Grandview Highway and one block west of the Norfolk dead end that was the location of the mysterious“ Bogyman Forest” Adult’s even left the forest alone because it still exists after a gazillion years. Indeed even now it has been cleaned up and left in place. It is part of what is called Broadview Park separating Norfolk from our beloved Schou Street School.

We would come to realize why we were not allowed to trespass soon.
Lazy kids or those daredevils would cut through there, rather than walk down the Grandview Highway on their way to Schou Street Elementary.

The forested area was a short cut and the school came out on the other side. It seemed forever to scamper through the woods. Kids took their chances. Walking along the Grandview Highway would many times put the kids directly in harms way with the bigger kids who would rough you up and snatch the milk bottles from the tin lunch boxes. Sometimes they took the whole box if it had a really popular graphic of some Super Hero like Lone Ranger painted on it's side.

The bad boys drank our milk and took the bottles worth a nickel each. Cutting through the woods may have had consequences, but walking down the open Highway certainly did. Many kids were terrified at least 5 days a week.

The Grenda’s was the safe house if we had to escape anything in the woods. Mrs. Grenda would protect us from the unknown danger if it were needed. We did not have organized neighbourhood watch back then. Parents just watched. Every child was looked upon as a parent’s own excepting in the really odd case. There were a couple.

We all liked walking up Smith together because stores, a gas station, and small shops were sprouting up on Grandview Highway right at Smith Avenue. Kids loved to explore and besides it was somewhere very close by that Mr. Beach perished. It was always there in our mind as to exactly where he was found. Further south on Smith would take us all into unknown territory. New vistas were challenging but it satisfied our continued curiosity of the world around us.

On the route up Smith Avenue, just south of Manor Street, was a simple house on the west side that gave us kids the creeps. There was a big rectangular window low on the front side of the house that was always curtained, even during the daytime.

Whenever we would walk by the curtains opened sharply, and, to our amazement wooden puppets began to perform. At first it was freaky. The curtains would open. Then puppets, marionettes, began to dance. They were colorful. Dressed in polka dot and color-striped costumes. It was highly animated gyrations yet silent. Just as mysteriously as the curtains opened, the performance ended, and the curtains abruptly closed. That was it. Over.

We would run as fast as we could past the house. A few kids were so taken that each and everyday, even after we began going to school, they would stand shoulder to shoulder and watch the show in awe. The rest of us did not stop to ask questions. We headed off in all directions.

Whatever the reason for the performances were not clear. There were silly rumors all the kids passed around but if there were those that knew the real story many of us doubters never cared nor asked. Kids were easy to scare or easy to charm. Scared was good.

There was an obvious story but being part of the runners rather than the watchers it was never something to worry about. A lot of kids loved the shows. Those who stayed and watched would tease we chickens and conjure up stories to spook us even more. They managed to do a great job. Nightmares were regular.


Curiosity would prevail. How did those puppets move like that? The conclusion was there was great pride and joy in entertaining kids and the people had amazing skill in bringing them to life. Magical indeed.

The house still stands on Smith Avenue. There have been modifications and updates and all these years later the window still watches over the street. The little window has been enlarged. The window remains curtained. There were no puppets. There were no kids. Smith Avenue seems unusually quiet now.

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RGT

Hank Grenda Loved His Sports

Hank Grenda 1968 Washington State

I Slept Under The Bed

11/24/02 Copyright - RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 22 “I slept under the bed.”

It was a struggle to understand many things as a little kid.

When store food was scarce at our house we ate most anything in the garden. Even young dandelions leaves were regularly turned into salad. It seemed weird and uncomfortable that weeds made up part of the dining experience. Weeds?

Dandelions were there to play with just as were buttercups. Blowing the tops on dandelions off into the wind was common playtime. The sap of the dandelion was sticky and ugly. How the leaves could represent something to eat made little sense. Until adulthood it was just odd to appreciate. As a kid, eating weeds did not go over well with your friends. Eating weeds was icky.

There were never buttercups on the table and that was easily understood.
Buttercups were used to determine relationships. You were in love if when holding a bright yellow buttercup under your chin the reflection could be clearly seen. The teasing would start.

It was really sad for all the boys when Francie would move away from Clydesdale Street. Many houses had girls but they were older and it was hard to fall in love with them.

The neighbourhood, be it a few notches at a time, began showing change. Many of us kids did not recognize we were starting to grow up and our parents had new ambitions to follow their dreams as well. Some started to move away. Kids always thought things were for ever. Not.

In the mean time our little lives moved forward in innocence and wonder.

Food became abundant especially in the fall. The garden had every variety of lettuce, cabbage, spinach, peas, carrots, beans, potatoes, squashes, cucumbers, and lots, lots more. Mom & Dad canned everything possible.

The fruit was a variety of apples, red and green plums, strawberries, red and black currents, Logan berries, all kinds of cherries, grapes, figs, blackberries, and other things I had no idea what they were. At times the yard was carpeted with fallen fruit. Squishing around was slippery and unavoidable.

Green Ketchup and energy bars were a long time away. Pasta was just spaghetti and sushi just remnants of fish the Fishman gave to Blackie my cat. No protein drinks or frozen T.V. dinners made up for anything “fast food” either. There was as yet neither Television nor quick food mania. The famous beginning of a Drive Inn Burger place was called White Spot, way far over somewhere; in what I was sure was Africa. Granville Street near Marpole might as well have been as it was a far off aberration. It did not exist for kids on Clydesdale Street. Who was to know decade’s later modern fast food would find itself just a block away on Boundary Road just about where Africa began.

No matter. All the kids were gone by then.

Mom fancied herself on cooking and the array of available home found products satisfied our needs thus avoiding most store bought flavours. Red meat on the other hand was scarce and expensive. Cow meat came rarely and in my family was even more the rarity.

We did not have any cows or sheep or anything like that. There was one exciting day Dad came home with a sometimes surprise. We were going to have cow steaks for dinner! It was a wonderful occassion. One less rabbit in the pot.

His happiness was measured by my Mom’s doubt. She was of the opinion such extravagance was unnecessary. A measurement even a kid could see.

Regardless, we readied ourselves for this rare treat. Dinner was going to be special. Dinner turned out very special. There wasn’t one. Once the steaks began to sear the kitchen filled with the most awful smell there ever was. Even the burning inner tube rubber on my recently dispatched slingshot could not match the spreading stench.

Quickly the house filled up with the odor of rotting hay drying in a hurry. Winter was not an issue here. Windows and doors were opened wide. My Dad took the smoking pan with its load of repulsive contents and threw it out into the snow. It was winter afterall and luckily it did not hit the cat either.

Towels, flapping madly and anything cloth was used to accelerated the dispersal of the swirling smoke and retched smell out of the house. The splattered fat retained the resin of non essential oils. Horse Meat! My parents were cooking a horse!

What crossed my mind is that the butcher in the shop on Boundary snuck across to the Horse Farm and did something bad to one of the friendly horses. Trying to imagine which one it was never went away. It just had to be what happened. How could anybody eat a horse! Once the kids found out later, we all threw eggs at the butcher’s window. My dad supplied the eggs.

The house got very cold, very quickly. Even the cat refused to go outside and pick up on the discarded prize. It was horsemeat and it was game.

Oh was it game. We never bought much meat from anyone thereafter. My Dad and my Mom had very bad words for each other and the argument could be heard to the street. I hid.

There were different times my Mom hid as well. On those occasions it was hiding in fear. It was too difficult to understand adult arguments and although there were not many when there were it was enough to have a small kid confused totally.

My Dad was known in the neighbourhood as a happy go lucky man. A man who loved to play horseshoes, win or lose. He never had a bad word for any of us. He was generally quiet in his ways.

My Mom always, to a kid, seemed to be hard working, but very intense. Whatever the drive, it carried on through her life with a strong mixture of oddity. She was complex whereas my Dad took each day as it came. Never a man for argument or premeditated violence he laughed a lot.

Everyone liked my Dad.

He was by stature an extremely strong man. Not tall but his wrists were larger than many men’s legs and his hands were like pile drivers. His strength was legendary.

The net drum of a Gillnetter Fishing Vessel he could lift over his head long into his later life. He could lift any kid’s dad high off the ground by grabbing the chair leg where they sat, and with one hand, a mighty grip and roar, rise, lifting the load with the one arm outstretched.

Where my Dad came from, feats of strength were common and competition was part of the culture. My Dad’s father competed at the Chicago World’s Fair as a European Strong Man. My Dad was naturally very strong and was very proud of this lineage. The odd performance, usually after lots of wine, fascinated the curious. I could tell it was after visiting the basement and besides his face shined and his lips were dark purple.

Everybody liked my Dad. He didn’t charge fathers for wine like I did.

I know of only one instance were his anger for me was so strong as to make him attempt to kick me in the pants. It was a very good thing my speed of exit was quicker than his action. His kick missed but the strength of the effort made him lose his balance and down he went. The sun fell out of the sky. As he got up off the floor I thought of Old Red. I was doomed.

Instead laughter filled the air. There was a moment of silence and after he broke into his cursing and cussing in his first language the mood changed to rising laughter. The futility of his anger brought a change of heart. My neck was safe. My Dad never raised a hand or a foot to me again. I continued to practice evasive running just in case.

The episode of the horsemeat was not enough to get either Mom or Dad so angry as to strike each other. There were, however, times where the house was one of horrors for a little kid.

Kids could not fully understand the circumstances of arguments but there were those so filled with fears my Mom would hide herself in my bedroom closet. I never saw a hand ever touch her but the inference manifested itself clearly. There is nothing I could attribute to the reason of discord but her fear was real and mine followed suit.

More than once I found myself screaming out my bedroom window for somebody to help. Screaming with fear so strong there was no sound. The screams were deafening but only inside me. There was never more a feeling of helplessness. It is a fear that simply encased the mind and shut down the workings completely. Time stood frozen. Icy palms clung to the sill. Pale against the night moon.

Mr.Gorrick would run from across the street, Lassie chasing at his heels. Mr. Gorrick would defuse what ever the circumstance was. My screams were heard between the empty gasps. Thank you Mr. Gorrick. Thank you.

The aftermath was never violent. My Dad would never come into my room while my Mom remained cowered and sobbed loudly in the closet. She would stay there all night curled on the floor. A mother in fear triggers automatic fear for any child. I collected my lead soldiers. I slept under the bed.

Over the years as one becomes aware of more and learns the character of those around you, there is only a guess. My Dad was extremely slow to anger and on the other hand my Mom could be described as niggling and caustic.

Her views on life were clouded with negativity. Constant niggling can get the best of anybody. She was sickly on occasion. The times were not easy. My Dad did escape to the basement and the wine barrels often. Perhaps the history is therefore explained.

Clydesdale Street cannot be faulted. Life would carry forward regardless.

Kids were not privy to private adult moments. Adults in turn were not privy to kids private moments either. We each live together but surely in different worlds. Smiles would eventually return and everything was going to be okay.

