Saturday, March 21, 2020
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
Athabasca.
ATHABASCA
I moved to Athabasca, Alberta, at the end of June, 1957. Athabasca is a small town about ninety miles north of Edmonton in northern Alberta. It has a big river (the Athabasca) flowing past, but it's a good distance from Lake Athabasca: about 350 miles if you wanted to float there. The river is the longest in Alberta and the lake is large but most of it is in Saskatchewan.
I had just graduated from University School, a private boarding school in Victoria, B.C. I'd been going to that school, as a boarder, for the past seven years, (since the age of nine,) while my father, a single parent, had been working as the Cariboo regional Medical Health Officer for the British Columbia government in Prince George.
This is a lot of information for someone unfamiliar with my world to take in, I know, but just stay with me. I was sixteen years old and had never been to a public school, never been to school with girls, had a brother, Peter (3 and 1/2 years older), but never had friends outside of my boarding school. I was planning on going to the University of B.C. in Vancouver that September.
We drove from Prince George, in central British Columbia, to Athabasca soon after I arrived "home" from boarding school. I wrote "home" that way because for nine months each year the school was my home: my bedroom shared with seven or eight others; my living room quite communal and the kitchen and dining room was the domain of a professional chef.
Athabasca represented a continuation of the Prince George experience. I expected to spend most of my summer solo, since I didn't know anybody and was shy of going out and meeting new people.
However, my life was changed completely when John Richel turned up at the front door of my dad's rented house. I had been in Athabasca for a few days, my dad was probably at work, and I could have been reading a book. I did that quite a lot.
Suddenly here was this force of nature at the door, telling me who I was, asking me if I'd like to jump in his delivery van (he had a part-time job as delivery boy for a local grocer) and immediately threatening to take me over. In a nice way. John was blond, wore glasses, was about 6 feet tall, strongly built and slightly bow-legged. He had a ready smile and a charming lack of shyness. His father, a big man named Nestor, later played bridge regularly with my father. His mother was warm and friendly, a perfect example for me who'd never had a mother at all.
I soon began meeting the Town kids. There weren't that many of the right age in a town with a poulation of 1200. In fact, 1200 sounds like a large number compared to the actual number of Town Kids. Then there were the Country kids, from the surrounding farm community who aren't available until school starts in September. This was early July.
The teenagers loved the rock'n'roll set: it was the heyday of Elvis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis. I had just come from an urban environment and was familiar with Buddy Holly's "That'll Be the Day," which the country bumpkins had never heard of. In those days certain places heard pop music ahead of other places, a concept which would be hard to conceive of in the 21st century. Anyway, I actually taught the band to play "That'll Be the Day," and this gave me a certain je ne sais quoi. At the time I had not learned to play guitar, so this was quite an achievement for me and for the bandleader's son, whose name I have forgotten.
As for names of the kids in the above photo, which is the only picture I have from my year in Athabasca: on the left. half of a person names Cremer. Next, the guy with a white car coat, is the youngest Fix brother. His father Charlie Fix owned a service station in town. I believe this was Junior Fix. He had older brothers, Alan and Don.
Now for the gals: In the rear, leaning backwards, I believe is Sandy's (John
Richel's steady) younger sister; perhaps Jane. On the sofa, rear right, Cathy Philipzyk and Patricia, last name not coming to me. And in the foreground, Erin Wright, adopted daughter on Dr. Wright, town doctor who owned a DeSoto and also had a son Jamie who we called Doc. Erin was my girlfriend sometimes. I think she had issues, perhaps traceable to being adopted. (shrug).
I moved to Athabasca, Alberta, at the end of June, 1957. Athabasca is a small town about ninety miles north of Edmonton in northern Alberta. It has a big river (the Athabasca) flowing past, but it's a good distance from Lake Athabasca: about 350 miles if you wanted to float there. The river is the longest in Alberta and the lake is large but most of it is in Saskatchewan.
I had just graduated from University School, a private boarding school in Victoria, B.C. I'd been going to that school, as a boarder, for the past seven years, (since the age of nine,) while my father, a single parent, had been working as the Cariboo regional Medical Health Officer for the British Columbia government in Prince George.
