Alberni Days of Wine and Roses

Editor's note: The following story is true.  Conversations are remembered, paraphrased and, at times, completely manufactured.



Dad was finally home from a long fishing trip and he couldn't stop talking about it.  Predictably the mood and atmosphere would always change when Dad came home; not better or worse, just different.  Different routines, different conversations, major pancake consumption the first Saturday after his return. "How many eggs you want?" instead of "It's time to get up" for example. But after this trip he came home different; he couldn't stop talking about the movie he had seen. 

On a layover in Prince Rupert he and some of his commercial fishing colleagues went to the movie theatre to see James Bond Agent 007 in the movie From Russia With Love. It was exciting to hear of the car chases and the gunfights, partly because of the inherent excitement, partly because it was way out of character for anyone in our family to view a movie like that.  I back checked the last few editions of the BC Catholic and Western Catholic Reporter, newspapers that we had in the house to see if the movie was on their approved list.   I was concerned about the moral equilibrium of my beloved father.  How would he explain his behaviour to the Father Brazeau? to Bishop De Roo? to Grandma?  to Mom?  I had a pretty good idea it might not be an easy task when I saw the ad for the movie in the Alberni Valley times.



Mom didn't react the way I thought she might.  I thought I detected a tiny bit of jealousy, of envy.  They were partners in life but her man had enjoyed a spectacular evening without her. 
"When are you going to take me to a movie?" she asked with a half-smile.
Dad hardly missed a beat.  "Oh, I don't think that's your kind of movie," he assured her.
"Not that movie.  A movie we could both enjoy."
You could see Dad's wheels turning inside his head. 

click click  Going out for a movie was not a common event. 
click click  What about the kids? 
click click There's always a need for something to get done. 
click click  There just wasn't the opportunity to get away for a night. 
click click  It was an unnecessary expense. 
click click  This wonderful woman deserves a night out.

"Well sure," leaning forward to hug her, " you pick us a movie." "I will," she smiled. It usually made me feel awkward when they kissed, Dad always seemed to make such a big deal about it. This time I didn't feel awkward, more relieved and a bit excited.  I really hoped Mom would check the BC Catholic before she settled on a movie. I was prepared to help if she asked.

It was announced that Mom and Dad would be going out for a movie and somebody would be coming in to watch us while they were out.  Alberni had one movie theatre with one screen.  I obsessed about what movie they would pick and quickly ruled out a number of the popular ones at the time:
Cleopatra - possible, but not in town
How the West was Won - Dad yes, Mom probably no.
It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World - No - too stupid for their tastes
Tom Jones, Move Over Darling, Love with the Proper Stranger  - Definitely not on the Approved List at BC Catholic newspaper for any of them
Son of Flubber - Now showing at the Alberni Theatre but only if you take the kids
The Birds - No (But we did watch it as a family many years later.  Still one of the scariest movies ever but not Date Night stuff)
Hud - not in town, probably not on the List
Lillies of the Field - Mom loved Sidney Poitier, but not showing in town.

Dad really came through - they were going out of town to see a movie.  The big night came.  Dad entered the kitchen dressed in a suit.  Mom looked like she had changed her hair somehow.  They were not going to be home for dinner.  Off they went.  I imagined them having fish and chips in the restaurant we went to in Parksville.  They seemed to be gone forever, but were home the next morning when I got up. I didn't ask if they had fish and chips for dinner. I also didn't ask if the movie was on the BC Catholic Approved List - at least, I don't think I did.  I know I wanted to.  She told us that the movie they had gone to see was from 1962 .  Jack Lemmon and Lee Remick.
As advertised :



and also as advertised:

Once I knew what movie they had gone to see I spent a lot of time and energy over an extended period of time trying to sort out in my mind what prompted them to go see this movie.  I never
bothered to ask.  It seemed enough to know that Mom and Dad had gone on a movie date, probably had fish and chips, and, to listen to Mom tell it, they had a wonderful evening. For the next long while, Mom talked about the evening and the movie with visitors and company a lot.  She declared it to be an exceptional acting performance by Lee Remick, and, although the story subject matter was gritty and tough, she enjoyed her evening immensely.  She may have said once or twice that it was her favourite movie.  I sensed that going out with Dad was the real reason she enjoyed the movie.