Those situations of discord fell away over the years and foremost it was a relief to me. Harmony brings harmony and for better or worse the future was vacant from further calamity. Everything was perfect. In all, the world unfolded, as it should. Not always perfect, nor acceptable, but, growing up was naturally filled with change.

Growing up came on everyone quickly. School was not far off.


Copyright
RGT

It Would Never Happen Again

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 23 “It would never happen again.”

Where red meat was considered a luxury there was always fish to offset the limited meat supply. We also ate lots of chicken and unfortunately the odd rabbit or two seemed to go missing. Sometimes after dinner I would go out and count both chickens and rabbits.

On Clydesdale Street there was the Chinese fishmonger that came door to door most every week. It was always on a Friday. The fish man did not speak very good English but either did my Dad. It was almost theatre to watch the two attempt to understand each other. My Dad would leave the buying to Mom.

The fishmonger was a very nice man. He enjoyed all the kids on Clydesdale but a lot of them made fun of him. Kids can be cruel and he took note. You did not want him tossing ice pieces at you when they smelled so fishy. They were as bad as our ditch water variety we would be saving for the Boners.

He had two deep square galvanized buckets carrying the fish. The buckets were also lined with pieces of ice. White vapors would rise from the buckets as he stopped to adjust his load. He had a long bamboo stick he carried over his shoulder with one bucket held by rope and hung off each end of the pole. The pole would both sag and sway with the weight. When the fish man walked he walked with a bouncing, jogging shuffle. He never lost the balance of the buckets to the rhythm of their constant movement. You could hear the slap of his thongs on the roadway long before he arrived at your front steps.

The fishmonger would always give Blackie a big fish tail to chew on or as a real treat chunks of something mushy off the bottom of the pails. He always called me “Smatboy” “Smatboy”. My mom would ask why he called me that and he would, with a great big grin, just say “Smatboy” and give my head a rubbing. As a little kid it was nice to be recognized by an adult. It would have been even better if he had been right.

The fish man was always friendly. He brought colourful boxes of Chinese Ginger as a gift every month. It was candied with sugar. It was so good.

Blackie knew when the fish man was coming before any one in the house. Blackie would lay peering out from the front window settee. He lay there, taking in the warm sun streaming through the glass. He kept one eye out for the fish man and when he saw him coming towards our house Blackie would meow loudly, a distinct meow, purr like a motor, and beeline for the front door. I was right behind him screaming “Fish Man” “Fish Man”

One day the fish man never came back and nobody else ever brought fish down our block again. I was sad for a long time and Blackie was simply beside himself. Fish was one thing however nothing beat the candied ginger.

Fish was a welcome source of protein. My parents loved it. As a kid fish was eaten but mostly because that was what was on the plate. The ginger helped. It wasn’t every day anyway. Putting up one’s nose in these times so soon after restrictions and rations, still some in place, was not what any family did. Not even the kids.

Many times it was not so much fish as fish heads and parts that made up a fish soup or a fish stew, depending on what other ingredients from the yard were added. Fish was relatively expensive but my Mom and Dad loved it and we all liked the Fish Man. The major drawback was your bowl could be the one full of fish eyeballs looking back at you. When they would roll over in the liquid there was lots to think about.

My father had just started to learn how to seine fish commercially and during the summer would start to be away from home for long periods of time. During the winter months I learned he was working at a mattress company called Grange Mattress Company. Mr. George Grange’s son Andy built his house on Clydesdale Street just a lot over and east of ours. I began to understand the workings of parents and how they filled their days.

When Dad went away in the summer my Mom was left with the garden and all other outside chores. It was both a blessing that additional money was going to be made, and, a curse with the burden of responsibility left at home. Mom worked hard. There was something private between her and the land. The bounty of the burden gave her the only real pleasure anyone or anything could. There was no complaining. She relished the growing fruit and vegetables and could hardly wait to put up her preserves in the fall.

I pitched in and loved everything except cleaning the chicken coop. Those were Old Red’s girls and secondly after getting the eggs out came the pitching and forking poop filled hay. Most everything could be turned into an adventure and the imagination cared for the distressful amount of chores. Nothing except foul dungeons could explain the chicken coop as the fantasy stand in. In summer it was unbearable. Even the chickens flew the coop.

They would have their wings clipped so they would not go far. I remember Old Red liked that. He could catch them easily. Lassie liked it too. The chickens would flap low level across the yard clucking wildly with the dog in hot pursuit.

The wood burning stove in the kitchen was a great source of comfort during the winter. Summer was another thing all together. Everyday water was warmed for baths, laundry and anything requiring hot water. It was used to cook and heat the most lived part of the house. Coal was expensive and wood was plentiful. The front room fireplace also helped keep everything cozy on cold evenings. The smells and sounds of a crackling fire were wonderful.

Mixing a bit of wood and coal in both the kitchen stove and the fireplace kept the use of coal to minimum. I came to learn that frugality was much more my Mom’s inherent trait and not my Dad’s. It was not always just because the need for money was a constant. Mom grew up that way. Dad just didn't really care about money much.

One cool day the kitchen was very active with people. My Mom was preoccupied with many things. I went down to the basement to get cut pieces of wood to supplement the dwindling pile kept beside the stove.

A few pieces had already been brought up and my Mom must have thought that was the effort of the morning. I still had one more. One act of unkindness was to sneak up on Blackie when he lay sleeping on his stove side bed and scare him silly.

Coming up from the basement caught him every time. He would not wake up to the normal kitchen activity. In fact he woke up to very little. A good scare worked to get his day going.

The stairs from the basement were very close to Blackie’s bed right next to the sturdy steel and enamel stove. I snuck up the stairs with my last piece of wood. Just as I crept to the top of the stairs I jumped out and opened up with the expected loud BOOOOOO looking for Blackie to shoot into the sunroom grumbling loudly about his mistreatment.

This time, I scared my Mom more than the cat. For my efforts in an instant she grabbed a piece of wood and I found myself out cold on the kitchen floor. Never again would Blackie have to worry about sadistic assaults from me. I was so cured.

Kids will be kids but sometimes there are actions wished forgotten or better yet instances that never happened. There are simple things one never forgets. Sometimes good. Sometimes not.

All the kids on Clydesdale enjoyed special occasions. Birthdays were many on the Street. With the number of kids about, birthdays came often. Adults were good about it. Nobody expected extravagance, besides it gave Moms a chance to get together and gossip.

A birthday I wish could be taken back was my own. A late summer child put my birthday just before school began. It made it easy to have lots of kids come by. Some of the kids were now going to school and the smaller ones including myself were just about to enter. We still had summer freedoms.

Comic books were favorites for birthday gifts and every effort would be made to lobby different suspected attendees about what comic books were wanted. There were always dark moments when you got two of the same recent releases. There was a trading option we knew, but kids lived for the moment and the excitement of the day. Nickels in cake aside.

Everyone was already at the house and all the presents were opened as kids and parents had arrived. There was only Jimmy and his Mom still to come.

Patiently, however that was interpreted, I waited at the front window waiting frantically for Jimmy to arrive. The other kids were making merry all through the house, as I remained vigilant at the front window. Blackie lay on the settee purring madly. He thought we were waiting for the Fish Man to arrive. There was Jimmy! He and his Mom were crossing Clydesdale Street coming our way! I was hyper excited.

Jimmy knew Lash Larue was my favorite comic. A Cowboy dressed all in black, snapping his leather whip, and sporting two big silver guns on his hip. The action-packed pictures were the best. My whip was a piece of frayed construction rope. No snap. Not leather. Not even black. I could hardly wait for the door to open. The right comic book made things right.

As my Mom opened the door Jimmy hardly got inside and I in crazed anticipation rushed up to him. No “Hi thanks for coming to my birthday party”. No “Nice to see you Jimmy”. Just “Gimme my present”. “Gimme! Gimme! Gimmie!”. All I could think about was the rolled up gift. Comic? Yes! Yes!

With a snatching tug I grabbed it out of Jimmy’s hand. I turned and ran to where Blackie was sprawled on the front window settee. Blackie laid taking in the comforting rays of the afternoon sun, dreaming cat dreams, and totally oblivious to the loud party noises around him.

I ran like the wild little spoilt child, all the while, tearing off the ribbon and paper. Was I spoilt or unknowingly ill mannered? Was it the prize of the day? Blackie had to make room in a hurry as I climbed up over him.

It was indeed the newest Lash Larue comic book. I went wild with glee. I could not hold back my excitement. Ignoring everybody, including Jimmy who as yet his Mom and he were not even fully inside the house. I sat cross-legged on the settee and began to devour the contents of the comic book. Nothing else mattered.

The boorish, selfish act did not go unnoticed. Jimmy was dumbfounded yet grinning as he stood by watching never saying a word. Jimmy wasn’t mad. He was really happy his present brought me so much selfish joy.

It brought me no comfort over time. The thoughtless act of self-fulfillment was never to be forgotten. My self centered, callous treatment of my very best friend was a lesson for life. Precious times should be reserved for the personal friendships not any material object of the friendship.

I never apologized to Jimmy. I need too one day. That moment haunted conscience reality forever. It would never happen again, at any time, with anybody.

Copyright
RGT

COMICS WERE PRECIOUS!

When Cowboys Were Heros

Still Creek Had Fish

11/24/02 Copyright - RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 24 “It is a wonder nobody ever drowned.”

There was something about exploration young kids could not resist. It caught us by our shorts and continually challenged any possible lethargy. Tom Sawyer and Huckle Berry Finn had nothing on us. In fact it did not matter. We had never heard of them. Strange to think their exploits seemed uncannily familiar with our own.

Still Creek was a consistent source of entertainment and inspirational imagination. Where did it go? It seemed to follow parallel with the train tracks. There were some choices. We could walk along the tracks and discover where they went or we could build a raft and glide along
Still Creek. The water was not too deep but deep enough to make an unexpected plunge dangerous for little kids. Especially short ones.

We were told that if we walked along the tracks the train would sneak up on us and carry us away forever. Squashed or carried away gave concern.

Our bold effort of exploration would be first turned into building a raft. The rails could wait. The Creek held an immediate fascination and we were sure we could deal with it. After all, we knew how to build a swimming hole.

Still Creek had fish. Exactly what kind was unclear but it did have fish. To kids fish were fish. A pole, some string, and a bent nail with an impaled slug for bait did not work too well but it was the wiling away of the day rather than the catch of fish that mattered. Worms worked better. Peanut Butter worked really, really well.

Still Creek had everything. There were tadpoles, frogs, water bugs, snakes, and muskrat houses along the banks. The smell of flowering skunk cabbage was overpowering at times. Swaying Bulrush clacked with the breezes. In early spring, pussy willows were abundant in places. Other flora shared the Creek along its meandering route but they remained nameless to all of us.

Getting home late was never a problem in pussy willow season. Moms loved a bouquet for the table. We kids learned that quickly.

The raft building exercise did not turn out as easy as it looked. A very good thing we never heard about Mark Twain characters poling down the Mississippi or anything. Our attempts had there own challenges.

