A Man on a Watch List

If you wanted a chance to be alone with a decent cup of coffee your best bet was the Marine Café.



He’d tied up the boat in Westview harbour and dragged his laundry over to Nelson’s. The goofy deck hand had already run off to do what deck hands do when they’re not at sea. He’d told them they’d be in PR for a couple of days so they’d have time to take care of some business.
He didn’t want to think about business, he didn’t want to think about deck hands or anything else. He just wanted a cup of coffee and some time to himself.
He took the short walk up from the wharf to the Marine Café.

Westview. Townsite . Whatever they call it, the locals knew it as Powell River. He heard there were folks talking amalgamation soon. The town was built on three levels – kind of a metaphor of a working man’s life. Near the water was PR Pulp Mill where the town worked. Halfway up was the hospital where all the life events happened. At the top was the cemetery. Peace and quiet after a long hard life.

His eyes were drawn to the hospital where he’d spent so many unwanted hours. He stared, absorbed, and looked back down the street. He wasn’t always quiet or solitary; in fact, quite the opposite.

But that was then.
Then he was on top, owned two houses, owned two fishing boats, one that he leased out. He was making money and working hard to make more. Two great kids being looked after by a wonderful wife…. That was then.

Kids were with his sister now, up in Surrey. He’d get in to Steveston to unload in a couple of weeks so there’d be time to see them for a few days, then back on the water. Work while the season is on. Halibut, herring, salmon, it didn’t matter. What mattered was work, it was his only way back.
The kids understood, he was pretty sure of that, and they were in good hands. Still, he missed them – a lot.

He stared down at his coffee. They were in good hands, he reminded himself.

Good hands.  He studied his own hands, stained with grease and smelling of diesel. Net cuts and nicks, torn nails, hang nails, calluses and red blisters, a split between his index and middle finger where a splinter from the old gaff hook had dug in deep. He would have to repair that gaff before they sailed again.

He watched his hands as they pinched Imperial tobacco from his pouch and began rolling a smoke. He parked the rollie on his lip and squinted as he struck a match. The first puff was the good one, and he drew in deeply. Through the exhaled smoke he saw a man a few tables away, watching him, studying him.

The man nodded.



“Do I know you?”
“I doubt it,” was the response, and then added “but you’ve probably seen me before.”

Barney squinted through the smoke haze.
“Mind if I join you? I have a story to tell that you might just want to hear.”
Barney motioned him to the chair opposite. The stranger slid into the chair and dropped his fedora onto the chair beside him.

“More coffee fellas?” Asked the waitress. Barney nodded, his guest waved her away.

“Where did you say I’ve seen you before?”
“I don’t know for certain where you saw me, but I can tell you where I saw you.” He began to count off on his fingers. “Hardy, Nanaimo, Victoria, Vancouver, Here, Campbell River… We’ve been watching you for a while now. But it all really began in Rupert.”

“Rupert? Why Rupert? I don’t live in Rupert.”
“UFAWU. You joined around ‘48, same year that Commie Homer Stevens was elected as Secretary-Treasurer. Damn that guy is a troublemaker. But I know you already know that. You probably voted for him. You joined the Prince Rupert Fisherman’s Cooperative around the same time”
“So?”
“So we were watching him – and those organizations. And you. For the good of the country.”
“Who is we?”



“BCPP. I served for more than twenty years. Special Investigations. Took my retirement when the RCMP took over in ’50. Big mistake, in my opinion, to bring in Federals to do the province’s job. You need BC people to look after BC affairs. People in BC will come to regret that decision if you ask me. We need to keep track of undesirables – just in case.” He smiled, but narrowed his eyes.

“Why such a fuss over me? I’m just a fisherman.”
“Yeah, and Stevens is just a bureaucrat. Sure.” The stranger smiled, never taking his eyes off Barney.
Barney was taking some time to digest what he had just been told. This man, this “agent”, had followed him up and down the coast because he was a member of the United Fisherman’s Union? So were a lot of people. Why him?
“Why me?”

“I was wondering when you’d ask,” the stranger smiled. “Your name came up on a form.”
“A form? What kind of form?”

“A request for Citizenship. Do you remember a deckhand you had a few years ago – last name Olsen? Pretty sure it was Olsen. Norwegian fellow – no family, real loner who had moved here from Norway after the war.”

“Pretty sure we just called him ‘Oly’.”
“Yeah, you remember him. Worked for you for about 18 months. Left when he got a job working for Mac'n'Blo in Alberni.”

“Haven’t seen him since.”
“He’s still there – or was last time I checked.”

“So, what’s this form all about? How does it involve me?”
“In your Declaration for Citizenship you need to come up with names of Citizens of the Dominion of Canada who can vouch for you. This guy has nobody so he puts down his boss - you, and another deck hand he’d just met in a beer parlour in Rupert.”

“So, what about Homer Stevens?”
“Well that’s the good part and that’s where our paths begin to cross. One of the questions asks who you’d like to see become the Prime Minister of Canada.”
“And?”
“And young Oly puts down ‘Homer Stevens’, Secretary Treasurer of the UFAWU and a suspected member of the Communist Party of Canada.”

Barney stared down at his smoldering cigarette. “Oly didn’t know his ass from the Queen.” Barney paused. “He probably put Stevens’ name down because that was the only important name he knew.”

The stranger snorted. “Important.”
Barney ignored that. He liked Stevens, admired him for the work he’d done, just a fisherman from Ladner who understood working men could get fairer treatment if they stuck together. Sacrificed a lot for others. “So, because I’m on the same form, our names…”

“Your names got linked together. Exactly. I was given your file for observation and report. You weren’t the only one, but I have to tell you, the UFAWU have sure been doing a lot of rabble rousing.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”

“What would you call it then?”
“Organizing.”
The stranger smiled again. “Maybe I put away your file too soon.”

 

“Look, all I know is that cannery workers right here in PR have more money to feed their families now, and that fishermen are getter better prices for their catch. I call that progress.”

“Sounds like you and Uncle Joe from Russia are real cozy. No surprise to find you in this hot bed of pinkos. You know you were here when those mill workers thumbed their noses at the banks and started the first Credit Union back in ‘39? Coincidence?” He stared hard now. “Communists are going to ruin this country if they get their way. Your UFAWU is doomed, by the way. The Labour Congress will never let them join – too pink even for that crooked outfit. Mark my words, I know a thing or two about the Labour Congress. You guys are out there on your own.”



Barney looked at the remains of his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“I’m not telling you anything. We never talked, we never met.” He picked up his had and slid out of the chair. “You don’t even know my name.”

Barney watched as the stranger drifted to the door of the café. Stared at his back as the little bell above the door signalled his departure. He looked back down at his hands, watched his fingers move back to the tobacco pouch and expertly pinch and roll another cigarette.
His day has taken on a different hue. Had he really been watched? Observed?

The past four years went by in a blur. Had he done anything that would put him on some kind of watch list? Mostly all he had done is try to put his life back into some kind of order.
Bowe’s Hardware was just down the road. He’d stop in there and pick up a few things for the boat, maybe a new handle for that faulty gaff hook. Foodland Grocery was on Marine, too. He’d head up there and get some fresh supplies for the next trip.
If the Springs hit a good run outside Cape Mudge he wouldn’t want to put in for anything until he absolutely had to. He had heard it was going to be a good run this year. That would help things a lot. He’d keep busy.
It’s what he knew he had to do.
No matter who was watching.



http://vancouversun.com/news/local-news/canada-150/canada-150-fisherman-homer-stevens-became-fearless-fighter-for-working-british-columbians

Alberni Elementary - First Day of School

Joe(y) 's first day of school

Summer was the same as winter - except it was warmer.  School was a far off inevitability, not something to waste time thinking about.  Not when you could ride your bike, make a sling shot, play road hockey, build a fort….

Besides, how hard could grade one be?  Nobody I knew was too concerned about it, I could read just fine, and besides, my older sister had already been to school and she seemed unaffected.

On a rare summer day in late August I was stuck indoors, dad was home, and the TV was working.  Two big hat cowboys were fighting in a bar, swinging wildly to try and land a good one.

“That’s not how you punch somebody,” dad muttered.  He had my attention.  To not give dad your attention had its consequences anyway, but this was somehow different.  I sensed a truth was about to be revealed.

“You don’t swing wildly like that; you get up really close, make your fist like a hammer, and bring it down hard on the nose.  BAM.  You only need about four inches.”

I filed it away for the future.  A kid can never know when something as important as the hammer punch might come in handy.

Elementary school was a thousand miles from where we lived.  It seemed to take forever to walk to school.  But it was the end of the baby boom so the vast swarms of children funneling to the school made it pretty easy to find.

I expected to go straight to my classroom and start in on my school career.  Nobody told me there was a delay where we waited outside for the teachers to let us in.  Nobody told me about the milling around time.  I shuffled from clump to clump identifying kids I knew, seeing who was there.