Imagine, Mom and Dad on a date.

Ambush on Cherry Creek Highway

“…no-no… you’re dropping it way too late. Watch.”
The big boy held his hand over my hand while I held the dogwood bud firmly between my fingers.

“See you wait until you see the front and let it go. By the time it gets under us the bud will drop onto it. Do this one with me.”
He held his hand in place and we waited. I focused. I hardly breathed. We waited some more. I heard the growing sounds of an approaching car. I could tell it would soon be at the top of the hill on Cherry Creek Highway, and directly below us, perched high in the dogwood tree that overhung the road.

Everything slowed down. I could feel his hand move, releasing the bud; my mind floated with it in a perfect dive onto the middle of the windshield. I could sense the impact even before I could hear the dull “thwack”.

I had been trained to stay very still in case the occupants of the car pulled over. Some assessed damage, some scanned the roadside for causes or culprits. Once in a while a one of them would look up into the tree. Reactions varied.

At times, if the lead car of a group was hit, the following cars had to be careful to brake hard enough to avoid the cars ahead. The big boy and his friends had trained me to appreciate screeching tires.
This time the car slowed, but continued down the road. I was eager to try again. I plucked a fat bud from the branch above and waited, listening. The next car was on the wrong side of the road, but I used it to mentally time my drop, which I practiced again and again in my mind, in real time, while I waited. I wasn’t waiting long.

A long red sedan came into view at a good speed and I switched into auto pilot. The bud was away before I knew what I had done. My belly warmed upon impact, a flush of warm woozy pride floated to the top of my head and I had to re-grip my branch. “Good one,” whispered the big boy, while I pressed my lips together in pride and lay very still.

*****

Bill wanted to try.

It seemed like every kid in Morgan Crescent wanted to try. Suddenly, I was an expert. I wasn’t sure about the protocol involved in this enterprise. It wasn’t my game, I had only just learned it. But if I could learn, so could others, they reasoned. What could be the harm in having six or eight boys dangling from a tree over a highway pelting car windshields with dogwood buds?

Behind our house in north Port Alberni (Alberni it was called then) was a small forest between us and Cherry Creek highway. We knew every tree, trail and hiding place, and it seemed enormous to us. If we hid during a good game of Kick the Can, there was a good chance we would never be spotted. We owned the space, we felt safe there. While my school of sniper trainees found vantage points to observe and learn, I climbed the tree. They knew to keep still, and instinctively sensed that being on the ground during this phase of an operation meant they were more vulnerable.

|It became apparent that my skills as an instructor were greater than I could have imagined. My first drop was successful, and seconds after the car had gone the boys were scrambling up the dogwood tree and, when it became too crowded, the maple tree that grew beside it. They couldn’t wait to get in on the action.

The next car passed without incident; so did the one after that. The third car was lucky that the boys in the maple hadn’t yet figured out that dogwood buds would be hard to find there, so they had to let the third car pass without a toss, and the neophytes who had buds hadn’t yet calculated drop rate yet.

More time passed without a car. Impatience grew.

The maple tree gang had time to scramble down from their perches, fill their pockets with low hanging dogwood buds, and resettle into their nests. Impatience grew further. “Dropping” was the name of the game I had learned, a patient, scientific (and apparently solitary) enterprise. The game was quickly morphing into “Hurling and firing” amongst the majority.

After a few near misses and some outright misfires everything came together at once. A long, white-over-yellow sedan reached the top of the gentle hill, and was met with an enthusiastic volley of dogwood buds. The effect was immediate.

Two large and angry men exploded from the car. I froze and lay still as I was trained. Bill just below me did the same. We were the only two who followed protocol. A stream of little boys scrambled down the trees and bolted the trails with a good head start on the two large men. Bill and I watched as the two men passed below us, ran into the woods towards the pack, yelling obscenities, and shaking their fists.

Bill began his descent when they had passed us and their backs were turned. I followed close behind, trying to climb quietly but quickly. At the bottom of the tree I headed to the highway and ran past the dogwood and the maple before doubling back into the woods. Bill was not behind me.

I panicked and crawled up the little hill on the side of the road to see where he was and peek in on the action. Bill was running as fast as his four year old legs would carry him, straight down the trail, in the most direct route to home and safety. His path was within ten feet of one of the large men, who turned and, to my horror, scooped up my brother and dangled him from his shorts. I rose from my hiding place and started walking slowly towards my brother. I could see some of the Morgan Crescent kids still watching from their hiding places, others were likely nearly home by now.