Finding appropriate floating material took effort. Barn planks and lashings took even more of our collective process. Eventually something akin to a floating platform got constructed. Those gaps on the raft surface caused a few water casualties. The lashings were suspect and never really remained firm.

The raft sometimes just split open swallowing up whoever was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was not hard to overload either. Tipping over on its side had more than one kid find aggravation in the creek.

After a while we became masters of our wonky vessel and the little creek we would float on. Our raft building got better with each new experience. A few kids dropped out. Literally. Those few boatmen left found that if we all poled the raft we could direct it along the length of the creek. There really was no current of record and that may be why it was called Still Creek.

We did find at certain times there was some movement and it was necessary to tie the raft to something on shore or we would return to find it had floated away only to be broken up or partially submerged where it got stuck further down the way. Muskrats scurried out of their burrows when the raft wedged into the creek’s banks. Somebody said they were beaver. Others said they were rats in water. Others tried to avoid them.

When the raft worked it was wonderful. The adventures of those kids on the Mississippi paled by comparison. Well, how could anybody anywhere be as great navigators and rafters as the kids of Clydesdale Street?

Our adventures of rafting the creek finally led us to the marshy headwater opening up to Burnaby Lake. There was lots of mud. There could not have been any written story or tale we knew that could prepare us. Adventure stories we were told were somebody else’s adventure. This was ours!

There was the opportunity to imagine the experience. but to actually live your adventure with all the new discoveries could not be duplicated. We marveled at our expedition and our resourcefulness.

Little did we know that in the late 1800’s logging camps & wood mills flourished on the lakeshore. They were started in part by Robert Burnaby, Burnaby’s namesake. There were a numer of active enterprises prior to 1900. Camp's like Sam Conner's Logging Camp and closer to Still Creek and Boundary Road was Rowling's Logging Camp and a nearby Logging Dump on the creek. There was a whole life time before we kids ever discovered the territory for ourselves.

Not only were there those logging pioneers busy on the lakeside but, there was oil exploration happening in the vicinity. At least two rigs were actively drilling. Spartan Oil Well #1 and #2 were busy near Burnaby Lake. Nothing came of it apparently and the area logging mills eventually disappeared as well. The lake was left to nature’s reclaim.

We were absolutely sure we were the first to discover the lake.

Many more trips to Burnaby Lake would follow. Learning from our rafting experience that danger was a frayed lash or a heavy kid away, we did not need coaching to know we should not raft on the lake itself. The surrounding mudflats discouraged us anyway. You could drown in that mud. It oozed and smelled awful. On the far side to the east it apparently emptied out into Brunette River and found it’s way through to New Westminster emptying into the great Fraser River. We never went further east past Burnaby Lake.

The fact we discovered the lake in the first place was something our expedition could be proud of. The kids were content to explore the edges of the lake and take to plowing through the underbrush seeing how far they could walk around the perimeter. I personally never experience a trek around the whole lake. Finding it was good enough for me.

The fear of wild animals or worse was constant on our minds. The area was dense with bush and a forest of trees. It was very quiet and very still. Mosquitoes were dark clouds of annoyance. A child’s imagination worked overtime at the lake.

It wasn’t Africa but it would do.

The real concern was would the raft hold together as we struck out to the west again, returning to the safety of Boundary Road. Along the creek the banks were slippery. There was mud, grass, thorns, and various foliage all along the way. We were out of cookies too.

Sighs of relief as well as heightened anxiety took over knowing we were back on territory we were familiar with. It was a fine ending on the completion of every expedition. The second, but close to first thought, was home and our dinners were waiting. Cleaning the burrs and mud out of our hair never fazed us. Good explorers would never complain.

It is a wonder nobody ever drowned. The Creek, although not deep, was in places as deep as a kid could stand. Falling in and getting wet was a bigger worry than drowning. There were some close calls. The teasing got to them more than the drama. Some kids did not find rafting or the discoveries worth the trouble. They disappeared not to return to the Creek. The fish did not mind. The mosquitoes did.

Clearly, each kid was beginning to find his or her own destiny little by little.
We were sadly growing up. Some faster than others. Group imagination became more and more individual. The diversity began to change us.

There still was the innocence prior to passage onto life’s big highway.

Much like the imaginative raids on Clydesdale Street’s Iceman every summer, there were changes coming during the winter that gave us a new venture. We could duplicate our triumphs from the summer with similar strategies learned and carry that forward into the winter months.

There were always new opportunities on our horizon.

Glenburn Dairies began a year a round home delivery service of milk and dairy goods. Some families continued their trek down Boundary Road, past the tracks to the milk farm, and, got their product as they always had.

For the growing majority home delivery was the time saver of all time. Empty bottles of milk stood on many doorsteps to be replaced with full bottles every morning.

The secret in summer was to get the full bottles of milk out of the morning sun as quickly as possible. The icebox was waiting.In the winter the trick for parents was to get them into the house before the kids got there first.

On freezing cold mornings it was a toss up whether to stay in and marvel at Jack Frost’s artwork on the sunroom windows or to rush out and conduct house-to-house frozen cream raids.

Those milk bottles were now mighty cold and because milk was real milk the rising cream would begin to freeze just like a Popsicle. Up it would pop high out of the bottles. Standing still, frozen statues of creamy frozen yum.

If fortunate enough to have sugar or honey, even some molasses, kids would make the treat irresistible. A small quantity of sweetener and the stealth raid would give kids first call of collecting nature’s cream cones, where upon the prize was joyfully eaten. The unseen danger came in the way of parents. Parents and kids were constantly trying to outsmart each other.

At the early morning light, only the milkman would have stepped through the freshly fallen snow. Any other footprints would be those of the kid who got up the stairs and snagged the frozen cream tops. How were we to know? Nobody else had left prints so the only likely culprits were roaming bands of little kids biding for their share of the booty. Parents followed the tracks.

It got to a point where the kids were grounded to their house each morning. Of course this proved to make things even easier, although limited in conquests. We would awaken and just open our own front doors to devour the iced creamy towers. Sadly it never tasted the same as that off of somebody else’s front porch. It was difficult to explain.

Without another word I would return to the sunroom amazed how the morning sun would quickly erase Jack Frost’s so worthy paintings.


Copyright
RGT

There Could Be No Santa Claus Tonight

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 25 “There could be no Santa Claus tonight.”

Jimmy and I were much alike. A lot of people thought so. Exactly how is hard for a kid to say. We were both relatively quiet. Well, most of the time. Happy, we were, with or without other kids around. We could always conjure up activity on our own. Never quick to change emotions yet we both had moments of explosive exuberance that was infectious. Much like a Mastiff. Steady and firm but once excited it seemed hard to control. We could be wildly excited when either imaginations turned into overdrive or something of a miracle came into our day.

My parents, especially my Mom and Mrs. Roulette became life long friends. This initially kept the childhood friendship of Jimmy and I active. Even after he moved from Clydesdale Street and for a number of years thereafter we managed to engage in new and exiting exploits. We visited each other often even after my own departure from the area. Then one teen day, Jimmy and I simply lost touch. It was over. Our mothers remained close forever but somehow like so often with growing kids, paths part.

As a Clydesdale kid, there were many joyful visits to Jimmy’s house up on Boundary. The distance and the dangers of getting lost were foremost on our parents mind and it was still a long walk for a small, but determined child all on his own. With parents along side the only difference is you could always ride on your Dad’s back when the legs wore out.

Kids were not burdened with the ugliness of abductions, or dangers of that sort, but, Grandview Highway was developing into a busy artery from Vancouver to New Westminster. Vehicular traffic was becoming very noticeable. Crossing the highway was at times dangerous. The highway itself became a demarcation line between the Clydesdale kids north of the then Grandview Highway and those on the other side continuing all the way south to Kingsway Street. We didn't know where Kingsway was regardless. Our eyes were usually pointed north.

Eventually only grade school would bring kids in contact with one another again. As kids began to have their own bicycles and longer legs to walk, the ties became stronger but never like those with your friends on Clydesdale Street. We had, however, wheeled transportation to each other’s house no matter where they now lived. Nothing kept close friends apart.

Still, Jimmy and I began to see less and less of each other excepting special occasions. One such occasion was Christmas time. Christmas time offered such memorable moments to carry all through the following year. Generally it was the fun and excitement that captured spirits.

Mrs. Roulette was the host of all hosts. The Roulette’s comfortable little house bubbled with Annie’s natural pride and good cheer. Of course Annie was like that all the time. If it was different or difficult it never showed. Mrs. Roulette’s smile could be seen from the stars above. Jimmy, Julius and Phyllis were always polite with adults too.

Mrs. Roulette always had a kind word for everybody. Open arms and big hugs were common. These were the times when single motherhood fell through the cracks of society with general indifference. Many homes were single parent at the time because it was just after the war and many dads had not come back. Managing a family could not have been easy.

There were neighbours who found true heart in helping out whenever possible. With that community, when Mr. Roulette died, Mrs. Roulette garnered closeness and friendship from everyone. She was wonderful, giving and honorable.

Julius and Phyllis as the older kids pitched in to support the family structure. Jimmy and I were just beginning to understand loss of a parent in a home. Certainly Jimmy more than me.

Mrs. Roulette never showed anything less than an open heart and genuine good-natured personality. There was nothing shown to a kid to suggest her feeling cheated by nature’s cruel turn. Jimmy never said much.

At Christmas, the Roulette household was famous for the Christmas Eve get together. Present exchanges; scrumptous Yule dinners, and lots of genuine hearty laughter. Mr. Beach’s home was next on the visitation list Christmas day but on the eve before Christmas we always visited the Roulette’s. Mrs. Roulette sure could cook wonderful things.

One very special Christmas Eve, like no other, was about to happen.

My Dad and Mom, with me in tow, walked from our house on Clydesdale Street up the Boundary Road Hill southbound, past the tired looking Sunset Motel, and the beautiful rock and slate house everybody talked so much about. It is a fairly steep grade up Boundary, gradually getting steeper. For a kid it was a march, although one of expectation and not that forced. Another adventure. Another anticipation. The imagination continued to open new doors.

This walk was different. The night was still, crystal clear, biting cold, and, for the first Christmas I grew up with there were very little signs of snow. As little kids, this circumstance was pressing. Christmas was supposed to have lots of snow.

Without snow Christmas would end with dissapointment. Without snow how would Santa get his sleigh moving on all the barren rooftops. The outcome faced was bleak. There could be no Santa Claus tonight. The cold evening became even colder.

Walking to the Roulette’s, knowing it was going to be fun visiting with Jimmy, but overcast with this sadness there would be no Santa was traumatizing. The trudge up Boundary was difficult. Not even the colorful lights, some on, some burned out, on the old motel could draw cheer.

Arriving at Jimmy’s brightened me up. Beaming at the door Mrs. Roulette was saying “Merry Christmas Merry Christmas.” “Please. Please. Come in.” Her laughter filled the air.

