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.
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RGT
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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.