RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

 Published!  - KINDLE AMAZON

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Q1P3NAW  

THE COMING TIDE - Burnaby In Change

"Rumble on Clydesdale Street" consists of some 30 chapters in 1st draft. The content is a collection of memorable events, some being amusing, others simply reflective on the life and times of a kid and his neighbourhood. Seen from the eyes of a young child there are moments to laugh with, and, at. 

There are chapters that can be best described as moments of truth and Clydesdale Street forms the basic foundation of the collective thoughts. It is a personal exorcism. A chance to engage honesty when honesty was pure. The fact Clydesdale Street no longer exists gave cause to celebrate early childhood. A chance to give the little street, now buried under the highway of progress, one last ray of sunshine. Everything physical is now lost with time except the asphalt and highway traffic.

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

NOTE* (A personal thank you to Julius (Nugget) Roulette, where after some 50 years we met again. Julius was helpful in jogging the distant memory pool.)Thank you Julius. Enjoy Jimmy - wherever you are. A further heartfelt gratitude to Edward Grenda for his memory input and too Yvonne Twigger for hers. Thank you for sharing your pictures too Yvonne! Tony Pleasants thank you for your class 52 photo.
Robert G. Tuss
- No names have been changed to protect the innocent. Everyone was.
Contact - clydesdalestreet AT gmail.com
*30 Chapters posted ! (as of Sept 8,2022 ) All Material under Copyright

"An Ambush Was In The Making."

PREVIEW CHAPTER - All Chapters in published version on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Q1P3NAW 


11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET
Chapter 1 “An ambush was in the making.”Approaching the front gate commanded inner calm. Fear scrambled over giggling goose bumps. Sensing the unseen, eyes scanned nervously, hair standing like porcupine quills, hearts pounded faster. So fast, panicky feet had no desire to remain still. It never mattered much, whether grown up, or like us little kids, every time the latch clicked it was wise to exercise extreme caution. Moving like rolling thunder it would surely come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RGTCopyright 11/24/02