The little house was stuffed wall to wall with guests. The tiny kitchen singing with sounds and the smells were all about Christmas. To the left there it was. So perfect a Christmas tree tucked against the corner.

The never forgotten joy of a fresh cut tree covered with sparkling lights, cotton batten for snow and lots and lots of ornaments was overwhelming. Jimmy and Julius cut the tree themselves. The neighbour did not mind.

There was something so special about this tree. There was something none of us had ever seen before. There were lights that looked like little glass candles. They were all different colours. They bubbled. The lights bubbled faster and faster. The Christmas tree was alive with dancing lights. What wonder, what joy and how the lights bubbled!

Under the tree there were presents stacked over each other. In the small space of the living area they seemed to swallow the tree with greetings.

All through the evening there was punch to drink and the bowl was constantly filled. It was different I thought than Mr. Beach’s. Somehow the bite and flavour in Mr. Beach’s punch left you pretty woozy. Mrs. Roulette’s punch was like a bowl of fresh sunshine.

The turkey was so beautifully big. The accompanying garden vegetables and deep dark gravy was sumptuous. Hot, rich mince meat tarts, oatmeal cookies, Christmas cake filled with coloured candied fruit and tasty nuts topped off a happy, joyous meal. Usually Jimmy and I would have already sampled the tarts prior to our turkey but still managed to gorge ourselves until we wobbled. We loved the tarts. Powdered sugar ended up on our upper lips giving us moustaches.

By evening’s end, usually about one hour before midnight, with just enough time for neighbours to get home in time for Santa’s arrival, the sing songs and laughter brought everyone really close. Surely this is what Christmas and good friends was all about. Opening presents would be left until Christmas day. The night was about friendship and family. The gifts could wait.

It was time to head on home. I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I wanted to stay through until Christmas. How often did kids have the chance to stay up so late? A little piece of Christmas cake in hand we headed home.

A miracle happened that Christmas Eve.

After bundling up for the walk back home, we said good night and my Mom and Dad, tugging me out of Jimmy’s house, we began to leave. It would be an easier walk I knew, because it was all down the hill along Boundary Road to Clydesdale Street. We would be home quickly even if Santa wasn’t coming this night. There was no need to stay awake tonight anyway.

As we stepped out from Jimmy’s house my eyes were like saucers. Blinking hard and rubbing my eyes in disbelief I screamed with excitement. Snowflakes were gathering on the ground. Snow was, one flake at a time beginning to land from the sky. There was nothing to explain. Santa was coming and he needed snow. Everybody rushed outside to see. The loudest “Merry Christmas!” ever heard went up in a roar.

Turning right onto Boundary Road from Jimmy’s house the night filled with continuing wonder. It was warmer than earlier in the evening. The sky overhead was covered with fast moving, deep black purple clouds. The clouds moved noiselessly and quickly, crossing into a glowing neon blue horizon peppered with far off twinkling stars.

The snowflakes paused in the beam of the few street-lamps showing their abundance. It was really snowing now. It really was. Looking up into the softness of the night was truly miraculous. A Christmas miracle!

The snow had already covered the surrounding landscape, reflecting brightly into the night. Snowflakes were caught on the tongue; some so large you had to swallow twice. My Mom began to sing Christmas Carols. My Dad did not know the words. I merrily joined in with glee singing words known or not. Voices lost in the silence of falling snow.

Between stomping in the fresh fallen snow, catching snowflakes and singing carols there was still time to wonder in amazement how this night appeared.

The snow began falling very heavily. Snowflakes raced each other to the ground. We stopped on Boundary Road near the almost now darkened Sunset Motel, just about kitty corner to the big horse farm. We simply stopped, holding hands together.

We all looked up in awe at the huge sky to the North. Filled with both the expanse, the bright reflections and dark snow clouds spilling their flakes, I looked hard to see if Santa’s Sleigh was to be seen. I looked for a red beam of light. I was sure I saw Santa crossing over the sky with Rudolph leading the way. I know I heard the bells.

This special Christmas Eve was perfect. The vastness of the sky, the hard falling snow, the white rolling landscape, and the absolute silence was awesome. Silence so silent it was deafening. Never was there a night like this before. How could this play be written with such perfection.

We stood there in the heavy snow now thumping as it hit the ground, my Mom broke into Silent Night, and there we stood. Turning onto Clydesdale the deepening snow crunched loudly under our feet. We hurried home throwing snowballs along the way. Mom got the fireplace going while my Dad and I in the light of the late evening feverously built a snowman in the front yard. We rolled and rolled the rounds of snow with frenzy.

Like the fort and soapbox attempts, structurally, he wasn’t quite right, but, we did gather black coal pieces from the basement and the little snowman grinned with personality.

It was to be the first snowman on Clydesdale Street that Christmas.


Copyright
RGT

Girls Smelled Different

11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 26 “It was okay by us. Girls smelled different.”

One late summer brought our young worlds to a screeching halt. It was just after my birthday.

There were older brothers and sisters of some kids on Clydesdale that were already experiencing what was to befall us all. There was now a sense of the unknown rushing directly into our closet of fears.

It was time to enter elementary school.

Schou Street Elementary School was opened in 1914 and was named after Nicolai Schou a former Reeve of Burnaby who served from 1893-1903. Schou Street closed as an Elementary School in 1979 and remains prominent as an educational center for teacher training. Teachers now the students! Had we only known. The only question is how do adults fit into those tiny wooden seats?

Schou Street School did actually begin on Schou Street. Fate then fronted the school on what was to be re-named the Grandview Highway, then Canada Way. Schou Street was carved up during arterial development of a continuous and direct roadway between New Westminster and Vancouver. The roadway from New Westminster was called Douglas, and, Grandview was an amalgamation of three or four streets originating on 12 ave east, south on Boundary and sharply east on, yes, old Schou Street.

One of the sacrificed streets was Schou. There is still a short little piece called Schou right in front of the Hanna Clinic. A legacy one would suppose. Now it is for the most part a right turn entry right off Boundary Road to eastbound automobiles heading along what is now called Canada Way. Whew! Whew! Burnaby really liked changing street names a lot.

The Schou Street roadway in front of the school officially became a highway called Grandview-Douglas in 1926. In our time we kids knew it as the Grandview Highway. Then once again another name change a few years after the opening of Highway #1 in 1964, Grandview-Douglas became Canada Way in 1967. Confusing? As each generation passes it likely still is!

The grand old school never moved and thankfully retained its original name. Depending on personal memory all these changes manifested confusion. Asking why Schou Street School sits on Canada Way brings vacant stares. Well. Now it is clear. It originally sat on Schou Street. The school is backed onto Norfolk a continuation of Norfolk to the west of Broadview Park. It was just bushes to all of us and a shortcut home.

The most telling thought about the road, regardless of name was that many many automobiles now traveled this highway. It was very dangerous for kids, even if they were careful crossing from the south side.

One day we all heard that Jimmy’s older brother Julius was hit by a speeding car when he was crossing. His head injuries were near fatal. They were even going to put a steel plate in his head and the ambulance had to take him all the way to a big hospital in Vancouver. Bob Hanna took him with his ambulance sirens wailing.

A driver feeling no pain struck Julius but that was extremely common at the time whether it was day or night. Post War adults smoked and drank heavily. Kids were told to take caution. Julius got hit anyway. It was a long time before we saw him again. Jimmy was silent with grief.

To the kids of Clydesdale, Schou School was a big building, and where it resided was far from our comfortable little world. The school was a long walk for short legs, that, we soon found out. The route consisted of walking up Smith Avenue heading south and turning left to continue walking along the Grandview Highway. Grandview had a lot more cars than Clydesdale Street.

There was the tempting short cut at Norfolk that took you through big trees and heavy underbrush. There we knew lived the Bogyman so we thought. That is how we knew where the school was. As to the street of residence it never mattered.

The first day was one of anxiety and trepidation. Excited yes. Scared yes. The thought of shedding our freedom and adventure for formal regimentation to rules, time, and discipline just seemed, well, peculiar.

On the first day our mothers dressed us in clothing we only wore when visiting somebody or for attending church. Why did we need to do this?

Every mom was faced with the challenge of dressing us up in a manner acceptable to this new authority in our lives.

Kids were supposed to reflect the pride of their families so all efforts were made to have our hygiene brought up to standard. No more dirt under the fingernails. No more grass stained pants and food stained sweaters. Running shoes without holes in the soles and did not stink too much proved harder for the Moms. Socks had to be darned. This was a big time for change.

All the kids either got their haircut at home or they visited Mrs. Cogswell. There is where formal haircuts took place. At home families had hand clippers or just scissors that Moms knew how to use. It saved lots of money. My Mom cut my hair. The cowlick remained constant. Other than that it turned out pretty good. Others went to Clydesdale Street's Mrs. Cogswell .

There was something similar about the kid’s haircuts when they came home. They all looked the same. Parents knew. Kids found out the hard way. Hiding was normal right after a cut. The bowl placed on their heads shaped the hair cut perfectly.

With new haircuts and scrubbed faces we looked odd. We were all dressed differently though. Moms took us by the hand and away we went like blocks of cement.

It was a time when kids would simply walk to school. Rarely did anyone get a car ride. This first morning there we all were. Kids marching off to their first day of school what ever that was. Moms pulling on taunt leashes.

Kids thereafter would find their own way to school. We were warriors. The times did not require car rides and car pools with armed mothers insuring their kids were safely in passage back and forth. Long before Cell Phones and Pager’s we relied on our guile and the fact there was little to be concerned about.

I was dressed in a fresh new snappy sailor suit. My mother thought this appropriate. I did not have a choice. As a pirate so my imagination took me forward. Living with sailor clothing was okay. After the teasing subsided that lasted just the one day.

There we all were, on the school grounds absorbing the sites around us. Older kids were playing with each other already. No. Not like in today’s terms. It was before words were twisted into masking adult comedy.

The older kids were veterans at this school thing and they were in a reunion on this first day. Laughing silly and chasing about.

The new entries from Clydesdale Street were left on the stairs and then the Moms departed. It became chilly all of a sudden. Fear set in. Real fear. Not only were we abandoned with no understanding of the rules of engagement the worst of the worst was before us. No one could imagine the turn of events.

There they were! Boners! All of them! Together, strangely, looking much like we did. Confused. Cleaned up. Freshly dressed. Hair cut. Same style. No weapons. Were we safe or were we all going to die? Nobody could have prepared the kids for this.

The school bell was rung. An adult came out on the porch of the school ringing a brass bell madly. We thought it was time to nap or something. Instead we were herded into the building and taken to a room filled with 2 x 2 desks and a big blackboard directly in front.

There was a cloakroom behind the blackboard with doors on either side. The girls went in one door and the boys went in the other one. Behind the blackboard the room turned out to be the same room. The boys had to put their clothes and lunches on one side and the girls on the other.

My Dad said it was like a beer parlor. Boys on one side with girls on the other side but it took some time to understand the similarity. We boys did not mind the rules. It was okay by us. Girls smelled different.