Before long one clump was attracting a lot of attention.  Three older boys (“grade three’ers” whispered one of my friends) were teasing a boy (“a grade one’er”) for wearing two different coloured socks under his shorts.  An older boy came to his defense and some pushing began.
I sensed what was about to happen before it did; the defending hero took a wild swing at the grade three bully and was met with a palm to the face that effectively knocked him over.

“That’s not how you punch somebody,” I told myself, crossed the four steps to the bully, lifted up my hammer fist about four inches over the nose, and BAM.

Dad was right.  I did only need about four inches.

I didn’t expect the blood that came pouring out.

I didn’t expect the weird slow motion silence that followed.

I had no idea who was lifting me up off the ground and carrying me away.
“You sit here until the Principal comes to see you,” said a voice from above.

So I sat on a bench while school went about its business.  Kids filed into classes, doors closed and the building hummed with an excitement I could only wonder about.

Eventually a door opened and a man I had never seen before stood over me.  “Are you here to see me?” he asked.

I had never seen this man before.  Why would I want to see him now?
“No,” I answered.

The man went back into his office.  I went back to sitting.
Adults drifted past, some went into the office the man had come from.

“Did I not tell you to wait here for the Principal?” said a voice from above.

“Yes.”  Seemed like an odd question.

“Then why did you lie to me when I asked you?” asked the man from the office.

Now I knew that when I went to school I would meet my teacher.  I had no idea of the purpose or role of a "Principal".  So I was not lying.  But they didn’t see it that way.
“I dunno,” was about all I could muster.

“Then you will just sit there until I tell you to leave.”
The school continued to hum.  I continued to sit.

Eventually the “Principal” told me to come into his office and sit down.  He talked to me about hitting and fighting and being a good neighbour, or at least I assume he did.  I remember nothing about what was said.  He took me to my classroom (finally) and we arrived just as the bell rang for Recess.  My teacher told me to go back out on the playground with the rest of the kids.

Within moments of setting foot back on the playground I heard other grade three’ers asking “Are you Joey?” (Our teacher always tried to tack on the “Y” at the end of our names.  It was stupid.  And it wasn’t fair.  Dick – Dicky, Joe – Joey, but not Darren or Hannah. )  They found me pretty fast and I was pretty scared.  “Come with us Joey,” said one of them, “we like how you stuck up for our cousin.  We’re your protectors.”

I was kind of glad that I had worn long pants that day.  Nobody could see I, too, was wearing two different coloured socks.

Pancakes, Prune Plums, and Pat

“Bye Mom.  I’m going to Kenny’s to play.”
“Joe?”
I froze.
Usually the response was, “Be home for dinner,” or, “get home before the streetlights come on,” or, more frequently, “make sure you do your (insert chore here) first.”
Something in her tone made me dread the next sentence to come out of her.
“Take your brother with you.”
My heart sank.  Bill would have been fine to take with me; he could keep up with anything I did.  But he was off riding on Kristin’s oversized bike and was already up to his own activities.  Tony was around, but he could barely walk, and no way would mom want him out of the house all day.  Lloyd was in the navy, we guessed.  That meant....
“You know which one.”
Inwardly I groaned.  Pat was a moaner.  He walked slowly, he was methodical, he was always complaining about something, and he was always hungry.  Balancing what I wanted to do and having Pat along.  This was going to be tough.  But I really had no choice.
First stop in my day’s was getting to Kenny T’s place early enough to read some comics and listen to his Beatle records.  He had two: Twist and Shout featuring She Loves you, and Beatlemania. And he had a portable record player in his room, but his mom always wanted him to play the Beatle records on the hi-fi in the living room so she could sing along.  She always drowned out John on “Anna” and sang some weird harmony on “PS I Love You”.  That was okay, because she would quiet down for the rockers like “Little Child” and “It Won’t be Long” so Kenny and I could pretend we were the singers.  I guess Pat would have to be Ringo today.
But wait – he doesn’t have a bike.  It’s going to take forever to walk there.
Plus he was making it clear he didn’t want to go.  Mom was making it clear he was going.  We all knew how that was going to end, but he put up a good fight anyway, and finally, lower lip set firmly in its usual place, and in danger of sunburn, he followed me down North Morgan Crescent to my friend Kenny’s place.
By the time we got there the T’s were just getting out of bed.  Their family was not much like our family.  They were more “modern”, and both parents spoke a weird dialect. It  to me like “Hay de Bree de Bray” and until I read a poem on their kitchen wall by Robbie Burns I had no idea they were Scottish and were actually speaking to me in English.
(Would this look like English to any nine year old you know?)

“Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.”

Mom said Robbie Burns and I shared the same birthday so I figured me and the T’s had a connection.
But we were in luck –
“Aye byes, wou' ye be haeing a wee bit o' breaky?” We would. Yippee!
Mrs. T eyed my brother.  “And who’s dis? Wassyer name laddie bucko?”
Pat stared.
“Pat,” I told her.
“Commin’ sit den. So Paddie boy, dy’a fancy pancakes?”
His eyebrows rose at the one word he understood.  He nodded, face full of hope that he had understood the alien.
“We’d love some pancakes, thank you Mrs T.”  I could smell sausages.  This was going to be better than I had hoped.
Mrs T cooked an entire batch of pancakes for Kenny, Pat, me and Mrs T.  We ate sausages and poured real syrup out of a bottle.  Mrs T made sure Pat had syrup over his entire first plate of pancakes, an act that made him instantly trust her for life and would prove to be a costly mistake for her.  He demolished the plate of pancakes, head down over the plate, working the edges into the syrup, forkful after forkful.
“An-aw-ther pancake den?”
Pat nodded.
“Yes, please,” I politely added on his behalf.
He polished the next one off before the plate of cooked ones could be evenly distributed to the rest of us at the table.  Mrs T smiled and it was clear she “fancied” him; she dropped another on his plate.  Pat got to work; it was gone in seconds.  More cakes on the griddle, I could see them, pretty sure Pat could, too.  Two cakes on his plate this time, he quickened his pace, soldiering on.
Kenny had left the table after his two pancakes and two links of sausage.  Into the kitchen came Mr T,  or “Da” as Kenny called him.
“Marnin’ Derlin’.  Hey there Joey-bye,” he grinned at me.  “ And hooze da little’un den?”
“That’s my brother, Pat,” I told him.  Pat never looked up from his plate.
“Das a fine name dere Paddy bye.  I was afraed we had a skimler in da house.”
“He’s et aboot eight cakes and still not funnerd!” smiled Mrs T.
“Aye – no supraise.  The mintit he’s foond is yer cookin’, love.”
Then they started smooching in the kitchen.  I suddenly felt transported to a foreign country and really wanted Pat to finish up.  I didn’t want to stay in the kitchen, and I didn’t want to leave Pat alone.  Pat kept on eating, and eating.  Mrs T made a second batch of batter to feed her husband, more sausages
(hmmm - maybe I will stay a few more minutes) and Pat continued to eat.  Mr T was funnerd (filled up), Pat continued on.  Mrs T smiled and cooked, Paddy-bye ate and ate until the end of the second batch.
Mrs T told us to get out so she could clean the kitchen.  It was time to move on.  Our work was done here.  No Beatles, but the day was getting shorter.
Kenny and I guessed there would be kids at Colin’s place around the corner.  He had a great yard; big lawn, fruit trees lining the edges, and fences to keep the ball from rolling out onto the road.  There was a wooden picnic table under the trees on the east side of the yard that gave shade, and a garden hose with a nozzle that within seconds of a twist would pour out cold water.  Great locale for the many games of soccer, scrub baseball and touch football that went on there.
Today the game was soccer.  Lots of the older kids were there so the quality of the game would be a higher level.   Oh how I wanted to play.  But what about Pat?
“Pat’s on my team,” I declared as we entered the yard.  I figured I could put him on defense, tell him to kick the ball anywhere and I could cover for him.  The guys were pretty decent and wouldn’t knock him down or anything.  I figured I could get in a good game and keep him interested, or at least placated for a good while.
I figured wrong.
Within minutes Pat began to moan that he wanted to go home now.  Home was a long walk away, and even if i hurried the game might be over by the time I was able to get back, even if I rode a bike on the return.   Besides, there was every chance that Mom hadn’t had enough of a holiday from him yet and might just send him back out with me.  No game and more Pat was a real possibility.  It was too great a risk.
“Come on, Pat,” I pleaded in my most reassuring tones,” just try playing for a while.”
Head down, eyes widening, bottom lip pushing further and further out; I’d seen it a million times.  “Here it comes,” I thought.
His wail stopped the game cold.  Every player turned to see who had been shot.
Colin summed up the situation in a flash.  He brought Pat over to the picnic table where he showed him a box of toys to play with while we went on with the game.  Brilliant.  And it worked.  For a little while.
But before long he was wandering back onto the pitch to again plead with me to take him home.  Before he could get to where I was an errant ball landed squarely on his face.  The ball bounced away and once again the game stopped – this time to wait for the wail we all knew was coming.  And it came.  Righteous three year old anger boiled up from little boy hell and exploded out of his mouth.  I was completely distraught.  Here was my little brother in my charge and I had completely failed him.
Again Colin came to the rescue, this time with a huge box of prune plums he had picked earlier.  He had Pat’s attention.  What he didn’t have was a grasp of what Pat saw in that massive box of plums.
“Here, have some plums little guy,” translated into, “Here, annihilate at least half a box of these delicious fruits,” which he promptly set about to do, stifling the occasional sob along the way.
When the game ended (usually when one of the older kids hollered “next goal wins”) I headed over to the picnic table to collect my charge.  I estimated he had eaten over a third of the crate of plums.  I offered to help Colin pick more to compensate, but I am sure he did the same mental math that I had done: (Help picking plums vs having Pat continue to eat and the likelihood of Pat remaining calm much longer); he demurred.
It seemed to take less time to walk home, my little brother’s steps lighter as we headed up Compton Avenue past Jack’s Store.  He was holding his own as we turned onto North Morgan, and might have been a step ahead of me as we crossed Bishop.
When we arrived I skimmed over the details of our day with Mom, duly reported with great detail the three goals I had scored, including one where I head faked Marino B out of position and side footed the ball in easily.  I’m not sure she heard all the details.
I told her about Pat’s ball in the face incident, carefully explaining how it wasn’t my fault.  She checked him over looking past the caked syrup on the corners of his cheeks and the plum stains on his chin.
“Are you hungry?” She asked.
“Uh-huh,” said my brother and took his place at the table.
funnerd - filled up
skimler - leech, bum, hobo.  Mr T told us to never go the path o' the skimler
mintit - something good!

