Clydesdale kids were captivated by radio.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
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.
CopyrightRGT
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.
CopyrightRGT
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
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 Diack family house was on a large property tucked back from the streeet, 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 Diack'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. They grew up good regardless of any stories. You still never messed with the Diack's for sure. One of the boys became famous in the automobile racing circuit becoming a top notch driver.
Mr. Rice on the other hand was just plain 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. Toooooooo scared.
When Mr Rice wandered up Clydesdale hill to the Red & White to pick up his mail, kids would swarm his yard, chomp on his corn, stomp on his garden, grab fruit from his trees, and run like hell. Whew, everyone always got away. At least I think so.
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. Apparently the Finchum's now reside somewhere in Surrey B.C.
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. Years later we did find out.
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. He had a special way about himself and was always interesting.
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. Every parent had their reasons why kids should only be right-handed.
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. He did not seem to care one way or the other.
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. One of the most amazing people I have ever known. A bright star in our solar system.
Jimmy’s Dad drove a neat black sedan car. A car was considered pretty bold but what did we know. Kids often than not simply accepted circumstance. You had one or you did not.
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 dark 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 well attended vegetable garden and fruit trees.
It was a most beautiful house. The little garage was a most joyous home filled with its warm 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 who called.
The Roulette’s were family too me. I had no brothers or sisters.
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 leans heavily, sagging badly, and stands empty fading with time.
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
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 Diack family house was on a large property tucked back from the streeet, 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 Diack'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. They grew up good regardless of any stories. You still never messed with the Diack's for sure. One of the boys became famous in the automobile racing circuit becoming a top notch driver.
Mr. Rice on the other hand was just plain 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. Toooooooo scared.
When Mr Rice wandered up Clydesdale hill to the Red & White to pick up his mail, kids would swarm his yard, chomp on his corn, stomp on his garden, grab fruit from his trees, and run like hell. Whew, everyone always got away. At least I think so.
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. Apparently the Finchum's now reside somewhere in Surrey B.C.
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. Years later we did find out.
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. He had a special way about himself and was always interesting.
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. Every parent had their reasons why kids should only be right-handed.
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. He did not seem to care one way or the other.
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. One of the most amazing people I have ever known. A bright star in our solar system.
Jimmy’s Dad drove a neat black sedan car. A car was considered pretty bold but what did we know. Kids often than not simply accepted circumstance. You had one or you did not.
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 dark 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 well attended vegetable garden and fruit trees.
It was a most beautiful house. The little garage was a most joyous home filled with its warm 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 who called.
The Roulette’s were family too me. I had no brothers or sisters.
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 leans heavily, sagging badly, and stands empty fading with time.
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
Friday, October 14, 2005
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
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
Monday, August 29, 2005
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.
CopyrightRGT
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.
CopyrightRGT
Sunday, July 31, 2005
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!
CopyrightRGT
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!
CopyrightRGT
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
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
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
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
UFO's OVER CLYDESDALE STREET
UFO's OVER CLYDESDALE STREETBurnaby 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.
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About Me
- Robert (Bobby) Tuss
- Just one of the 'Kids of Clydesdale Street'. The life and times when innocence and wonder filled our days. A reflection on how the generations have changed with time, and more how a little street disappeared resurfacing as a gateway artery to and out of Vancouver British Columbia Canada. Under the asphalt we remain and young dreams, aspirations and passing time mold both our journey and ultimate destiny. Enjoy. Clydesdale Street could be your own street. Anywhere. Your own youth. Your own reality. A great time it was. Kicking stones, make believe, simple pleasures brought happiness and the carefree vision on our world.