The desks were the kind where two desks joined together. This had kids sitting two by two in lined formation. The kid next to you seemed too close but there was no escaping the situation.

I was horrified. The room was full of kids I did not know. Other kids from Clydesdale Street were just as bewildered. There were new kids from across Grandview Highway to the south. They in turn were grouping for comfort.

There were kids from much further east of Schou Street School and there were the dreaded Boners from the north side and down the Clydesdale hill off towards the flats. This was scary. Very scary. The uncommon rise to sweat begot everyone.

The class was a combination of Grade 1 and Grade 2. The 2nd grade kids, being the more experienced, were supposed to be role models for we greenhorns. A lot of them had failed Grade 1 so that left us thinking.

Sitting at the desks was difficult. We had to ask permission to speak. We had to ask permission for everything. We did not speak unless spoken too.

The teacher was talking quickly trying to orientate us on things we needed to know. The teacher talked so fast and we new kids listened so slowly. Why was this happening? The words were a blur as our minds tried to comprehend what was going on. One kid just sat there, shock white, peeing his pants.

One thing we needed to know was how to go to the bathroom. It was not long when we all knew some kids did not absorb information very well.

We were supposed to put our hand up and on recognition from the teacher stand beside our desk and ask permission to leave the class in order to go to the bathroom. Sounded simple.

Two complications were quickly identified. Fright and listening skills. Fright accelerated the need to deploy. There were those few of us on Clydesdale Street that remembered the incident down on the Horse Farm. We were very familiar with how the pee can be scared out of you.

More than one kid in the class quickly succumbed to either fright or just a need to go to the bathroom. Unfortunately they fell victim to either of the two complications.

One boy put up his hand and was acknowledge by the teacher. He was fraught with fright or he was embarrassed to openly admit he had to go. The fright got to him regardless. The front of his pants became progressively wet. Down his legs and onto the floor the torrent fell. He remained standing.

The other kid, one of the Boners, just simply got the message wrong. He put up his hand and when the teacher acknowledged him he rose beside his desk with his arm still in the air and just stood there peeing. They were never terribly smart.

The morning was getting long for all the kids. How could we possibly remain stationery for so long and not have incidences like this. To ask an adult you did not know to go pee and have the classroom all know you had to go was embarrassing. Moans could be heard all over the room.

I got lucky. Recess was coming soon and with all my might I was going to wait. What a break! Being notably shy most of the time and now dressed up like a live marionette in my new sailors left me speechless. I was not listening well either and feared asking the question wrong.

Our first recess came just in time. I ran for the bathroom. I did not quite make it all the way. My haste had me first run in the wrong direction. Then it became evident I had no idea what was the right direction.

How humiliating. It was fortunate my pants were dark blue. Nobody really noticed the slight different shading when wet. Everybody was standing around numb and not paying attention. The new experiences of the morning drilling deep into furrowed little brows. A bunch of kids were playing new games and the others stood unknowing questioning silently what to do next.

Did I stand out or what? Most of the kids had store bought clothes. The little girls in their pretty dresses and the boys in various types of ordinary boys clothing were complimentary. No. I had to be trumped up like sailor boy. Store bought yes but not in step with this new environment.

That would be the last day. I wanted to fit in. It then became clear there were indeed differences between the kids. Many of us would have homemade clothes. Knitted sweaters were common for the boys. V-neck and a cable knit or just bland colored patterns on cardigans. I also had cardigans.

The difference between store bought and the Mom’s variety were obvious. Larry no longer stood out. Many kids, including me were now standards for our times. The first signs of financial differences were evident. Maybe it was just that our mom's liked knitting.

Trying to adjust to the new faces and habits we brought from home made the first day rough. Donny was a new kid from south of the Grandview Highway. He had sandy orange hair and was very tall. He sat next to me. Donny and I got to know each other and became new friends that remained until Donny was to move away to the west somewhere in Africa.

He was a nice kid but on my first day I was subjected to his habit of continual flatulent harmonies. He farted continually! Being so close was a heavy price to pay for friendship. It was like rotten eggs and I did not know how to tell the teacher. The kids in the desk ahead and those behind knew it too and one of them kept pointing at me. Oh. What to do? What to do?

Devastation like this on my first day was a brutal learning lesson. Donny remained oblivious to his musical ways. It must have been a natural habit.

There was a rather chubby little girl, Bertha, no, really, and she smelled like moldy cheese. Whiffing her as she past by was paralyzing. The nose would shut down and breathing became difficult. There was no escape.

With the combination of Donny and the little chubby girl I wondered how I would survive, not only the moment and forever. Hopelessness mounted.

Some of the new kids we got to know included Billy Leech. Billy had an older brother George and sisters too. Billy was a very smart kid. He was also lucky we all thought. Billy did not have to walk far. He lived on the street on the backside of the school. Billy wasn’t sure he was lucky.

There was Donny and my best friend Jimmy now from the south side of Grandview Highway. We got to see each other more often although it still was mostly during our school sessions.

With the girls there was Doreen Barr and she to was lucky. She lived across from the school just like Billy. Doreen lived across the street, right on Grandview Highway, just a short walk to the Cascades Drive-In that was slightly west on Grandview and right across from the front side of the School.

The Cascades Drive-In was the first Drive In Movie site in Canada, being built in 1948. We thought it was super neat. Sneaking over the wall and watching movies on the giant screen was a pass time for area children.

Older kids more than those our age did it all the time. Cars would sometime let the kids get in so they then could hear the sounds and all the words. Hiding in the trunk of the car was always a thrilling entry. Everybody knew everybody. It was neat. One more growing adventure for us all and we loved it. Soon thereafter Burnaby became home to many Drive-In Theatres.

Neither Doreen nor Billy thought they were lucky. They lived too close. Then there was Dale Koronko. Dale and Doreen Barr had to be the prettiest girls I ever saw. They were not Tom Boys at all. I could not quite forget about Francie but I think I was beginning to understand the difference between boys and girls at a new level.

Wait until Valentine’s Day! True love would shine. I loved them all. It was easy to dismiss my pretty nurse back in Alberta. By now she had to be too old anyway.

Other kids were Donny Baxter, Archie, Harold, Janet, Richey, Gladys, Shirley, and so many more. It was hard to imagine where they all came from for the first timers. We didn’t think there were that many kids in the world.

What did you do at recess? It was free time. Already we had forgotten what freedom represented. Standing around found us Clydesdale Street kids in the path of the dreaded Boners. As they were exploring the school grounds we huddled around wondering how to play in this strange environment.

Their approach set off alarm bells especially with Larry. We were without weapons except there was good old Larry. Out with his sling and away the Boners scattered.

Laughing to a child like fit we did not see the Principle approach.

Larry lost his sling on our first recess.


Copyright
RGT

Chocolate

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 27 “Chocolate”

The most telling whispers were that the Principal of the School was the Dad of one of the Boners! What scary news! We knew we were going to die. Our collective apprehension had each one of us jostling for permission to go to the bathroom all day long. Sadly. Many never made it.

School quickly accelerated the arsenal of knowledge and introduced everyone to new friends and new experiences. The boys enjoyed playing new games together. There was some reserve when we were subjected to supervised activity with the girls. Learning social graces was quite foreign.

The school ground echoes of “Pop goes the Weasel” and “Ring around the rosy” brought many of the boys to near hysteria. “Ring around the rosy and all – fall - down” would many times have girls and boys falling over each other. When hands were not separated just prior to the singing queue to “all- fall- down” chaos prevailed. Girls giggled. They would not let hands go.

The older boys brought new weapons to the attention of the first graders. First there was the peashooter. The dried peas sure stung. Ouch.The pee-shooter worked just as well with tiny wads of rolled up paper. Nobody wanted to be caught with peas in their pocket so the paper balls were often substituted.

The teacher knew who was responsible for firing spitballs at classmates. The little pieces of paper were taken off corners of our workbooks and fashioned into little cannon balls. Sometimes the paper had printing using the ink from our inkwells with the scratchy nib pens. When rolling the inked paper into a tiny ball, then wetting it in your mouth to consolidate the newly formed spitball, lips turned blue. A sure sign who were the shooters.

In season we would locate Fireweed and hollow out the stems. Fireweed stems were great as peashooters. They were strong and lasted a long time. If they were taken away it was easy to get another one. We found little red berries that we stripped from low bushes. Stinging projectiles. Lips never turned a kid in. Moms appreciated it too because everyone left the pea patch alone.

Why were adults so smart? It was hard getting anything past them. They could spot our devious intent almost at will. Sometimes it took time.

Another newly acquired weapon was the Clothes Peg Gun. Clothespins could be fashioned into a flicking apparatus. Another clothespin, broken apart to obtain further needed components, made up the composite. The older boys showed us more.

Matches were on little sticks of wood. Placing the match head end into the now spring-loaded device, kids could shoot them a long way. When matches were flicked their heads were struck in a way that they lit when launched. Flaming sticks flew through the air as they raced to their target. Boy. This sure beat cap guns! It was obvious why. The target screamed.

Mothers were at a loss as to why they ended up short of pegs when they were hanging out the household laundry. The odd shirt and sweater burns could not be explained. If unlucky and the load of matches in your pocket ignited, breaking out into a fierce ball of fire, explanations did not help much. All the kids took the oath of silence seriously. Mothers caught on quick regardless. They just knew. Darn. They were smart.

A truce soon transpired with the Boners. We believed our Principal engineered it. The Boners were kept in check and as our relationships grew during school hours, everything mellowed. Situations of difference were better left for the off hours or weekends. Even that had almost all but disappeared. Old battles seemed distant and like children do we moved on.

There was only one more time animosity overcame the truce. On one occasion Teddy Brown, one of the Boner leaders, was playing with us on our home territory long after the reconciliation. An incident generated old time feuds. Teddy was the Principal’s son after all but what the heck.

A group of the kids were playing at Roy Finchum’s house up on Manor Street. Roy had a front yard sand box. There were too many of us in the sand box and tempers were frayed. Inevitably the circumstance had Teddy and myself head to head. This was different. No swords. No spears. No bow and arrows. No slingshots. No Larry.

The clutching and grapping started. Teddy was taller than me but we were both just bone racks. Clashes hurt and our stamina was definitely in need of a tune-up. Like all such combat it seemed like it was lasting forever. We eventually fell into the sand. Sand was getting into every part of our clothes.

Sand has a way of migrating into every nook and cranny. Our hair mixed with the sand. There was sand in our ears and it was now finding haven in our nostrils along with other foreign objects hidden in the gritty material.

A light went on. I saw an ending to this tussle. As we rolled over clutching each other I tried to keep the roll going so I could end up on top. With all the energy I had left I managed. Yahooo!

Somehow being left handed worked in my favour. Yeh! Teddy was concentrating on my right hand. My left hand came free and I grabbed fingers full of sand. Stuffing the sand into my opponent’s mouth and nose seemed the right thing to do. “Dirty fighter” was okay by me.

Gasping for air Teddy came up crying. Tears everywhere, making their way through the patchwork of sand covering his face.