Joe takes his first trip without family

When we lived on Second Avenue our vehicle was a panel truck.  The outside was primer red and the inside smelled like wet cedar.  I think it was a Ford.
It had one seat for the driver, a kitchen chair for the passenger and wood stumps in the back for people to sit on.  By people, of course, I mean us kids.
Whenever my dad got behind the wheel I studied his every move and stored the information in my four year old brain: close the door, put in the key, press the black button that made the engine go, lean out the window to look for cars, spin the steering wheel.  That was called driving.  It was so easy he could even do it while smoking.  (Dad could do anything)
All the streets in Port Alberni were hilly, some more than others.  Our house on 2^nd Avenue was one place where you could park your car (panel van) on the street and fully expect to find it in the same location when you returned.
Our house was also in an area with lots of kids and lots of stay at home moms (and more than a few underemployed or shift-working dads) around to keep an eye on things.  We played outside because there was far less to do indoors and more kids to do it with outdoors.  We played, tagged, chased and explored, taught each other how to ride bikes, catch and pass a ball, and get off the street when a car came by.  We played “house”, and one day we played “car”.

The panel van had a sliding door that was very easy to open.  I climbed in and stood on the floor slightly to the left of the steering wheel.  I knew the drill: close the door (already done), put in the key (, no key, move on) press the black button that made the engine go (yep, made the engine sound), lean out the window to look for cars (too short, skip that step), spin the steering wheel (done).  That was me driving.  It was so easy I could even do it while smoking (but that was for older people like Mom and Dad and my oldest sister).
What now?
Repeat the steps.
Eventually I found that just pressing the black button gave me the noise and sensation of driving I wanted.  It also gave me the full attention of the kids in the neighbourhood.  The panel slide door was still open and kids were climbing in two and three at a time.  Some wanted to take the wheel but their attempts were met by a stern direction to “go sit down”.  The boy from two doors away, six year old Wolfgang, (I always called him Foxgang, I don’t know why) took his place in the kitchen chair beside me effectively becoming my co-pilot / navigator.

I could see a little over the dashboard and enough out the tops of the windows to know that the black button was making the panel truck jump ahead bit by bit.  I could see my passengers all carefully seated on their stump chairs at the back, wide eyed, quiet.  Pleasure of driving began to grow inside me as “grunk” after “grunk” of starter noise lurched the truck down the road, tiny bit by tiny bit.
The hill on 2^nd Avenue was gentle, at first, and wouldn't really begin for several dozen feet from where we were.  The sight of that slope was enough for my co-pilot / navigator Wolfgang to bolt the truck.  He had figured out what I could not even see.
“I’m telling,” he yelled.
I ignored him.
In a flash the driver door has flung open (good I can check for cars now) and a woman only vaguely known to me is telling me to get out.  Actually she is telling us all to get out.  My passengers fled and I ran the twenty feet or so back to my house to complain that Foxgang’s mom had kicked me out of the truck.
I never did learn how to smoke, but I did learn how to drive.

Late night visitor

Dateline Port Alberni, approximately 1:55 am, summer 1958
Second Avenue
I awoke to the sound of the front door opening.  A late night visitor was not unusual.  Relatives often arrived late after a long travel day.  Earlier in the year a taxi driver had walked into the house at night asking who ordered a cab, and Dad would often come in late after working a shift, “Go back to sleep,” so I was not unprepared.  The front room / living room was where I slept so guard duty just came naturally. The others were all asleep somewhere deep in the house.  Mom, Dad, Duree, Lloyd, Kristin and Regina, sleeping the sleep of the well-guarded.
Through the bars of my crib I sized up this new visitor.  Didn’t look like family.
About six two, medium build, adult but not old, slicked back oily black hair, dark dark eyes that darted around the room, leaning back against the wall beside the door and breathing unevenly in the half light.
     All my life my friends have told me how much they loved coming to our place for meal times, how they were always made to feel welcome by my parents, how they were always fed and treated immediately like they belonged at our table. 
     Family, extended family, friends of family, if it was meal time it simply meant how many potatoes to boil or how many eggs to fry.
     We had all been at other people's houses during the hushed ritual of whispering about dinner.  It always began around four thirty and continued until it was established that the “guest” was not staying to eat.  Whispering was the preferred mode of conversation; it ensured the intended object would be paying close attention to the impending shortfall of foodstuffs and leave the premises within the half hour.
     But not at our house.  Meals at the Ogmundsons included every kind of dinner guest, even people who insulted the cooking (“Jeezus that’s too much salt, that could put a kid right off chicken soup.), people we didn’t much like, people we hardly knew and people we had just met. 
Somehow this guy was different.  He barely even noticed me, glanced over the room and headed to the kitchen on his left.  I could hear more than see him now as he rummaged around the room.  The noise he made caused a stir in another room and brought on a light that flooded the kitchen.
“Who’s there?” it was my Dad’s voice.
Immediately the man scrambled through the drawers and pulled out a large kitchen knife (“Put that away!  That’s not a toy,” I could hear Mom's voice inside my head.)
“Who’s there?”
Dad entered the room as the man turned, holding the kitchen knife between them.

Dad gently stopped his approach.  It took him only a moment to assess and evaluate.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “How about a cup of tea and something to eat?
The man didn’t move, said nothing.
“Honey,” Dad called out to my mother, “can you come and fry us up a couple of eggs?  Fried egg sandwich sound okay?”
No response.
Mom came to the room and stood behind Dad.  The man shifted his position, backed away slightly, enough to allow Mom to move towards the stove.  He kept the knife and Dad between himself and Mom.  Mom pulled her housecoat tighter around her and went to work, never making eye contact with the strange man in her kitchen.
Before long the familiar smell of eggs filled the rooms.  The kettle was boiling. “Do you take any milk in your tea?”
The men began eating, hunkered down over their sandwiches, inches from their plates, wordless while they ate.
“How about another?”  I noticed for the first time that the man was holding his sandwich with two hands, knife on the table.
“Sure.”
Kind of a grunt.  Didn’t say “please”.
Mom was back in action.  Two more sandwiches, once again the two men ate in silence.
The man gulped his tea, Dad sipped.
Low voices, short conversation, quiet tones.
Eventually the man got up from the table, nodded at my Dad, half nodded at my Mom, backed through the kitchen, turned and went out through the front door.
Dad looked at me.  “Go back to sleep,” he said and turned out the light.

Baltimore Catechism in the Age of Beatles: The Big Reveal

"How come Lloyd doesn't have to go to Catechism?"
"He goes to Smith Memorial.  The nuns teach him that stuff there."
Oh.  Smith Memorial was a long ways from where we lived in North Port.  It was in South Port.  I didn't want to have to walk there every day.  I was seven.  I had other stuff to do after school.
Father Wilfred was going to teach us catechism - Saturday mornings until confirmation.  I already had my saint name picked out - Saint Gerard.  I heard he could communicate with animals and that was pretty neat.  Plus Gerard was my brother Pat's middle name so that just fit perfectly.
I was kind of disappointed that Father Wilfred was the teacher.  He was kind and gentle, but of the two priests, Father Siggy was the cool one; younger, louder, more hip, big fan of the Montreal Canadiens like me.
Day one we were given a special book: The St. Joseph Baltimore Catechism. We were told (very slowly and gravely) to not read ahead.