This is a lot of information for someone unfamiliar with my world to take in, I know, but just stay with me. I was sixteen years old and had never been to a public school, never been to school with girls, had a brother, Peter (3 and 1/2 years older), but never had friends outside of my boarding school. I was planning on going to the University of B.C. in Vancouver that September.
 |
| My father, dressed for the weather in Prince George. |
We drove from Prince George, in central British Columbia, to Athabasca soon after I arrived "home" from boarding school. I wrote "home" that way because for nine months each year the school was my home: my bedroom shared with seven or eight others; my living room quite communal and the kitchen and dining room was the domain of a professional chef.
Athabasca represented a continuation of the Prince George experience. I expected to spend most of my summer solo, since I didn't know anybody and was shy of going out and meeting new people.
However, my life was changed completely when John Richel turned up at the front door of my dad's rented house. I had been in Athabasca for a few days, my dad was probably at work, and I could have been reading a book. I did that quite a lot.
Suddenly here was this force of nature at the door, telling me who I was, asking me if I'd like to jump in his delivery van (he had a part-time job as delivery boy for a local grocer) and immediately threatening to take me over. In a nice way. John was blond, wore glasses, was about 6 feet tall, strongly built and slightly bow-legged. He had a ready smile and a charming lack of shyness. His father, a big man named Nestor, later played bridge regularly with my father. His mother was warm and friendly, a perfect example for me who'd never had a mother at all.
 |
| House party at Doc Wrights. Town kids. |
The teenagers loved the rock'n'roll set: it was the heyday of Elvis, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis. I had just come from an urban environment and was familiar with Buddy Holly's "That'll Be the Day," which the country bumpkins had never heard of. In those days certain places heard pop music ahead of other places, a concept which would be hard to conceive of in the 21st century. Anyway, I actually taught the band to play "That'll Be the Day," and this gave me a certain je ne sais quoi. At the time I had not learned to play guitar, so this was quite an achievement for me and for the bandleader's son, whose name I have forgotten.
As for names of the kids in the above photo, which is the only picture I have from my year in Athabasca: on the left. half of a person names Cremer. Next, the guy with a white car coat, is the youngest Fix brother. His father Charlie Fix owned a service station in town. I believe this was Junior Fix. He had older brothers, Alan and Don.
Now for the gals: In the rear, leaning backwards, I believe is Sandy's (John
Richel's steady) younger sister; perhaps Jane. On the sofa, rear right, Cathy Philipzyk and Patricia, last name not coming to me. And in the foreground, Erin Wright, adopted daughter on Dr. Wright, town doctor who owned a DeSoto and also had a son Jamie who we called Doc. Erin was my girlfriend sometimes. I think she had issues, perhaps traceable to being adopted. (shrug).
Sunday, February 9, 2020
Christmas in England
I'd been wanting to do Christmas in England for many years now. The Christmas I'm thinking of was probably invented in New England — Dickens, Rudolph, Angels roasting, figgy pudding, 12 days, 3 Kings, and a partridge in a pear tree: that Christmas.
I think we did it once before, in 1996 or thereabouts.
I know we did Christmas in France, in 1994; they called it "Nöel" which seemed impolite. But that was France: Chateau Bidaine in Provence: far too "Mediterranean" to have much to do with Frosty the Snowman or the birth of Christ in a creche. Of course I spent the first Christmas in England — no, not that one, I mean mine: Tickhill, nr. Doncaster, Yorkshire pudding, World War II. Then from 1941 through 1946 (the War, cont.), and again from 1963 through 1970. But enough statistics, lets talk about the present.
We arrived in London on the morning of the day: Christmas 2019. Traveling on Virgin Atlantic, we got upgraded to first class; a wonderful present as we were able to sip champagne and then totter into a horizontal position when we were ready. It certainly ruins you for Economy. At the beginning of the flight, perhaps pre-take-off even, the chief steward rambled scratchily on the PA system (why, if they can launch a huge airplane into the ether, can they not install a PA system that sounds intelligible?) about some act of charity and how the crew would like to return the favor and do somebody a good deed in return so they asked anybody who was born in 1940 or before to speak up and make themselves known.