The fighting was over. Our warring years were over. An era was over. Instead of marauding groups of kids everyone was slowing finding close personal friends.

Singularly we were growing up. Clydesdale street had a different feel too it. Our way of life was surely changing. We seemed to be marked as pedestrian.

Big kids continued to accost us either on our way to school or on our way home. Walking alone along the Grandview Highway between Smith Avenue and the school was no kids land. Bullies were normal. Kids learned by it.

There were other kids walking on the same route but everyone prayed the next kid would be stopped. Not you. Much like the gazelle you watched the lion warily but they should have been west of Boundary Road. Like that was Africa wasn’t it?

Timing was everything. If they were seen you simply dropped into snail walk and hoped the unwary kids that passed on by would be challenged. While the bullies were kept busy you put your feet to the ground and ran by them with so much speed the running shoes smelled like melting rubber.

It was instinctive. As any group of animals subjected to obvious harm everyone knew somebody would be sacrificed and there was little one could do. Fighting them was futile. These were big bullies and bad kids.
Reporting the bully kids to the teachers only brought a higher cost to any and every kid stopped along the route. Nipple twisting really hurt.

Getting caught in the washroom was worse. The Bullies would grab the boys and strip them of their pants, forcing balls of wet toilet paper down their underpants. Sometimes there was the ultimate shame. Black shoe polish was difficult to explain as to why it covered portions of the anatomy.

Milk and its ever precious glass bottle was cherished both for the value of the bottle and the nourishment of the milk. Chocolate was best only if it did not do a job on little teeth. Parents said it ruined them. My bottles contained only white milk. My teeth were already rotten. White milk did not help.

The decision for the Clydesdale Street kids was made. We would cut through the Bogeyman forest. There was no choice. It was daylight hours and surely enough light to see anybody hiding in the shadows.

Traveling together was useless with the Bullies on Grandview, but here we were sure we could handle things and besides Eddie and Henry’s house was within running distance. Their mom was usually out in the garden.

Our first attempt failed when swaying branches were mistaken for approaching footsteps. A second attempt failed when we saw giant footprints on the muddy trail. The third try did not fair any better. The thick underbrush on the side of the trails hid all sorts of imagined dangers. Each to our own image of danger scattered at the first sight of changing shadows.

It took many attempts to finally make it all the way and then noisily breaking through the trees we found ourselves on the edge of the school playground. We made it! There was nothing to it. We had beaten the dark shadows of the bushes. If bad people lived in there we never saw them.

Once an adult was coming the other way on the puddle riddled trail and that got us thinking again. Was it safe? Kids love to scare themselves. It seemed appropriate to stay on alert every passing through. Imagination was the driving force that stayed boredom. If there wasn’t a bogeyman we simply invented one. The girls in the school thought we were very brave.

Valentine’s Day proved our valor. We got lots and lots of cards with
X’s and O’s everywhere, for we, the brave lads of Clydesdale Street.

The times were absent from the politically correct, kid psychologists, and gender bending that future generations faced. Adults did not impress on us that we were all equal nor did they insure every kid got equal numbers of cards so they would not have hurt or bruised feelings. We could even fail. There was measurement.

Kids did what kids do and sometimes it can be cruel. Many kids got lots of Valentine Cards. Some got more than others. Some got none. Kids either like each other or they did not. Period. Those bruised cried. Everyone moved on.

The rest of us were in love, more or less, depending on the number of cards received. Popularity was relevant. There was no shame. Three or four cards to the same person sounded right. It was our first taste of stuffing the ballots.

Our class made Valentine cards and put them into decorated paper shopping bags. The shopping bags were hung on each door to the cloakroom. One for boys, one for girls and all covered in red hearts and arrows.

Everybody rushed to put their Valentine Cards in without anybody seeing the names of the recipients. Getting razzed would be humiliating. Kids that could not buy cards would make them at home. Love was love. Homemade. Store bought. Funny. We were just kids. It did not matter. Getting at least one did. By the next day we were already thinking Easter Eggs.

Skipping ahead to Grade Two found the second year easier now that all those returning knew the ropes. Being veterans gave us great advantage. Wearing the Shepard’s costume at the Christmas Pageant was old hat.

I enjoyed Grade One. Grade Two brought upon me the cruelest, most mean teacher imaginable. Miss Smart. Was she living up to her name or was she misplaced in her profession? Miss Smart and I never saw eye to eye and clearly it was not I being the problem. Miss Smart found a number of ways to encourage class fear and clearly picked on me the most.

The annual school pictures were taken and we were told to bring our .25 cents to class so the pictures could be paid for. I did not have .25 cents. My mom was very strange on certain matters and I never knew if this was one. She would not give me the money. The Grade One picture the year before was not a problem. This year there was never money for anything.

Grade Two was not the same. Mom would not or could not give me the .25 cents. I came to each class without it. Everyday Miss Smart would embarrass all the kids and especially me by naming us out loud and demanding to know why we had not yet paid for the class picture. I did not know how I should answer so I kept saying I forgot. I was frightened.

Miss Smart got madder and madder and berated the tardy without exception.
The day she grabbed me by the ear, twisting hard, and led me to the
Cloakroom scared me helpless. I was strapped hard for being late with my .25 cents and for disrupting the rules she set. She would strap both hands. My hands hurt. My ear was bleeding.

The strapping could generally be heard out to the classroom. I would get strapped each day I did not bring the picture money in. I did not know what to do. It was a moment in time when a small kid experiences confusion and the inability to process the situation.

A couple of the kids put their pennies together and gave me the .25 cents. They felt sorry because they knew I could not pay. They did not ask why. Hearing the strap and seeing the results in my face so openly every day made them very sad. I paid Miss Smart the money. I never saw the pictures.

There were many days spent in the cloakroom just because.

Miss Smart found excuses to remove me from the classroom. Trivial excuses. I found ways to entertain myself. A lot of kids had much better lunches in their lunch boxes than I did. The days the big kids took my milk I loved being in the cloakroom. Lots of lunch boxes had full bottles. Chocolate.

Grade Two finally came to an end. I realized only then why Miss Smart was so mean to me. She did not hate me. I think she had a crush on me. Attraction by older women just seemed to come naturally I thought.

Grade Three would be different. Hooray! No Miss Smart. Her road to School Teacher Hell was paved and it was comforting to believe she would one day find her way there.

I wanted to buy her a shovel. You need one to shovel coal.



COPYRIGHT
RGT

We Were Getting Hooked

11/24/02 RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 28 “We were getting hooked.”

Back on Clydesdale Street we all carried on like school was just an inconvenience. Kids continued to play together alright, but, the mix began too change. New school friends began to appear now and again. Sometimes we went to their houses. Friends began to be more selective.

At my house it was common that many people stopped in. Wally Poole and his wife Mary would come over once in awhile with their kids Dianne and her younger brother Richard. Mary Poole was a Ponich. In some fashion a relation to my mom and we kids were some kind of cousins.

Wally Poole played with the Vancouver Symphony down at the Georgia Street Auditorium located at the entrance to Vancouver’s fabled Stanley Park. He liked to wear a tuxedo even when just relaxing. It probably went with the territory. He and Mr Beach might have been brothers. I did not know anyone else who stayed dressed up forever. Seemed weird.

Their whole family came over one day with their new car. It was spectacular. A Packard. Wow. Was it beautiful! Never had a car like this parked on Clydesdale Street. It was swish. Wally asked my Dad if he would like to take the shiny new Packard for a spin. The immediate silence and my running out to play with the rabbits put a hold on that.

At the least my Dad was honest, maybe it was just a relapse or latent shock. He felt it unwise for him to trouble Wally because he excused himself by saying he did not have a Drivers license. The last time the offer was made by Marcie’s dad, my Dad never mentioned anything about a license.

The balance of conversation switched to why the Poole’s liked to live farther to the west in Vancouver. They enjoyed the city living and suggested at times it would be better if we all moved out that way. Little did I know that reality would actually happen in the not to distant future. For the moment however we loved Clydesdale Street and could never think to go somewhere else.

Getting anything from a big store meant going to Vancouver. By bus it was a tiresome all day adventure. The bright lights and all the people brought amazement to any kid situated so rural from all the activity.

My Mom and Dad loved to visit Woodward’s and Spencer’s Department Stores situated on Hastings Street. To my Mom and Dad this was all of the big town they needed. We had our special treats at the Woolworth’s 5 cent Store at their in-store diner counter. Woolworth’s made very big creamy milk shakes. A feed of fish at the “Only” was my parent’s own special luxury but it sure smelled like the fishmongers bucket to a kid.

My Mom and Dad dreaded walking by Wosk’s Appliance Store because pushy men in slick black shiney suits and wearing ties would come out on the sidewalk and attempt to get you in the store. I did not like them either.

Turned out much later in life I met them as the Wosk Brothers a highly successful family who understood the wants and needs of post war families in the area of appliances and home fittings. There was a lot to learn about merchandizing and business principals from the Wosk’s. They were good.

Getting a picture taken on the open- air tram made up for running past their store. The tram location was just down the block still on Hastings. I believe it was Hastings and Carroll. It was thrilling to ride down Hastings Street and the man would whistle and yell from a window high above the street. Everybody looked up and he took a picture. It was fun.

When town was impossible to visit it was time to pour over catalogues on the front room floor. Spencer Stores soon became Eaton’s Stores. Sears and Eaton’s had big thick catalogues. Much of everything ever bought came from Eaton’s at our house. Mom did not like Sears.

Both catalogues came anyway. My Aunt Betty must have bought something from Sears and their catalogue was delivered to the house regardless.

To a kid the books were more fuel for active imaginations. Whiling away time in front of the fireplace on cold winter evenings, paging through the big books, gave hours of amusement.

The toy pages were eye poppers. It could not be imagined how many toys were coming available for kids. Soon asking for store-bought toys over shadowed our own creativity. We were getting hooked.

Enjoyment came easy. There were lots of pictures. Dreaming of things we could one day buy. Mostly. It was clothes. A joyous change from homemade knits or another kids hand me downs. Fantasies would have to wait.

The outdoor pages had tents, where we made our own by creating a lean to roof with the bed covers. Pulled off the side of the bed and held down with the catalogues formed an imaginary tent. Hiding there and playing with the lead soldiers worked out well during rainy days.

There were real guns and ammunition. Every boy wanted a Bee- Bee gun if nothing else. Older boys already had them. Heck. We the little kids of Clydesdale Street needed to modernize our army even if we no longer had any enemies. It was time to think about adventures where bigger explorations and maybe some hunting along the way could be fitted in.

School windows and passing cars never entered our minds as great targets. The older boys taught us a lot. Those caught learned even more.

After the day dreaming Mom brought everything into perspective. The daily dose of straight Cod Liver Oil managed to soften high adventure quickly. We did not have toothpaste so brushing with warm water and salt was the alternative and even that could not remove the smell of fish. Ugga Ugh.