The book format was a kind of call and response; inside the cover the first page had a simple question. This was to spark thoughts and discussion.  But not too much thought, this was, after all, the Catholic Church.  Turn the page to see the (correct) answer on page two and the second question on page three.  There were pictures.
Page one (Father Wilfred's tired voice): "Who made me?" Excellent Question.  I think I had that one down.  I was pretty sure Father Wilfred meant me and not him.  I had no idea who made him nor was I too interested in finding out.  Turn the page and discover...
"God made me."  Oh.  OK.  Big picture of a bearded white-haired man with fluffy clouds all around.
I have to admit that one threw me off balance.  I was hoping for a little more of a personal approach to finding out who made me.  After all, this catechism thing was designed to help kids answer some pretty important questions.
Page three: (Father Wilfred's tired voice talking about the Father and the Creator and such and then  - "How did God Make Me?"
Now there was a question!  How did he do it?  Pretty amazing work, if you ask me.  How the heck did he do it? What's the secret?  I couldn't wait to turn the page.  But I resisted the temptation; at the core I was an obedient sort.  I could whine with the best of them but in the end I always relented.  Why fight the power?

Father Wilfred was giving us time to ponder.  It didn't help me much.  My mind was screaming.  I had to know.  How did God make me?  What were his methods, his tools, his recipes?  Come on Father Wilfred, Father Siggy wouldn't have made us wait so long.... Father Wilfred was talking, I  was not listening.
At last the big reveal.  When I turn this page I will know all!  I will know God's secrets about how I was made.  This was going to be good.
Tired voice, "Turn the page children."
Answer: "God made me in His image and likeness."
Ok hold on a minute....  I turned back to that picture on page two of the bearded white haired man in the clouds.  Image and likeness?  Likeness?  Him?  Me?
Where were the secret methods, the special tools?
My mind drifted.  There were more questions, more answers.  I don't remember any of them.  I guess I could look them up if I wanted.

Speaking of putting that one back - any chance of hearing Bill tell the story of the magazine in the trunk of the car?

Grandma explains "Tommy" by the Who

https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLmM6ydeRTm-TqNZeB-S2JghvuAyp1g7zp&feature=share

click the link above and listen as you read the story below.

About a year after we moved from the city to then-rural Chilliwack, a friend got me a weekend job cleaning the Dairy Queen on Saturday night.  The manager was a terrific boss who let me come in any time before Sunday opening to do my four hours of cleaning.  He invited me to help myself to sodas and Dilly Bars while I worked. This was great for me.  It meant I could play high school sports out of town and still come back late to do my cleaning.  It also meant I had a few bucks in my bank account.

One of my first purchases was a big boxy record player - mono HiFi - that I bought at a second hand store in Seattle on a trip with cousin Mark and Aunt Betty.  Five bucks and I had a musical world awaiting me. The next order of business was to purchase, with very limited funds, quality records. Records were never bought at the store for full price.  Sales,  deleted issues, used records and the Columbia Record Club.  All albums had to have more than one "hit" or I wouldn't buy them, and "Best of" records were a premium buy.

My Columbia record selection in early fall was the Rock Opera "Tommy".  I hadn't heard the record in its entirety but I had heard enough of it to know it would meet my qualifications for purchase, plus it was a double album for same price as a regular. The day it arrived mom handed it to me and said, "Why don't you take this next door and listen to it with your Grandma?"

Huh? 

Grandma hated rock music (or "infernal racket" as she often called it).  She once told me to turn off George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" on Boxing Day (it was a valued gift from a school friend), adding "awful, awful, eeccchhh" for emphasis.  Of note, she seemed fine with the "Hallelujah" early chorus, her negative reaction came during the "Hare Krishna" late chorus.  I wasn't convinced the music appreciation visit was a good idea.

My mind raced through the selections I would be sharing with her:
Fiddle About - wicked Uncle Ernie, yikes!
The Acid Queen - I don't want to have to explain what that is or how I know...
And all that "See Me - Feel Me - Touch Me - Heal Me" bordered on an interpretation of religion my sixteen year old head was not prepared to entertain with my devoutly Catholic Grandmother.

"Mom, I don't think Grandma is going to want to listen to this."
"Try her."
I tucked my new record under my arm and headed next door to ask my beloved Grandma if she wanted to listen to my new record with me. "It's the Rock Opera Tommy by the Who." Her eyebrow raised at the word "opera". 
"Bring it in."

I carefully cut the protective plastic and examined the photo contents for objectionable pictures of Fiddling or Acid Queens, and placed the needle on the record, held my breath and waited ready to stop the music at a moment's notice.
"This is the overture," she said," where you will hear little bits of the each song in the opera."
I did not know that.  Suddenly I was hearing bits of each song - Pinball Wizard, Go to the Mirror, See Me, Feel me, We're not Gonna Take it, Ernie, I'm Free... My head was tingling. 
"this is called an aria" 
"he's a tenor but the other one was an alto"
"it would seem the composer is also the librettist and a main performer" .... 

Grandma had explained The Who to me, Grandma had explained opera to me. 

 "See, here, we heard that horn section early in the Overture."  And she was buried in the story line about the English military man who came home after the war to a completely changed life.
We had tea, listened to the opera in its entirety, and I learned I could hold my breath for 3:30 (Acid Queen).

I managed to sneak in a washroom break while Uncle Ernie fiddled about.

Upon reflection, I should not have been so surprised.  Grandma had introduced me to Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Kingston Trio.  She loved melody, she loved a good story, "Tommy" had all of that.  What it didn't have, I suppose, was lot of Hare Krishna choruses.

Rollin' and Tumblin' and Dief the Chief

Who among us hasn't fallen out of the family car? My fall happened while rounding the crescent in Alberni.  I was about five and it knocked me out.  The car in question was a blue Monarch vintage about 1947.  It had a shakey catch on the rear passenger seat.  By shakey I mean that if you leaned on it the door would open.  Needless to say I must have leaned on it. I woke up to a late night TV screen  full of John Diefenbaker. "That's the Chief," Dad said.  "He's the boss.  And he's from the west like us."  He looked wrinkly. Dad worked on that latch but it was another car that ReGina fell out of.  We were on the way to Courtenay, and she was sitting beside me.  The car was pretty full.  Mom sat between Lloyd and Dad in the front seat, the rest of us were piled into the back.  Dad often had a hand rolled tobacco heater stuck to his top lip.  The carbon monoxide and the long winding road made me dizzy.  Dizzy and bored....and very inattentive. In my right ear I could hear my sister's voice," I'm going to count to three and we are going to be a Grandma's.  One, two, three...."  the door opened and my little sister flew away. Through the rush of air I could see her all bundled up in her thick wooolen coat, rolling, rolling shoes flying off her feet. "Barney!!" Mom screamed. "Jeeezus," he replied and pulled over. I knew where she was.  I could go get her.  I could go bring her back. As I leaned out of the door a firm hand met my face. "Get back in the car," said Lloyd. "But..." "Stay here." I don't recall if it was Dad or Lloyd who carried her back to us.  I do know they could only find one of her shoes.  I remember Mom's hands over her face the whole time. "You sit here, " ordered Lloyd, and I did, with my  back to the door the whole rest of the trip.  Her oversized heavy woolen coat had protected my sister from serious injury.  Bumps and scrapes and one lost shoe.

Joe's Letter to Dad - Age 7

Dear Dad, I hope you like my picture about the radar.  Mum says it is pretty good.  Last Sunday I got a nail in my foot.  It hurt a bit and it started to bleed a little.  On Saturday we had a baseball game at school.  Our team lost 20-7 and there were ten year olds on the opposite team.  I didn't even make it to first base, but it was fun anyhow.  I hope you will be back soon. Love Joe