I waved my arm and the stewardess I had spoken to as I came on board came over and squatted by my seat. I told her I'd been born in 1940 and after we kibitzed for a moment, she disappeared. A few moments later the head steward, whose name was Billy, came and squatted in the aisle beside my seat and it was then I became aware that something truly momentous was about to happen. Billy and one or two stewardesses — they were all costumed in a manner befitting the occasion (Christmas Eve, remember) then began to gather our coats and luggage and with a Heigh-Ho, Ho Follow, Follow, they led us into the realm of the first-class passengers.
From that moment on it didn't even feel like we were inside an airplane. Marsha had sometimes described the feeling (in Economy) as traveling inside a tuna can and it's hard to deny that. But this, now, felt like being back on dry land, as it were. You could move around without expecting to fall down, bump your head and slither underneath a seat.
In fact there is nowhere inside a large contemporary passenger plane that should give the impression of spaciousness, but the contrast between the classes is so great and the champagne in your hand so meritorious, that you immediately feel like a million bucks, in a place immune to things like airplane crashes. Everything is much more permanent in First Class. In the words of the immortal Hank Williams, "there'll be no teardrops tonight."
We arrived at London Heathrow — LHR to you frequent flyers — at around 7 a.m. and were to be met by my daughter, Justine, and her husband Hugh who live in Balham just three or four railway stops from Victoria Station. It was here that the trouble first began.
Since we fly to Europe and spend some months there nearly every year, we have duplicates of our musical equipment and a plenteous wardrobe. But all our stuff is at the Chateau Pruniers in the middle of France. And we are staying a week in London and then flying on RyanAir, an airline noted for being very stingy with their customers' luggage allowance. Of course you can carry as much luggage as you want on the brief hop from Stanstead (London) across the Channel to Poitiers in mid-France. But doing so makes a mockery of the original reason for getting tickets on RyanAir:the price!
To further complicate the matter, since I have no guitar in England, yet plenty at home in Louisiana, I decided to bring one with me. I could leave it with Justine and she, who is coming out as a singer, could have an instrument to practice on for at least the 11 months I am not there. It's a Takamine Classical very much like the one I leave in France. I packed it in the sturdy case that was specially built for my handmade (by Ron) Louisiana swamp guitar. The case looks like a small coffin and is virtually indestructible. The airline baggage handlers will not harm this baby!
Alas! The guitar doesn't even arrive. The revenge of the baggage handlers. We wait futilely until the gondola, or whatever they call it, has practically squeaked itself to death and then I have to report the situation to the proper desk. Luckily it's going to be pretty easy to spot if it hasn't been stolen. The case is unique.
The woman behind the counter has a very positive attitude. If she thinks my case is hopeless (pun?), she certainly doesn't let on. "They will deliver the guitar to your London address (Balham) when they locate it. Probably tomorrow," she says.
I thank her and hope for the best, though I can't help thinking I may never see it again because the baggage mis-handlers threw it up in the air and crashed to the tarmac in several pieces, or it took a detour to Mali and was purloined by a young Malian airport worker.
We finally head for the exit and quickly find Hugh and Justine. We tell them the sad story of the errant Takamine and almost forget the heartwarming tale of the First Class upgrade. Something similar had happened to them, recently; nice for them, we think, but it cheapens our own good fortune slightly. Not really. I was just looking for a good turn of phrase.
Their car is small. A mini, in fact. It couldn't get much smaller unless it was a Smart car, but we managed to cram ourselves in there for the ride back to their house. We took the Westway to Hammersmith and the Circular past Wandsworth Common. Because of Christmas there was very little traffic on the road. In a way it was fortunate that the guitar was somewhere in Africa.
The plan was to move in to our bedroom in Balham, take a nap, then cross London to Highgate where my sister Fiona was preparing Christmas dinner with her partner, Benn, an Irishman she has been seeing for a couple of years.
By the way, when Benn and Fiona first met, he mentioned that he had a house in France where he spent most of his down time. I don't know the details of the conversation but at some point Fiona must have asked him "Whereabouts in France?" to which he would have replied,"Oh, you wouldn't know it, it's a small town in the middle of France." (A pause here, perhaps, while he decides whether to tell her more of this obscure yet picturesque destination.) "It's a little place called Montmorillon," he adds.
Now it so happens that Montmorillon is home to, or rather, three kilometers south of, the Chateau Pruniers, which Fiona is quite familiar with and always welcome at. What an amazing coincidence! It looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of them.