“You kids are gonna get it!” the man hollered. “If I catch you doing this again I am going to boot your ***** up to your eyeballs!” Bill dangled, but turned to listen politely to the man, who gently set him down. Without looking back he continued his run down the path towards home. I joined him.

A Dog by Any Other Name

We had a dog when I was very young .  She was a Dutch barge hound, probably crossed with something else, and her name was "Snussi."  She looked vaguely like the one pictured above, but a lot grubbier and a lot wetter.  She was, to the best of my recollection, a "good" dog who didn't demand a lot of attention.  She wasn't particularly cuddly, which was appropriate because she was also particularly smelly.  She lived outdoors and shadowed us as we wandered in the yard.

I knew at a very young age that everything had a specific name.  That mattered dearly to me for some unfathomable reason, and I fully expected everyone to see the world the way I did.  Our dog had a name, and it was Snussi. 

Big brother Lloyd at fourteen already  knew two things - he knew I was very particular about being right, and he knew more about dogs than I did.

"Her name's not Snussi," he teased, " her name is "George".

"No, it's Snussi."

"No, it's George."

"Dad says her name is Snussi."

"Ok, watch this - Here, George."

To my growing horror, Snussi  wandered over to Lloyd.

"Here, Snussi," I cried out desperate to correct her before she forgot her name.  She altered direction and headed my way.  Relief passed through me in a wave.

"Here, George," brought the dog back on a bearing for Lloyd.

"No, Snussi," I cried desperate to save the dog's self esteem.

"Joe, she doesn't know her name, she just knows 'Here' and goes to whoever is calling."

"No, her name is Snussi."  My face felt warm.

"Watch - Here, Zeke."  The dog came to him and he patted her neck.  "Call her."

"Here, Snussi." The dog dutifully waddled over to me.

"Here, Frank."  Back she went to Lloyd.

Hours later, alone in the back yard with my thoughts, and our dog.

"Here, dog,"  I whispered.

We looked after a boxer named Teddie for a short time.  Too short, in my mind.

Teddie was playful, good natured and protective.  He quickly became part of our "pack" and greeted us with enthusiasm every time he saw us, whether away for a day or an hour.  Mom really liked the dog, but he wasn't around long.  My strongest memory of him was seeing him tied to the unfinished shed at the back of the house in Alberni.  He also liked to lick our faces, which tickled and felt disgusting at the same time.

Teddy the black Labrador retriever lived near us in New Westminster.  He wasn't our dog but he spent almost as much time in our yard as he did in his own.  Teddy and I would wrestle, Greco-Roman style trying to knock each other over.  Wrestling matches with Teddy got very physical, but he never bit, snarled, or raised a hackle.  He liked to play more than fetch and he was great company.  I don't think we fed him but I am pretty sure he ate when he was around.

Tiki was a Samoyed who came to live with us for the last half of her life.  She was affectionate, rather lazy and suffered from hip dysplasia.  She arrived after a former girlfriend convinced me that she was going to be put down if she didn't find a home.  I was amazed that Mom and Dad agreed to bring her in.  She became Dad's constant companion, following him everywhere as he puttered around the house.

She was terrified of thunder, and when it came she would run from the house, looking back with both fear and hurt in her eyes as if we had somehow created a terror just for her.  After disappearing for a few days, she reappeared under the school where Mom worked, looking more trim and fit than ever.

After the kids left home and Dad had passed on, Mom acquired a Springer Spaniel she named "Ginger".  She was a highly active, rather hyper dog.

In one of writer David Sedaris's stories he describes how shocked he is that his father has brought in a dog - a Great Dane - without checking with him first.  He never felt close to the new dog, saw him as a gold digging interloper.  Mom saw Ginger as a burst of positive energy.

Sadly, Ginger's impulsive behaviour cost her her life as she jumped out of the car on a busy highway and ran into the road and was struck.

I have never owned a dog, no Wally or Digger or Puddles or Austin or Jojo or Skully or Murdoch for me.

Dogs pictured are not the real dogs.

You are most welcome to substitute real photos in place of my approximations.