Lloyd Joins the Navy

Lloyd was bigger than life. Lloyd played left field for Smith Memorial baseball team. Lloyd rode a Harley for thirty years - without a licence. Lloyd had a satellite TV system with two parabolic dishes in his back yard  and motor controls inside. Lloyd had a fishing boat, was in a consortium, and was a skilled under water welder. Lloyd would rarely announce his intentions to visit - Lloyd would arrive. Lloyd didn't use the door on North Morgan Crescent - he came into our room  through the window. Lloyd left home to join the Navy. I was there the night he decided to go.... In our home, as in so many others, certain phrases tended to be linked: "How many eggs you want - Two? Three"  Next kid "how many eggs...." "You want to cry? -  I'll give you something to cry about." "You're bored? -  I'll find you something to do." "Come and give me a hand - Go help your father" This could be an invitation to anything from unloading the groceries for ten minutes to splitting wood for an entire day.  On this particular drizzly cold November night it meant holding the light so Dad could work on the Monarch. I learned a lot holding the light.  Dad was a good teacher, patient and excited.  I learned also to not take the "Gawd - Damm Sunuvabitch of a Gawd - Damm Sunuvabitch" cusses personally.  I learned those were directed primarily at inanimates like stuck nuts or unreachable bolts.  Instead, I learned about how things worked, about how one could take broken pieces of other things (bent nails, unmatched screws, old motor mounts) and make them fit into new roles as saviour pieces of the very thing we were working on.  My daughter refers to this talent as "Joe -ing it up." My role was to hold the light at the end of the extension cord just below the socket where the bare light bulb was.  I stood on a kitchen chair outside in the driveway holding the light in a way that allowed Dad to see the work he was doing.  I knew from my six years of life experience that  the bulb would be hot.  It was fun to catch drops of rain on the hot bulb and listen to the sizzle, but Dad told me to stop and put his head back down under the hood in the bowels of the Monarch's motor. Lloyd approached.  I sensed a change in his demeanor I had never seen before.  Lloyd was swagger.  Lloyd was confidence.  Tonight Lloyd was tentative. "Dad, I want to quit school." Dad had told Lloyd he needed to be a dentist.  Lloyd should be a lawyer.  They make a lot of money, don't go work at the mill, you'll get stuck there. "Go talk to your mother." "I did.  She said it was up to you." "What do you want to do instead?" "I want to join the Navy." "Let me think about it." The Navy.  My mind swelled with thoughts of sailing around the world.  Sunny days on the deck as the lookout, wind whipping through my hair, eyes squinting on the horizon searching for pirates and enemy boats.  Sailing into electric harbours alive with singing and bands welcoming us home .... The Navy....wow... Lloyd's going to be in the Navy..... "Joe?" came the soft voice of my father.  "Can you see what I'm doing here?" "No Daddy." "Then how the hell do you think I can???!!!" I dropped the light and heard the bulb glass shatter.  I caught the electric fizzle of sparks in the corner of my eye as I leapt from my kitchen chair.  I banged the prop rod on the way down and felt the thud of the hood on my father's back.  I hid in my room for a long time but nobody came to find me. Lloyd was not there either.  I made a mental note to ask him about the Navy when he crawled in through the window later that night.  I never did ask him. About a year later Lloyd sent me a football for my birthday.

The Batting Coach

Our house was modestly sized with an unusual amount of residents. Across the street from our house was an immodest house with an unusual but small assortment of residents.  The owner was, at the time of this story, my Dad's boss.  He owned the  contract to maintain several grounds and properties, including Port Alberni's cemetery.  Dad worked for a short while for Mr H. and was employed by him during the following event. Mr H. had a wife, a large hovering woman with big hair and wringing hands.  She watched carefully over Mr H. and regularly entertained an assortment of similar looking women who were frequent and highly opinionated visitors.   I assumed they might be her sisters, but I didn't ever ask.  Her mission in life was to watch over Frankie. Frankie was always overdressed for the weather, Frankie always carried a handkerchief, Frankie only deigned to eat certain foods and happily eschewed anything not on his select list of palatables.  Frankie was not prone to doing things on his own or without close adult supervision.  Frankie was not an athlete. Bill and I were on the road between our houses playing a game we invented.  We had a partly broken baseball bat and a baseball glove that had three large fingers and a  tiny patch of worn leather connecting the thumb.  The one with the glove tossed the ball to the batter who tapped out a grounder back to the gloved one.  After a while roles switched and we traded equipment.  Even at four years old Bill could hold his own in this and any other game I dragged him into. We stopped and moved aside so Mr H. could drive his car into his driveway.  Dad was his passenger.  They were talking. After dinner Dad asked me if I could show Frankie how to hit a baseball.  Frankie's dad had seen us playing our grounder game but was more intrigued by the "Hit the Bat - Catch a Fly - You're up" game he had also seen us playing.  Apparently Frankie had explained to him that he wasn't playing because he couldn't hit a baseball and, well, if your son could just give him a few pointers.... Dad had no idea what he was asking.  I tried, without success, to explain what a hopeless failure Frankie was at anything requiring hand-eye coordination.  Finally I agreed and said I would help him out next chance I got. Frankie's dad hurried the process along.  Within a few days Frankie emerged from his house, freshly scrubbed, hair combed, over dressed and gripping tightly a new bat, which he held by the wrong end, and a brand new baseball.  His mother's face occupied the second floor window.  I took a long breath as I headed over to meet him. The bat felt good in my hands.  You didn't have to hold it in any special way to avoid splinters, it had a solid but light weight.  I wanted to try it first so I convinced Frankie I needed to break it in for him.  Bill gave him our glove to hold and moved back to catch a few pop ups and field some grounders.  After standing part way between us Frankie moved back to where Bill was and did a good job of staying out of his way.  Shortly we were joined by Marty S who lived three houses away. Bill took a turn, Marty took a turn, and then it was time for Frankie to try. Up to now we had been tossing the ball to ourself and swinging lightly to the fielders.  Frankie tried.  He really did.  Mrs. H. remained fixed and ready in her observation post as Frankie repeatedly tossed the ball in the air and waved the bat harmlessly over it, under it, after it, before it, but never actually at it.  anyone who has played Hit the Bat or 500 Up knows how boring this can be for a trio of eager fielders holding a brace of trusty gloves. We decided to try having Frankie hold the bat with two hands and one of us would pitch to him.  Hopeless. "Show me how," he asked. "Step over there."  I swung the bat slowly around to demonstrate the range.  "Don't come any closer." I held the ball on my shoulder with my right hand.  I tossed the ball in the air just over my head with my left hand and moved my hand up to the bat to grip and swing.  My bat struck the ball and it sailed smoothly into the air towards Bill and Marty.  My bat also struck Frankie's head on the follow through and he fell swiftly backwards onto the ground behind me. Frankie followed directions as well as he hit a baseball. Frankie's mother was over him before he hit the turf.  "Look what you've done!" she hollered.  "Frankie. Frankie baby, momma's here." (I actually do not know what she said,  at this point I was in a bit of shock myself.)  I stood holding the bat, Marty, who had smoothly settled under the pop fly and made a nice routine catch stood holding the ball in his mitt, and the three of us watched Frankie's limp body being carried into his house. When Dad got home he wanted to talk to me.  The point of the talk was that I had to apologize for what I did to Frankie.  He was not interested in hearing details. For a few days I avoided going out the front way.  Dad made it clear every night that he was losing patience with me.  Mrs H. and her cohort loomed in the big window and watched my every move.  Their yelling at me didn't encourage me to pop by any time soon.  I just couldn't muster up what it took to go over there and apologize.  I felt I had done nothing wrong - it was his fault for being so stupid.  But I did have a bat that didn't belong to me. I decided it was time to return it and offer an apology. Little boys are fascinated with the human body, especially if something about it is unusual or out-of-place.  Medical anomalies, Guinness Book of records, Circus freaks - all rich with material to study and discuss in detail.  Frankie's head was fascinating.  Lump shape, colour hues, lopsided forehead....  I knew it was Frankie under there somewhere, lying on the couch.  Before I could say anything... "Don't you have something to say to my Frankie?" "I'm sorry Frankie." Silence.  Maybe he's struck mute.  Brain damage. "Frankie?" She asked while her cohort continued to glare at the little savage before them clutching the evil bat in his malevolent hand. "OK." he murmured. "He said, 'OK'". Alright then. I guess we're done here, I thought. "Joe?" came the voice from the boy on the couch. "Yeah?" "Can you still help me learn to hit a baseball?"

"Wait a second - Father Hennessy is going to tell us about Sex?"