The fifth member of our family entourage, George Anderson, was asleep in one of the small, first floor bedrooms at 93 Ravenslea, which has been Hugh's London (Balham) home since back in the 1990's. George is the younger son of my cousin Robert Anderson who is the same age as me; or one month older. They are a soldierly pair. Robert had a career in the British Army, working his way up to chief Psychologist. He peaked during the time of the Gulf Wars. George has turned his less-than-stellar career in the same Army into physical education instruction which he is doing in the wide open spaces of the London parks. I'm not quite sure how it works but George advertises himself as a personal trainer or a group instructor. He is in good shape.
George is quite large so he is offered the front seat; Marsha, Justine and I will share the back seat along with overnight bags and piles of "pressies." We may have been crowded on the way from the airport, but we could not have taken on the guitar for this phase of the trip crosstown to Highgate Village.
On the move again, and again not so much traffic on this Christmas Day. Christmas party withFiona and Benn, Gemma and Tiger, Marsha and me, George, champagne, turkey, brandy butter, brussels sprouts, etc. The movie and huge TV, "Four Weddings and a Funeral." George talked quite a lot, a clear indication that he had been over-served.
We slept in the tiny microwave apartment which is a perfectly decent sized bedroom, and a perfectly fine little bathroom (shower, toilet and basin), with a microwave in between and a door out to the balcony. Fine for a day or a few, or as a pied-à-terre. The weather was sunny and clear all Christmas Day, we did photos on the big balcony, and it drearied up on Boxing Day.
Boxing Day we get up late and go back to south London to Justine and Hugh's. During the following days we spend a lot of time around the house which we are good at these days. When we first started traveling extensively we used our time differently: when we were visiting Europe we packed as much activity as possible into each waking hour; now we treat each day as though we were at home, which is Louisiana at the moment.
That may also be a function of old age.
One evening we met Fiona and Benn at the Royal Academy (The Art museum on Piccadilly) to see a show which featured the self-portraits of Lucien Freud, a grandson of Sigmund who lived in London most, if not all. his life. A refugee from Hitler's pogroms.
Afterwards we met Justine, who had been working at her English teaching, at Fortnum and Mason's for a glass of wine. And then to 45,Jermyn Street, the restaurant next door. This was perhaps the most expensive restaurant I've ever been to, and the food was pretty good, the atmosphere very high class and fun.
We are basically doing public transport, now, as it would be silly to use the little car. So it's either the underground at Balham Station/Northern Line (half a mile - 9 minutes walk) or the Southern RR system at Wandsworth Common (.2 of a mile - 5 minutes.) There is also a Rail Station at Balham, but . . . The railway takes one to Victoria Station which offers a whole new palate of destinations, including a tube to the Tate Britain.
One day Hugh and I took this route to the Tate to see William Blake's show.
We all left London together to go to the New Years' party at "the chateau" in Montmorillon. Fiona and Benn were taking the train — the Chunnel, Paris and Poitiers. We were flying to Poitiers Airport via London Stanstead. This is the Ryanair route and it is a cheap jump ( 10, 15 quid each maybe) but baggage is restricted and it costs about 10 or 15 quid to get the train from Wandsworth Common vis Victoria.
To be continued. We spent the next week in France and the following one in New York City. We flew back home to Shreveport on January 14th.
I think we did it once before, in 1996 or thereabouts.
I know we did Christmas in France, in 1994; they called it "Nöel" which seemed impolite. But that was France: Chateau Bidaine in Provence: far too "Mediterranean" to have much to do with Frosty the Snowman or the birth of Christ in a creche. Of course I spent the first Christmas in England — no, not that one, I mean mine: Tickhill, nr. Doncaster, Yorkshire pudding, World War II. Then from 1941 through 1946 (the War, cont.), and again from 1963 through 1970. But enough statistics, lets talk about the present.
We arrived in London on the morning of the day: Christmas 2019. Traveling on Virgin Atlantic, we got upgraded to first class; a wonderful present as we were able to sip champagne and then totter into a horizontal position when we were ready. It certainly ruins you for Economy. At the beginning of the flight, perhaps pre-take-off even, the chief steward rambled scratchily on the PA system (why, if they can launch a huge airplane into the ether, can they not install a PA system that sounds intelligible?) about some act of charity and how the crew would like to return the favor and do somebody a good deed in return so they asked anybody who was born in 1940 or before to speak up and make themselves known.