Most mornings were oatmeal and Red River Cereal breakfasts. A new cereal called Cream of Wheat was available but my Mom would have none of it. Can’t really think why. What did it matter anyway? The hot oatmeal and Red River Cereal tasted the same with the gobs of molasses forced on me. How could Cream of Wheat be different?

The radio continued a major source of entertainment. After that fateful day when my Dad was informed about his brother being killed and voices became silent, the radio continued on to be so much of our daily life. We all had our favorite shows and sometimes they conflicted with each other. Adults always won.

Mornings were special to my Mom. All her life she devoted her listening habits to a little station called CKNW on AM 980. CKNW was Country & Western station started by Bill Rea who also introduced the world famous “Roving Mike” Grey Hound Bus Terminal Interviews.

The first “Roving Mike” broadcast was September 18, 1944 and it was to turn a new leaf in broadcast history. This famous morning show eventually was turned over to Bill Hughes. Mr. Hughes joined CKNW on September 01, 1946. The station was located in New Westminster. The show consisted of interviewing visitors arriving or departing the City Bus Terminal every morning. The Guiness Book of Records documents the longevity.

The “Roving Mike” went on as one of the most famous radio broadcast shows in the world. The show lasted an eternity and was continually hosted by Bill Hughes each morning even years after he became head boss of CKNW Radio.

The message was that a big world was out there. The interviews with travelers brought to life the diversity of the people on the busses and put them in family living rooms. Dreaming of the opportunity to share that horizon made listeners happy. Everybody loved listening to the show.

In 1948 the famous Rhythm Pals, Mike, Mark, and Jack, began live broadcasts and one of my uncles was a singer and guitar player that sometimes played with these radio bands. We had to listen to that! He played with big stars like Evan Kemp and other local musicians too. Mom was very proud of my Uncle Bill.

The Rhythm Pals were the first band to record “There’s A Bluebird on my windowsill.” A Vancouver Hospital Nurse wrote it when one landed on the windowsill where she worked. It was the Heather Pavilion at the Vancouver General Hospital. In 1949 Doris Day recorded the song and it became not only an international hit but also an endearing classic.

One of the Rhythm Pals played an accordion. My Mom and Dad thought I should play one too. Lessons began. Kids laughed. I tried to hide. There was of course my professional debut playing in the big marble lobby of the CNR Train Station for the annual Christmas Celebrations and live coverage on the radio. I still tried to hide.

The famous Jack Cullen joined the station August 15, 1949 and began the night show “Owl Prowl”. CKNW was young and so were we all.
Who ever could imagine these pioneers of radio would contribute so much to all of us growing up in the post war years? The influence remained strong.

CKNW first sponsored the Orphan’s Fund and called themselves
“TOP DOG” Radio. The long established Farmer’s Market in New Westminster was already famous and now the station made “Buckets of Herring” for Orphan’s a yearly event. All money went to the less fortunate kids without Mom’s and Dad’s. Fisherman would donate the herring.

My Mom and Dad were so faithful. We could hardly afford the opportunity but they traveled by bus to New Westminster to get their buckets of herring every year. It was a very long bus trip. Both ways. Coming back seemed faster most of the time.

Herring could almost generate nausea on the homeward journey. The bus smelled like a fish boat. Fellow passengers never seemed to mind. Many of them had buckets too. Some didn’t. It was good it was only once a year.

As to any kid, radio remained fascinating regardless if the Lone Ranger was on or not. In the late evenings I would leave my bedroom door open to hear my Dad’s favorites. He loved to listen to an English show featuring a man called George Formby. Formby was Britain’s most celebrated entertainer and played something called a “Banjulele”. It was a hybrid of an American banjo & Ukulele. Well. It was not Country.

Another show we all loved was the “Goon Show”. The “Goon Show” was also from Britain featuring Spike Milligan and others including a very young Peter Sellers. The BBC show played in Canada and was so very, very funny. I think my Dad liked the sounds they made. The BBC broadcast the show from 1951-1960. It was a forerunner for the later incredibly famous “Monty Python.” Of Holy Grail Fame and “The Parrot’s dead”. Too funny.

CKNW seemed to dominate the radio time forever. They eventually became a talk radio show and once again my Mom never failed to be their most faithful listener.

Entertainment outside of radio time consisted of my Mom knitting ever so constantly. Unfortunately she was of the mind I should learn the art. I did make a scarf once and thanked Blackie for unraveling the wool so well. The only time the cat moved is when the balls of yarn showed up.

Games we would play together as a family or with other kids and adults on Clydesdale included the dice game Yahtzee or card games like Hearts and Fish. I learned big people games like Whist and Bridge as well.

Born a poor loser I would be sternly asked to leave the games most every day. I would hide the dice or remove cards from a deck so nobody could play. It was win or no one could. Nobody let me play much after that. It never worked out. I was too intense. Banishment came calling.

Sometimes going to school had unintentional interruptions. There was one such February day in 1952. February 06. After the morning grooming and a repetitive breakfast of hot oatmeal, we had eggs but they had customers waiting, I could hardly wait for my day to begin.

For whatever the reason I was ready and excited to be heading to school that day. The long walks to school didn’t bother me and indeed as kids joined up along the way it could be fun. Grade Two might have been an exception on most days but everyday was still a new adventure. There was not a kid on Clydesdale that was not ready for new days and new adventures.

I was out the gate without any rooster clawing away at me. Old Red was in Rooster Heaven or something warmer. It was east on Clydesdale Street merrily contemplating the day in front of me. In the middle of the street some two houses along I was stopped in my boots.

My Mom was frantically yelling at me. At this moment I was alone on the street. Other kids were nowhere in site. The silent and empty street seemed eerie. I could not hear her at first. I turned. Mom looked almost in panic.

I had my lunch box and I couldn’t think of anything I forgot. Standing there in the middle of Clydesdale Street I finally heard a few of her words clearly. “George died. Come home!” she continued to yell. My Dad’s name was George. I froze. Stunned.

Gesturing wildly from the top corner of the front steps she was yelling. “ He’s dead. He is dead. You do not have to go to school. School is closed today.” Shivers ran through me. Dumbfounded I stood there. Then again she yelled. “The King died. You do not have to go to school. Come home.”

King George VI had passed away. Understanding such things was beyond me. I saw his picture at school but it was unclear who he was. He was not our Principal. He was not like my Dad.

Why someone who died would stop kids going to school confused me. My heart was racing. All I was sure of is when anyone died it was time to cry.

I stood riveted to the street. Starring at my Mom. Tears streaming heavily down my face. I cried. I cried hard. There was wetness down my trousers.

Copyright

Most Of Us Dare Not

11/28/02 Copyright Rumble On Clydesdale Street

Chapter 29 “Most of us dare not venture down the ladders.”

Progress was beginning to appear on Clydesdale Street. Big digging machines, supply wagons, and lots of workmen arrived one day and they said they were going to dig up our street and put in a big sewer line.

Never did we know Clydesdale Street would have so much attention. Digging was furious. The neighbourhood had new excitement and smething to talk about. The kids were all eyes as we watched the big diggers claw up our street. The object of the work was to dig a deep trench all along Clydesdale. It was so deep workmen had to clamber down on long wooden ladders.

The smells were something we had never experienced. The walls of the trench were being shored up with large pieces of lumber. It was slow work and when the men finished for the day they would hang red glass kerosene lanterns all along the street as they progressively made the trench longer.

Nighttime brought the lights to life and there was flickering flames bringing the red glass to shine. The lights were for safety. The digging was so wide and so deep there had to be warning of the dangers. Falling in could be fatal.

The only way we could cross the street was over planks laid across the trenching. For kids this was the making of dreams. Imaginations went overboard. We wanted to be workmen. When the real workmen departed for the day the kids would take over. We would climb on the machines roaring and sputtering away. They did not really move but we knew they were!

Watching them work all day taught us how it was done. If only we had learned about shoring up a dig with lots of wood our underground fort may have survived. Now we knew. A big digger would have helped as well.

Crossing the planks and peering into the abyss was great expectations.
Once in awhile we saw something out of the corner of our eye darting across the bottom of the trench. Most of us dared not venture down the ladders.
It was very deep. The odor was a mix of wet dirt, dirty puddles, creosote, oil, gasoline, discarded lunches and things we did not know.
Our boldness eventually got us in trouble. Bravely during times real workmen were working we would wait until they climbed down the wooden ladders and when they were pre-occupied with their tasks we would pull the ladders up. Boy. Our language skills continued to improve.

Generating a truce was easy. The workmen would let us sit on their diggers as they continued trenching up Clydesdale Street. What fun. Wearing available army helmets the kids sat amidst the noise and fumes of the machines. Thrilling. The roar of the engines muffled conversation.

When we mounted those machines at evening time the imaginary visions were almost as good as the real thing we had experienced.

Their still was a shortage of products or shortages of money to buy things. At our house we did have kerosene lamps for emergencies or something like that. Kerosene was a treasure. At night sneaking out to empty kerosene from the red lanterns flickering on our street was risky but lots of people did.

My Dad just took the whole lantern. There were lots of red lanterns in our basement. What we were to do with them was never clear. The kerosene we drained but lanterns remained empty and hanging from the rafters. Red glass and all there they remained. The detour signs made great snow shovels.

If anybody suspected or cared it did not show. Taking the odd shovel, pick, or even rubber boots seemed normal and there was never a complaint. For kids it sent a strange message because taking things that did not belong to you was known to be wrong. So how could wrong be right?

The work continued for a very long time. The shovels and lanterns were piling up. The big pipes being readied for the trench were an active amusement for the kids. Crawling in and out of the pipes gave credibility to the game of hide and seeks. When that became boring we switched to Kick the Can. Opportunities to hide were many. No kids were ever lost.

After everything was finished with the giant pipes along came the steamrollers. New machines. New adventures. We were kept busy with all this newfound activity. Belching black smoke, Throbbing, burbling engines. The fresh unmistakable smell of gooey tar assaulted our nostrils. Tar balls were always handy. We would chew on them or safe them as projectiles against those lowly Boner kids. There was work to do. Then again we were no longer at odds with our school chums. Chewing tar seemed the right thing to do regardless. It really helped loosen baby teeth.

It all ended much too soon. The workmen and the machines disappeared. Clydesdale Street had never seen such activity. It would again, some years later just before Clydesdale Street would undergo reconstructive surgery then sadly succumb under the overwhelming odds to become an asphalt byway for millions and millions of highway bound vehicles, and, of course those seeking entry onto Vancouver streets from their far off homes.

Clydesdale Street never recovered from that year in 1962. In fact the little street changed it’s name, buried it’s past and began a new identity as the modern day Grandview Highway a strip of road gapping freeway and normality. Hidden beneath the racing tires overhead, Clydesdale Street remains the backbone for transporting millions of vehicles safely overhead.

Clydesdale Street and her dispatch could never be erased entirely. The Clydesdale kids would never let that happen. Spirits remain guardians.

Burnaby was secure, home, and, the Street called Clydesdale was our playground, our life and our memory.