Sex was a big deal in our house. Not that we ever discussed it, read about it, or asked questions, but it was all around us. Dad had ten kids, after all, and they had to come about somehow. The Catholic rhythm method worked to a "T" - kids popped out in a steady beat for a decade and a half. Proper words to describe anatomy and physiology were encouraged, street terms strongly discouraged. Not that I ever heard anyone use "vagina" or "coitus" within earshot, but I didn't hear those "other" words either until I was out of the house. For my first eleven years I pretty much relied on scraps of information I could gather and sorted them in my head the best way I could: References from magazines, including one in the bush at Roger's Creek Park, jokes that barely made sense (there was this kid named Johnny F**erfaster... that ended with the punch line I'm tryin' ma. I'm tryin'") talk on the "street" that really did little but heighten curiosity (Ricky asking me if I knew what the baddest swear word was - of course I had no idea but was very eager to learn but terrified it might create a venial sin that would force an uncomfrotable talk in the confessional next Saturday. "Bugger," he whispered, and images of thousands of tiny skin crawling bugs flooded my confused brain.) At fifteen I walked in on my mom and dad in "flagrantus dilectus". In my defense my adult mind wonders who keeps the sock drawer in their room in they want privacy? Apparently the two squinting sets of eyes at the edge of the sea of pink had the answer, but i went sockless that evening. But by the time I was fifteen I had already been sex educated by the finest St. Peter's Catholic School had to offer four years before. Mrs. P. told us we were going to take home a consent form to parents so we could regroup with the grade sevens - girls with Sister Lucille and Sister Mercy, boys with Father Hennessy. Hennessy was cool. He often ended homilies with "say a prayer for our beloved BC Lions, they are playing at Taylor Field in Regina this week and they are going to need all the help they can get." Hennesy was also a priest. I didn't know much about sex but I was unsure how he could enlighten me given his current line of work. But there was the promise of more. Visual aids. A feature film we were going to watch called From Boy to Man. Our excitement was almost as palpable as our fear. Sitting in a room with the grade seven boys looking at a film about sex. I knew i was not alone in my fear of looking stupid and ignorant. Happily, no single emotion in an eleven year old boy lasts very long, and it wasn't long before my anxiety was overtaken by an intense curiosity caused by the news that the girls were going to see a film of their own called, sensibly, From Girl to Woman PLUS they were going to see our film too PLUS they were getting a BOOK! I don't believe eleven and twelve year old boys are resentful by nature, but this seemed patently unfair. Two movies AND a book. What was in their movie? Why did they get to see both and we only got one? And what was in that book? The grade seven entrepreneurs were determine to find out and we were willing to go along with them. They had a plan. We grade sixes followed along. The big day came and a deal was struck; we would would cough up ten cents each, pool the money and buy one of the books, and take turns revelling in our illustrated forbidden zone. Rumours were that there were drawings of real women - photos even - of 'down there'. Ten cents would buy a lot of vanilla wafers in our school cafeteria. A half pint of chocolate milk and five wafers for ten cents. We're talking a major exchange, a huge sacrifice, but well worth it to get to see that book. But first "the film", the Rosetta Stone to answer all my questions. It didn't answer many. In fact it only added more: > why is that kid showering with his underpants on? > who eats that much bacon? > why are there cartoon arrows shooting out of the cartoon penis? > how do I prevent acne and stop hair from growing all over my body? (My friend Clayton soon after shaved his entire body to prevent such a disaster. By fourteen he had a full beard and hair all over his back) > how does a ring and a marriage create babies? Does the gold give off some kind of baby ready hormone? or is it a diamond thing? (I think that one had more to do with Hennessy than the film. It was pretty much a blur by then). Film over, I couldn't wait for lunch. The film was of little help, but the book deal was going down. I knew books. I trusted books. I had looked up every sexual thing I could think of in the big dictionary we had in the living room at home. I'd scoured the Book of Knowledge for precious scraps of information. Lunch that day was without Vanilla Wafers. By the time I got to the playground the grade seven boys were already wandering off and leaving "the book" with some of the grade six boys. They had the book. I was going to see it!! Eagerly, but not rudely, I moved closer. More puzzlement. It had pictures all right, and diagrams and charts and calendars. I searched it cover to cover - twice. Nothing made sense. My day had become one of unrequited hope, disappointment not bitter but confusingly empty. Questions. So many questions. I couldn't shake the sense that the adults were holding out on us, that either there was no big deal to this whole sex thing, or it was such a big deal that if they let us in on it we wouldn't ever do anything else. "Go upstairs and change out of your school clothes, and then come down and help peel potatoes for supper, " Mom said. I did as I was asked. "Did you see the movie today?" Holy cow! Mom worked at the school. She was somewhat aware of what kind of day I'd had. "Yes," terror and dread creeping into my soul. It suddenly occurred to me that I might have to talk to my own mother about this topic. "Any questions?" came the tentative voice from down the stairs. Any Questions? Only about a million! Arrows, greasy food, when can we have bacon again, how do I stop the nasty hair thing, who is going to pay for the razors, how does peeing fit into the topic, why did the girls get a book with charts and calendars and diagrams that look like cow heads?????? "No." "Okay. Come down and start peeling potatoes."

Egg Nog

"Is there anything I can bring you from home, dear?" Dad leaned in close to his wife. She'd been to hell and back and was slowly getting to the good side of a bad situation. Over the course of several months she had been burned, grafted and pained in ways we kids could only imagine. Dad was attentive, eager to find any small thing that could distract her, bring her pleasure, take her mind away even if for only a short while. "Could you ask Joe to make me some egg nog?" ************ Egg nog is not just a seasonal drink. Not for me. Sure, I have had my share of egg nog in winter, and developed quite a fondness for its thick, sweet, nutmeg flavour. The kind in the store was best because it had-by far- the most sugar. I once very narrowly escaped detection at a friend's house while standing in front of their refrigerator secretively gulping down egg nog straight from the box. "Say Mr. C, what a great idea to keep a jug of cold water in your fridge. At my place we pretty much just drink from the tap." (Egg nog: an aside for my nephew C., an expert on all things animated.....) "Futurama” Xmas Story (1999) Fry: Every Christmas my Mom would get a fresh goose, for gooseburgers, and my Dad would whip up his special eggnog out of bourbon and ice cubes. *** While helping Dad refurbish the house in Port Alberni during the holidays my Uncle A. showed up in the middle of drywalling the living room and convinced Dad to knock it off for the night and come for a drink of "holiday cheer." I was the ride - along and sat nursing a single orange pop while they drank rum and egg nog at the Greenwood Hotel, talking endlessly about the things adults talk about while kids wait to go home. On the way home Dad asked Uncle to slow down for a minute; Dad opened the car door and vomited out the side as the car was moving. It reminded me of the line painters you see doing the highways in the summer. The smell of rum and egg nog was strong. "Barney, you know what?" asked Uncle. "What's that?" came the thin reply. "In some states you get pinched for spitting, but pretty much anywhere it's still legal to puke on the street." "Mmmmm," said Dad. I don't think he was listening. The first egg nog milk shake I ever had was at the Woolworth's store. It tasted amazing. I wanted to re-create the flavour and went to one of the family's three major sources of information (not counting Grandma): "Book of Knowledge", the monstrous dictionary that contained every word ever spoken, and a fat cookbook that had pages curling over each other so much the book seemed round like a football. It had a recipe for egg nog. Discovery! Aside - Dad once used the word "Bohunk" in conversation and it caused Gradma much consternation. Dad assured her it was a perfectly good word; Grandma assured him it most certainly was not. Dad went to the source - the massive dictionary...running his finger over the page..."Here it is, 'Bohunk, a resident of Central or Eastern Europe'." He closed the dictionary and put it back on the shelf, then left the room. It wasn't long before Grandma was up and looking through the book herself. "Made you look," said Dad. "Eccch" said Grandma. "Mom, can I make egg nog after church today?" I asked, pretty sure I was up to the task. After all, that recipe book was very clear in its instructions. She checked with Dad, he gave the green light, and my career as a dessert chef was about to begin at the age of eleven. I couldn't wait for church to be over. I rushed into the kitchen - "No, I don't need any help," I told the peering eyes as I set about to work. Bowls, mixers, ingredients all laid out in front of me, I carefully followed the recipe to the smallest detail, meticulously measuring with an exactitude known only to chemists and surgeons. Eggs separated, just the right amount of vanilla extract, Nutmeg, less cinnamon, busy busy as the nog was coming together - the last ingredient "Rum extract or rum to taste." We had vanilla extract but we were pretty much out of rum extract. "Rum to taste" seemed pretty straight forward - add rum and keep adding rum until you could taste it. We had rum, so that's what I did. "This tastes funny", said one of my sibs. How could it? I had followed the recipe to the letter. "Let me have a taste," said Mom. "Barney, taste this." "Joe, Did you put rum in this?" "Yes, it says 'rum to taste' in the cook book." "Kids, poor that back into the jug. Joe, how's about you whip us up another batch without the rum?" He turned to Mom, smiling, "That's pretty darn tasty," he smiled. She smiled back. ******** "Joe your mother wants to know if you could make her a glass of egg nog that I could bring back to the hospital." He smiled. I smiled back.