I waved my arm and the stewardess I had spoken to as I came on board came over and squatted by my seat. I told her I'd been born in 1940 and after we kibitzed for a moment, she disappeared. A few moments later the head steward, whose name was Billy, came and squatted in the aisle beside my seat and it was then I became aware that something truly momentous was about to happen. Billy and one or two stewardesses — they were all costumed in a manner befitting the occasion (Christmas Eve, remember) then began to gather our coats and luggage and with a Heigh-Ho, Ho Follow, Follow, they led us into the realm of the first-class passengers.
From that moment on it didn't even feel like we were inside an airplane. Marsha had sometimes described the feeling (in Economy) as traveling inside a tuna can and it's hard to deny that. But this, now, felt like being back on dry land, as it were. You could move around without expecting to fall down, bump your head and slither underneath a seat.
In fact there is nowhere inside a large contemporary passenger plane that should give the impression of spaciousness, but the contrast between the classes is so great and the champagne in your hand so meritorious, that you immediately feel like a million bucks, in a place immune to things like airplane crashes. Everything is much more permanent in First Class. In the words of the immortal Hank Williams, "there'll be no teardrops tonight."
We arrived at London Heathrow — LHR to you frequent flyers — at around 7 a.m. and were to be met by my daughter, Justine, and her husband Hugh who live in Balham just three or four railway stops from Victoria Station. It was here that the trouble first began.
Since we fly to Europe and spend some months there nearly every year, we have duplicates of our musical equipment and a plenteous wardrobe. But all our stuff is at the Chateau Pruniers in the middle of France. And we are staying a week in London and then flying on RyanAir, an airline noted for being very stingy with their customers' luggage allowance. Of course you can carry as much luggage as you want on the brief hop from Stanstead (London) across the Channel to Poitiers in mid-France. But doing so makes a mockery of the original reason for getting tickets on RyanAir:the price!
To further complicate the matter, since I have no guitar in England, yet plenty at home in Louisiana, I decided to bring one with me. I could leave it with Justine and she, who is coming out as a singer, could have an instrument to practice on for at least the 11 months I am not there. It's a Takamine Classical very much like the one I leave in France. I packed it in the sturdy case that was specially built for my handmade (by Ron) Louisiana swamp guitar. The case looks like a small coffin and is virtually indestructible. The airline baggage handlers will not harm this baby!
Alas! The guitar doesn't even arrive. The revenge of the baggage handlers. We wait futilely until the gondola, or whatever they call it, has practically squeaked itself to death and then I have to report the situation to the proper desk. Luckily it's going to be pretty easy to spot if it hasn't been stolen. The case is unique.
The woman behind the counter has a very positive attitude. If she thinks my case is hopeless (pun?), she certainly doesn't let on. "They will deliver the guitar to your London address (Balham) when they locate it. Probably tomorrow," she says.
I thank her and hope for the best, though I can't help thinking I may never see it again because the baggage mis-handlers threw it up in the air and crashed to the tarmac in several pieces, or it took a detour to Mali and was purloined by a young Malian airport worker.
We finally head for the exit and quickly find Hugh and Justine. We tell them the sad story of the errant Takamine and almost forget the heartwarming tale of the First Class upgrade. Something similar had happened to them, recently; nice for them, we think, but it cheapens our own good fortune slightly. Not really. I was just looking for a good turn of phrase.
Their car is small. A mini, in fact. It couldn't get much smaller unless it was a Smart car, but we managed to cram ourselves in there for the ride back to their house. We took the Westway to Hammersmith and the Circular past Wandsworth Common. Because of Christmas there was very little traffic on the road. In a way it was fortunate that the guitar was somewhere in Africa.
The plan was to move in to our bedroom in Balham, take a nap, then cross London to Highgate where my sister Fiona was preparing Christmas dinner with her partner, Benn, an Irishman she has been seeing for a couple of years.