Forgotten over time. Dismissed in the records. Clydesdale Street had given birth to generations of spirited, wonderful kids who contributed to the wealth of knowledge others would learn over time.

The street lies bruised under the weight of asphalt and passing vehicles all rushing to and from Highway #1. Few passing knows the vibrant life this little street had. Few can imagine the great times and great lives that spawned from the ground we lived and played on. The kids know. Childhood never leaves you. Indeed it seems to return after a number of years and reflection brings back the carefree moments enjoyed.

Today? Clydesdale Street is but a passing . The pieces left are tattered. There is little sign of the joys and of course, hardships we kids’ experienced and other times simply witnessed. Our footprints now simply remain locked forever where we walked and played.

If you close your eyes you can still see Old Red standing guard on his street.
Clydesdale Street.
Guarding our spirits now Old Red still struts the walk where our shadows once danced. Carry on Red! There was lots to crow about.

Copyright
RGT

"SNAP. The Dye Was Cast."

11/21/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 30 “Snap. The dye was cast.”

Jimmy remained my most cherished friend. He was a little older than me and maybe he substituted for a bigger brother but the feeling was different than that. There was a kinship made up of our similar interests far more telling.

Both Jimmy and I imagined continually about growing up and becoming Cowboys. Being a Mountain Man was okay because either way our perceived understanding of the two roles would be satisfied. Cowboys had such adventure and Mountain Men traveled into new unexplored territories.

Reflecting on our common interest to some day travel over the North Shore Mountains gave increasing fuel to learn about living the life.

Jimmy was extremely talented in becoming self sufficient and wise about outdoor things. We both knew there were Muskrats down on the creek and surely there were more on the edges of Burnaby Lake. There might even be Beaver in the Lake!

Starting with Muskrats made sense. Jimmy had acquired leg hold traps. I had never seen them before. In his yard he showed me how they worked. No. Their cat was safe in the house. Jimmy set one of the traps and stuck a stick into it. Snap. The dye was cast. Mountain men we would become.

I never really got the hang of it. The stomach for killing things took courage.

Being a Mountain man meant being able to take food from the land and too further learn how to make money for things necessary to the life. Jimmy was going to trap Muskrats. I was going to throw up.

We spent time along Still Creek setting traps without much luck. I was happy to forget about it but Jimmy pushed forward and learned how and where to place the traps. The day came when success blossomed. Snap. Muskrats!

The next step was, well, now what. Where Marcie had comics, Jimmy had books on hunting, fishing, trapping, and loads of magazines on the outdoors. He self taught himself to dispatch the creatures and then heaven forbid, skin them. He knew every detail.

Jimmy had stretching boards he had fashioned and knew how to prepare the skinned animal properly for drying the hide and combing out the fur. The first attempts were obviously attempts. Eventually Jimmy was a Master. His furs were really soft, shiny and looked like store bought fur should.

The thought of selling the pelts was foremost on our minds. We never really knew how we were supposed to do that. We never knew we were not supposed to be trapping in the limits of an urban area. How else could kids learn how to improve skills and get ready to set out over the mountains?

Jimmy continued his quest and became very knowledgeable about trapping and the outdoors. Still Creek and Burnaby Lake was his trap line. If anyone ever saw them along the creek they never said a word. I guess Muskrats were plentiful and there was no harm in a few developing a kids life skills.

The fall brought out the woodsman in both of us. A beautiful fall sets the course for the coming winter. There was fall and then there was rain but the snows we all loved came soon behind.

Precious times continued. Near where Jimmy now lived there was some areas that were almost real forests. The area was not new and there were lots of older homes and properties like ours that were larger with chickens, gardens, and no sidewalks. Spotted there about were real farms of various size. It was a sunny area even more rural than Clydesdale Street.

The bush areas intrigued Jimmy and it was no doubt he felt comfortable when surrounded in this environment. He was so grown up and at peace with himself. There was a quality about him that was unexplainable.

Something special would happen in the fall with the leaves falling and whispering winds whistling through the trees. The light chill in the air and the damp ground brought such invigorating smells to life.

An area, a distance from Jimmy’s house was his favorite retreat. When I would visit him we would both transform into woodsmen and go there far from the lives we lived each and every day.

It was somewhere near where the Burnaby General Hospital was to be built. Blocks south of the Cascade Drive Inn Theatre located on Grandview Highway if I recall. The Hospital was built in 1952. Likely it was in the undeveloped land prior to development. The exact location does not matter. It was real. It was shear magic.

Jimmy and I would sit around the small campfire we would start. Every visit to the woods began with setting a day camp. Just like our dads used to do on those weekend trips we so much enjoyed when we both lived on Clydesdale Street. The weekend trips with our families never left either Jimmy or I. The memories and the vision repeated. Now it was just the two of us.

Surrounded with stones from the brook nearby and fueled with twigs and decomposing leaves the experience was pure fantasy yet so surely real. There we were. Jimmy and me, far off in a distant land enjoying the solitude of the moment, the burning fire, the silence of the woods and our cans of beans heating slowly on the hot stones brought such harmony and peace.

The odd time a can might explode breaking the rhythm of Nature’s hold. Ducking both hot metal and heated beans was the only danger the woods held. We learned to overcome this minor intrusion by opening the cans before heating. We quickly fell back under the spell of the adventure. A warm campfire was filled with vivid colours and dreams. Especially ours.

Jimmy would bring his bag of Bull Durham tucked in his shirt pocket. I knew he brought it because the tell tale drawstring from the little bag would hang invitingly over the edge of the pocket.

We learned to roll the Bull Durham in cigarette paper. All the adults I knew rolled their own smokes. Bull Durham, however, was not on the list. Bull Durham was a cowboy’s smoke. Maybe even Woodsmen. We had graduated from smoking pretzels and pulpy twigs. This was the real thing!

Everybody smoked and tailor made cigarettes were just one more luxury of the times. Jimmy and I would learn Bull Durham was substantially different from what the adults rolled.

Bull Durham was like loose tea leaves.Twisting the ends to stop the particles of tobacco from falling out was necessary. Many attempts were made to get the right roll. Jimmy had a head start on me. When lit, the end of the smoke would open up quickly. If you had your head down a moment too long, all the tobacco would slide out leaving burning paper sticking between your lips. Eventually we learned the art.

There we would sit. Sweet smelling smoke from the dancing fire and smoke blown from our noses would mingle and twist with the fall breeze. This was the life. How could anyone not want to live free like we woodsmen enjoying such pleasures?

The ritual of visiting this sanctuary continued for some time. For me it would end soon. Jimmy would continue the experiences into his adult life.
As most every kid would find as they grew up their changing environment, growing life skills and circumstance played heavily in determining where their destiny would take them. With Jimmy it was solid. This was his life. It would remain so forever.

Eventually our paths would part and we would not ever see each other again. More than once on motoring through the Cariboo attempts to find Jimmy failed. People said they just saw him on his way to the back country. I never followed. I see Jimmy. I see Jimmy in my memory. The kid from Clydesdale Street that simply found his chosen place in life without fanfare.

I always liked Jimmy. True to himself and true to his dreams. He became a real cowboy.

You can’t argue with success.

Copyright
RGT>>>>>>>> TO BE CONTINUED

TILL WE MEET AGAIN!

Pssst. Where did you hide the worms?

UFO's OVER CLYDESDALE STREET

UFO's OVER CLYDESDALE STREET
Burnaby B.C. Canada?
THE KIDS ARE BACK! MUST BE!
Introduction
Full Description of event/sighting: We were driving west in the afternoon into Vancouver British Columbia, on the #1 freeway. And in a clear sky overhead and to the south was a black object in the oval shape of a rugby ball! It was not moving and stayed exactly where it was as we approached. It seemed to be about 2000 feet above the ground near our Central Park and about the size of a 747.

Many people pulled off the highway to look at it, including 2 policemen. It did not move at all and was not a balloon or kite. In retrospect, the oval shape could have been a circle shape as viewed from an angle. It seemed like the opening of a round pipe. We rushed home expecting to hear breaking news but nothing was said about it. I can see the area from my apartment and looked with binoculars after getting home but saw nothing and wondered if my angle of view now was parallel with the shape so it would be a straight line if in fact it was a flat opening of some kind like a disk? I would love to hear what it could have been. Additional Information: Brian, thanks for your reply. Please be clear; that I used Photoshop to duplicate as close as I could to show what I saw. My wife saw it as well, and it seemed like it was in the area west of Central Park, south of Kingsway. And could have been about 1000 to 2000 feet up. Our viewing angle was from the #1 freeway. We noticed it somewhere east of Willingdon Ave. interchange. It never appeared to be hovering, or moving at all or affected by wind or anything. It was definitely NOT a balloon or kite. Just solidly stationary in the sky. As if it was a flat plane of black disk, not even an edge to it. Nor did there appear to be any structure or shape to it other than the solid black disk. No light reflected off anything. As we got just past the Willingdon exit, the traffic slowed down and we pulled to the side of the road as others did. There were even two RCMP officers stopped on a side road, (on what I think might be called Clydesdale St. which leads onto Grandview Hwy at Boundary Rd) they were out of their police car looking up at it too. Other traffic had slowed. I passed by and went home, listening to the radio for reports, but there were none. I even expected the 6 PM news to have video. When I got home, I live in a high rise in Vancouver and could see in that direction east, Central Park is directly in my eastern view, I got out my binoculars but could see nothing. I accounted that to the fact that I thought it was a flat object, and from my new view, it would only be a line in the sky if it was still there at all.. The thought did come to mind that it could have been a circular shape, if viewed directly from below, however I never went closer to find that out. When I told some others about it, someone suggested it could have been a "black hole". I DO know what a real black hole is, but that was an apt description of what it appeared like. As if a pipe was there for some reason, and we could only see the hole in the pipe, but not the pipe itself. I wonder if you'd get any interest from the RCMP office near the Gaglardi Way? Caribou Rd exit? I just discovered your website recently so can't exactly recall the month I saw it, and it could have even been 2002. Of course most people just smirk when you tell them and ask if I'm a 'trekkie' too, but it was a phenomenal and unforgettable sight. It would be most interesting to find others who saw it too.
(borrowed from UFO SiteSeer's account - Thanks guys) Hey! Who knows? The Clydesdale Kids may just be watching. There is no doubt their energy remains vigil. A glass of good cognac to all of you.

STILL CREEK & BURNABY LAKE

FOR THE INTERESTED READER ..................

Still Creek and Burnaby Lake has over the years obviously changed with the growth of urban sprawl. The Creek Keepers and the Greater Vancouver Regional District are working together bringing Still Creek and lake into modern day perspective. Unfortunately it won't be the one reflected in chapters herein but still a great move forward to restore waterbasins and creeks with significant value to the environment.

A site worth visiting to understand the complexity of the project are (2) VIDEOS produced by the GVRD on Still Creek Profile #1 & #2

Find at http://vancouver.ca/greaterdot/aboutus.htm

Scroll thru video listed and you will find the two on Still Creek. Enjoy.