Huckleberry Pie: The Mighty Foragers of the Pacific North West

Pictures from "Northern Bushcraft" http://northernbushcraft.com/guide.php?ctgy=edible_berries®ion=bc Summer 1964 In every home we lived on the West Coast of BC we were surrounded by food. Not that we were great hunters or fishers, we definitely were not. But in the art of foraging we were without par. Grandma had taken us on more than a few strolls through the woods to point out what berries were edible and which ones were to be avoided. A simple rule was bumpy berries with outside seeds were generally good,(think of salmon berries, thimble berries, black berries) red berries were generally bad (deadly nightshade, twisted stalk). There were exceptions to the rule of thumb, most notably the red huckleberry. It was by far my favourite. There were seven main berries I would forage for, listed in order from least favoured to favourite. 7 - Oregon Grape too sour, eat too many and your tummy pays a price 6 - Salal - readily available, not terribly flavourful, lots of bugs and the frequent woody berry 5 - Salmon Berry - delicious and plentiful, no thorns, eaten red or orange, short few weeks of good picking 4 - Wild Strawberry - amazing flavour but harder to come by. Very tiny where we lived. 3 - Thimble berry - like a concentrated raspberry, easy to pick, sweet and delicious short season but often overlapped with salmon berries 2 - Black berry - plentiful, satisfying, the thorns were a problem that we overcame (most of the time) and filling. I would actually walk away sated with berries unpicked. And all time Favourite - 1 - Red Huckleberry - most delicious, easy to pick from a small shrub, often an entire bush ripened at the same time.  And in a pinch you could use a berry for fish bait. Summer had begun, the woods were cool, school was a memory, and Bill and I were gorging on red huckleberries. We each had an entire bush to ourselves and I was picking each berry and popping it into my mouth as fast as I could.  I glanced over at Bill; he was using a different technique.  He was picking but not popping.  Instead he was picking and deftly collecting a handful of berries to enjoy all at once.  "Way better," he explained.  I tried it and he was right.  The delayed gratification of waiting for a handful of red hucks was well worth the wait. When I was nine I had a friend who lived around the corner on South Morgan Crescent - we lived on North Morgan.  His mother had a voice that could shatter glass, drown out overhead jets, and echo off the nearby Beaufort Mountain Range. "Tehhhhhhhhhh ---deeeeeeeeeeee!" she would holler in a piercing two note sing-song from her door step.  Ted would drop everything and go see what she had for him - dinner, snacks, a new toy.  I often followed him home out of curiosity, secretly hoping she was announcing to Ted her new batch of cookies was baked, or a cake had just come out of the oven.  She was generous with Teddie's friends, and I was one of his best friends. On this day he didn't drop everything right away.  We were eating huckleberries in a vacant lot a block or two to the south of his house.  She wanted to know what took him so long. "Huckleberries, mom," he told her between mouthfuls of chocolate chip cookies. "What are they?" she wanted to know. "Red berries on a bush," he told her. "Red berries? Don't eat them, they're probably poisonous." "Uh-uh," I interjected (yes, I would very much like another warm cookie), "My Grandma showed me which berries to eat and which ones to avoid.  You might be thinking of nightshade."  (Nightshade was what I incorrectly called the berries of the twisted stalk.  You could see where a concerned mom like her could be forgiven for being cautious.) "I eat them all the time." I assured her. "Me, too," said her one and only son. "Here."  She handed us each a bowl.  "Bring me enough berries and I will bake you boys a pie." I heard that!  I was on a mission!  Bill had already shown me the merits of delayed gratification.  This was the next level - pick, don't eat, wait, eat pie! We got to work - well, one of us did. While I was doggedly filling my bowl, Ted was happily gulping down berry after berry.  As my bowl slowly began to fill with the tiny berries I became filled with dichotomous urges; confront Ted on his lack of contribution to the task versus shut up, pick, and let his mom make pie.  The idea of all this work with no pie was too much to consider.  I picked - and I picked hard.  I kept my tongue under control. On the way back to his house my bowl was well over half full, Ted's less than a quarter.  "Put your berries in my bowl," he suggested.  I didn't trust him not to eat them so I refused. "C'mon, dump 'em in here'" he said as we approached his door.  I did. "Here, Mom," said Ted as he presented her with his nearly full bowl. She hugged him and said, "Good boy.  I have the crust all ready to go." She mixed the berries with sugar - a lot of sugar - and poured them into the bottom crust.  She placed the upper crust on top, sprinkled more sugar on top, and slid the pie into the oven.  "Go out and play, Teddie, I will call you when the pie is ready." The intensity of that wait period was one of the strongest emotions in this boy's life.  Even a mighty forager such as myself knew the added value of cooking our gatherings.  It didn't take a village to raise my expectations, it only took Mrs. F who lived around the corner. And at last came the glorious sound I had been waiting for, the sound that would transport me to heights of new excitement and anticipation .... "Tehhhhhhhhhh ---deeeeeeeeeeee!" We ran back to his house this time. There it was.  Glorious. Ted got the first piece.  My slice was - in my estimation - slightly smaller.  I let it go.  I was going to polish mine off and ask for seconds, furiously chewing and gulping my way through the sweetest (sugar), tangiest (berries), fluffiest (crust) creation ever.  That second slice was going to be amazing. "That's enough for now," declared Mrs F.  "We can save the rest for when Daddie gets home. I looked longingly at that pie. I knew Ted's "Daddie" was going to make short work of the rest. Why didn't I linger over its deliciousness? Why didn't I savour its flavour? Carpe diem, carpe pie. As I left Ted's house In knew I would never get a second slice.

My Woggle

"DYB DYB DYB DYB!!" "We'll DOB DOB DOB DOB!!!"

There was no getting around it, my Wolf Cub uniform was not complete until I got a woggle to secure my neckerchief.  Our neckers were not the run-of-the mill two colour  trimmed ones like everyone else's.  (See standard issue below)

The Necker

    The necker is a scarf that is worn around your neck. The necker is the easiest way to identify which Cub Pack (and Scout Group) that you belong (to). Each Group has its own distinctive colours, and the different sections of the Group wear the same necker.  

Not for our Alberni Wolf Cub Pack, no ordinary necker for us - My Grandma was quite impressed with our necker - it was Royal Stewart Tartan.  I think our Akela was of Scottish origin, and proud to have his troops extol the fact.  It looked pretty sharp on the chest of my forest green cub shirt.

The Woggle

    The standard way of attaching it is with the Cub woggle, or for more active occasions a well-tied reef knot. The necker and the first woggle will be provided. Later, you may want to create your own personalized woggle.http://www.1stbinbrook.org/cubs-uniform.html

Let me correct the information immediately above; in 1962 Alberni nobody that I knew got a free woggle. Every cub I knew had the same woggle.  It was leather and it came from the same department at the Woodward's store way across town on Third Avenue. Even if I could get there they cost money.  It didn't matter the cost, I didn't have any and I was as trained as my siblings in not asking for things.  I did know how to tie a reef knot, Dad being an expert on such things and my big brother about to launch a naval career, I got lots of help and breezed through to my first wolf cub badge in knot tying. It wasn't long before Akela  - or was it Bagheera - asked me where my woggle was.  When I told him in didn't have one I think he sensed my situation quickly.  He pointed to a section in the Handbook that indicated a woggle could be manufactured from any natural material: leather, wood, bone, stone etc.  I imagined carving a wooden one, but ruled it out immediately; I knew my own skill set limitations pretty early on. Somehow Dad got wind of my need for a woggle and declared he was going to help.  As much as I looked forward to his help I cringed inside.  After all, he wasn't going to be the one  wearing it to pack meetings.  Still, my imagination must have conjured up something like this:

"heck, my favorite slide (woggle) of all time wasnt even home made or store bought. It was a vertebra from a deer my father shot when we were hunting. The hole where the spinal cord goes was just the right size and you can be sure I got a (lot) of comments when I wore that one -"

OldGreyEagle

Super Moderator - http://www.scouter.com/forum/cub-scouts/16107-woggles-or-slides

That would have been a cool story to tell.  Unfortunately it was not my story.  Dad figured one of the stew bones from dinner would work if I boiled all the marrow out and cleaned it up a bit.  So I did just that.  I fished through a stew pot a few nights later and selected a bone that had the most upside.  I couldn't tell what part of the animal it came from.  I boiled it.  I scraped it and boiled it again.  When I was done my woggle was a grimy white with a hole in the middle that was a touch on the narrow side.  One of the two colour neckers made from that thin material used by the troop from South Port Alberni would have probably fit, but my thick wool Royal Stewart necker bunched up and stuck about half way up my chest.

"You got a bone on your scarf," was the greeting I remember, and again, Bagheera, my advocate, pointed out that it was a perfectly satisfactory  woggle according to the  rules and statutes laid out by Lord Baden-Powell himself.  The looks I got told me my cub mates were not convinced.  Bagheera, and at times Akela, came to my defense immediately and changed topic.

It never sat right, it never felt right, even though I knew it was right.  It seemed to hang too low, it got in the way, it bounced off my chest when I ran.  Heavy is the neck that wears the bone woggle.

I liked Wolf Cubs.  I never joined the scouts.

It Takes a Village - or at least a small town

Apparently it takes a village to raise a child. Raising a child would then include a lot of life lessons taught by a great many different members of the village. It is a marvel that the lessons taught by that village (in my case it was a small town, Port Alberni to be exact) seemed to contain a great amount of common sense, and relied on the implicit judgement of those teaching the lessons. Not everything we learned was through our parents, or even family members. Some of the lessons came from around the corner or right next door.

Village Lesson Example 1 - age 8:

While showing my next door neighbour the finer points of the game of football, including how to tackle safely, my next door neighbour's dad came roaring out of the house yelling and kicking me on my bottom while I scrambled over the fence to get away. His son did his best to explain that his neighbour was not assaulting him, but that we were playing football and football included tackling and pulling people to the ground. He was ignored. I was told to stay out of the yard. What lesson did I learn?

1. Mr R is a raging alcoholic crazy man who needed to be avoided at all times
2. Some people do not understand sports, in particular football.
3. Parents can be very protective of their kids.
4. Big people get to kick little people if they want to.
5. All of the above

Village Lesson Example 2 - age 8:

What kid hasn't broken a window or two? I have. There is one incident I remember well, thanks to the Village.

Right around the corner from our house about seven or eight boys had gathered, all about the same age, to watch two boys. One was a resident of the house(let's call him D), the other was the boy from next door. They had a baseball and a bat and were trying to practice the skill of bunting. One boy pitched the ball underhanded while the other belatedly chopped at it, missed, turned to retrieve the ball, tossed it back to his friend and the futility would begin again; pitch, chop, retrieve, toss, repeat.

The audience, including yours truly, helpfully shouted out suggestions; throw overhand, stand still, choke up on the bat all to no avail: pitch, chop, retrieve, toss, repeat.

"Joe, you show him," said one of my friends. By the age of eight I figured I'd pretty much mastered the basics of the sacrifice bunt and was well on my way towards becoming adept at the drag bunt, the squeeze bunt, and the slap bunt, which really isn't a bunt at all but a fake bunt to draw the infielders in and then at the last moment slap the ball hard into a space they vacate. The Chip Hilton books helped motivate me.

I showed my friend the proper left hand grip, slid my right hand well up the barrel but fingers safely protected behind the bat, squared around to face the pitcher and told him to imagine trying to catch the ball with the bat, in effect deadening the flight and having the ball drop in front of him.

.

It took time, and the substitution of a consistent pitcher, but he started to get it. Before long everyone wanted a turn, so, to prevent boredom or horseplay, I designed a game where we rotated through the spots of batter, pitcher, and a line of fielders that moved every three pitches.

My turn at bat meant T's turn to pitch. T was a lot of things, but he was not predictable. He lived right across the street and down two houses, and knew the S family well. Pitch one was a heater - a baseball term for a fast hard pitch. I bunted it down and told him to slow it down which he did for pitch two. As he began releasing pitch three he called out, "Here comes a hard one!"

It takes milliseconds to calculate a baseball velocity and milliseconds to react. I did not have enough milliseconds to prevent what happened next.

The baseball skimmed off the top of my bat and before it hit the window behind me most of the boys had jumped on bikes or run away - including D who lived at the house. My stomach felt funny, my legs couldn't move. I stood rooted in the lawn until Mr S came out of the house, stood on the steps, looked at the broken window, looked at my pleading face and said,"You the only one left?"

I nodded.

"I guess we better fix this before it starts to rain."

I had no idea what he meant.

In the hours that followed I was his assistant as we did the following:

• Measured the window (luckily it was the smaller of the front windows)
• Drove to the lumber store to get a new window pane cut
• Removed all the broken pieces of the old window and trashed them
• Removed all the glazier points
• Reset the new glass with new points and new putty
• Stood back and admired our work
• Went to Dairy Queen for a sundae
• Went home (where Mr S explained what had happened to my dad. He included the part where I was the only one who stuck around, and how I had helped him reset the new glass, and that was why I hadn't been home for a few hours).Dad nodded, pressed his lips together, said something to Mr S and went back to his puttering.

What lesson did I learn?

1. In 1963 Port Alberni everyone in the neighbourhood kind of knew each other.
2. Refitting glass is a valuable skill.
3. Baseball isn't a front lawn activity.
4. Friends don't always have your back.
5. All the above.

I can't help but reflect on how much has changed by 2014. In the first example above Mr R would have been questioned by police and / or social workers. Perhaps a lawyer or two would be involved. In the second example, questions would be raised about what motivated this man to spend a good part of a day with a boy not his own without first informing the parents.

Regardless, it was a memorable lesson for me - I got a sundae.

 

Mothers and Moments

Nothing would be better than a visit with her mother. It had to be today.
Goodness knows she could use a break.
Mother lived a couple of hours away, the kids would surely get on her nerves being cooped up in the car for that long. Six kids - one adult. Luckily, the road to Courtenay could be broken into sections, she thought. If I get them into the car early they could probably stay calm at least past the "Hump" and be too full to squawk about ice cream in Whiskey Creek. "It's too early for ice cream," she'd tell them, hoping that they'd forget that she'd said it when they returned home late the day after.
It was too cold for a spring swim at Parksville or Qualicum Beach, but she could let them out and blow off some steam for a bit in Qualicum. From there it was an hour's run up the highway to Courtenay.
Courtenay. Her home. Where she was born, where her first two children were born. Courtenay was where the air smelled right, fresh, and not full of pulp and paper fumes from a mill. Where Jersey cows meandered the lush grassy fields of Sandwick, and made milk and butter taste just a little better. Where she felt safe and welcomed, pampered even, by her loving mother who adored her children.
She could see it in her mind; a happy trip along the Island Highway, a happy stop at Qualicum to stretch and play, the final part of the journey past Bowser, the huge shell mountain at Fanny Bay, through tiny Union Bay and finally Royston, the village that would tell her she was close, maybe ten minutes from the tiny home where her mother lived in Sandwick. She could smell the air, she could see the smiles on the children, she could hear the sing songs in the car, she could feel the hearty hugs all around.  It was going to be a happy trip worth taking.
"Boys in the back," she said as they scrambled at, on, and around the 1954 Monarch. Back seats were big. Front seats were benches, plenty of room for the two girls and the driver. Seat belts were not an issue; space was an issue, in particular, the space one declared was "mine" was immediately susceptible to encroachment.
"You can't touch this part of the seat," "I get to sit here if I want," "I want to sit by the window," "You always get to sit by the window," and so on.
"I just need to tune them out," she thought, then suddenly found herself saying"Hush! Ssshhh!! Enough! Be good."

It worked for a while. Mt. Arrowsmith watched over them from the right as they climbed the passage known locally as "the Hump". Trouble began with a rustle, as subtle and isistant as the wind through the cedars as she motored through Cathedral Grove. Squabbling and poking and occasional yelps were coming from the back seat. Trouble was rearing its childish head, not lurking like "Cammie", the legendary lake monster of Cameron Lake, known but unseen.  This trouble was in full display and rolling and wrestling in the seat behind her.

"Look at Cameron Lake. Did you know they say it is as deep as the mountain behind it is high?" Some discussion about lakes and depths from the older ones followed, then, ultimately, more poking and silliness as the car passed Little Qualicum Falls. She debated in her mind the idea of stopping, giving them a run up to the falls, poop them out a bit, but just as quickly rejected it. It would delay the trip and make it longer than planned.  Then they would be getting hungry, too.  She pressed down on the accelerator.
By Whiskey Creek the noise was getting distracting. Giggling, shrieking, story telling, wrestling, and general nonsense poured from the back seat. "At least the girls aren't being silly," she thought, "they seem to be pretty good at ignoring their brothers. Why do they have to be so silly, so noisy?" She concentrated on her driving and tried again to shut out the noise.
"Let's play a game," she said suddenly.
"What kind of game? OK. What? Stupid. I'm not stupid," came the simultaneous reply, mostly from behind her.
"Watch the first number of the license plates of the cars going by. Let's see if we can count all the way to "9".

The road through to Coombs suddenly got very quiet on the other side . Despite the watchful gazes from the 12 peering eyes, some standing on the seat to look out the window, the first few cars passed and the number "1" was not in play. The game began to die.
"Look at the goats on the roof. Did you know the people who own those goats used to live near us?"
Shriek giggle giggle
Shriek giggle giggle
"Stop that! I'm trying to drive."
Silence as everyone held their breath. Inevitably, as the boys began to make eye contact, the giggling returned, slowly but more surely as each powerful burst of air blasted past each set of quivering little boy lips.
Shriek giggle giggle
Shriek giggle giggle
What else could she do?
She needed to teach them a lesson. Start with the oldest - no - the two oldest.
"Joe. Bill. Get out."
"What?"
"You heard me. Get out."
For the first time since Bishop Avenue in Port Alberni they were quiet. All of them. She had their attention now, she needed to follow through.
"This road is highway 4. Walk straight down this road towards the water. When you get to the island highway turn left. Walk on the left side of the road and keep the water on your right. Keep walking on that road and you will come to Sandwick Road where Grandma lives."
Every eye in the car was wide, every ear in the car was tuned to her voice, every mouth was silent. "Good," she thought. "Impact."
In her rear view mirror she could see her boys walking as she pulled away. She ignored the loud protests of the remaining boys in the back. "Not yet" she thought. " They have to know I'm serious. Besides, it's actually almost pleasant in here now."
She allowed herself to be "convinced" by the budding lawyers in the car that she needed to double back and pick the boys up. The conversation lasted long enough for the boys to have walked more than a few blocks and were farther ahead that she had expected.
"Your brothers convinced me that I should come back to get you. Get in the car."
She ignored the smirky looks on their faces, pretended to not hear the bravado, "We were okay, we knew how to find Grandma's house." She looked away and had to suppress a laugh when she caught the younger boys conspiratorial glances at their older sibs, and the brotherly smiles they shared.
She knew instantly that their version of this story, if any of them remembered it, would be vastly different from her own. No matter. What mattered is that they had shared a moment, the kind of moment that makes the bond of brothers stronger, more solid, even if none of them could explain why.
"That's what mothers do," she thought as she passed the oyster shell mountain at Fanny Bay, "we create moments, teachable moments."
By the time the Monarch hit Union Bay the car was quiet. She was thinking about seeing her mother. The kids were probably wondering what was for lunch.
"I hope we have cake and berries," said someone. The others dreamed of cake and berries.