By the way, when Benn and Fiona first met, he mentioned that he had a house in France where he spent most of his down time. I don't know the details of the conversation but at some point Fiona must have asked him "Whereabouts in France?" to which he would have replied,"Oh, you wouldn't know it, it's a small town in the middle of France." (A pause here, perhaps, while he decides whether to tell her more of this obscure yet picturesque destination.) "It's a little place called Montmorillon," he adds.
Now it so happens that Montmorillon is home to, or rather, three kilometers south of, the Chateau Pruniers, which Fiona is quite familiar with and always welcome at. What an amazing coincidence! It looks like we'll be seeing a lot more of them.
The fifth member of our family entourage, George Anderson, was asleep in one of the small, first floor bedrooms at 93 Ravenslea, which has been Hugh's London (Balham) home since back in the 1990's. George is the younger son of my cousin Robert Anderson who is the same age as me; or one month older. They are a soldierly pair. Robert had a career in the British Army, working his way up to chief Psychologist. He peaked during the time of the Gulf Wars. George has turned his less-than-stellar career in the same Army into physical education instruction which he is doing in the wide open spaces of the London parks. I'm not quite sure how it works but George advertises himself as a personal trainer or a group instructor. He is in good shape.
George is quite large so he is offered the front seat; Marsha, Justine and I will share the back seat along with overnight bags and piles of "pressies." We may have been crowded on the way from the airport, but we could not have taken on the guitar for this phase of the trip crosstown to Highgate Village.
On the move again, and again not so much traffic on this Christmas Day. Christmas party withFiona and Benn, Gemma and Tiger, Marsha and me, George, champagne, turkey, brandy butter, brussels sprouts, etc. The movie and huge TV, "Four Weddings and a Funeral." George talked quite a lot, a clear indication that he had been over-served.
We slept in the tiny microwave apartment which is a perfectly decent sized bedroom, and a perfectly fine little bathroom (shower, toilet and basin), with a microwave in between and a door out to the balcony. Fine for a day or a few, or as a pied-à-terre. The weather was sunny and clear all Christmas Day, we did photos on the big balcony, and it drearied up on Boxing Day.
Boxing Day we get up late and go back to south London to Justine and Hugh's. During the following days we spend a lot of time around the house which we are good at these days. When we first started traveling extensively we used our time differently: when we were visiting Europe we packed as much activity as possible into each waking hour; now we treat each day as though we were at home, which is Louisiana at the moment.
That may also be a function of old age.
One evening we met Fiona and Benn at the Royal Academy (The Art museum on Piccadilly) to see a show which featured the self-portraits of Lucien Freud, a grandson of Sigmund who lived in London most, if not all. his life. A refugee from Hitler's pogroms.
 |
| Fortnum's all lit up for Xmas. |
We are basically doing public transport, now, as it would be silly to use the little car. So it's either the underground at Balham Station/Northern Line (half a mile - 9 minutes walk) or the Southern RR system at Wandsworth Common (.2 of a mile - 5 minutes.) There is also a Rail Station at Balham, but . . . The railway takes one to Victoria Station which offers a whole new palate of destinations, including a tube to the Tate Britain.
One day Hugh and I took this route to the Tate to see William Blake's show.
We met Justine there. Marsha wasn't feeling well so she stayed at the house.
We all left London together to go to the New Years' party at "the chateau" in Montmorillon. Fiona and Benn were taking the train — the Chunnel, Paris and Poitiers. We were flying to Poitiers Airport via London Stanstead. This is the Ryanair route and it is a cheap jump ( 10, 15 quid each maybe) but baggage is restricted and it costs about 10 or 15 quid to get the train from Wandsworth Common vis Victoria.
 |
| Hugh and Ivan. |
Thursday, December 19, 2019
A Cajun Christmas.
Is this a blog or a plog (photo log)?https://youtu.be/LsEmc4voG0g
https://youtu.be/LsEmc4voG0ghttps://youtu.be/LsEmc4voG0g
https://youtu.be/LsEmc4voG0ghttps://youtu.be/LsEmc4voG0g
Monday, March 25, 2019
Public Radio
Public Radio
I was over at the Public Radio station during the Fund Raiser, to talk up the idea of giving financial support. "We know you're listening, so why not send in a few dollars to help us stay on the air?"
I have been associated with Public Radio for almost forty years, but have not been actually employed there since 1992. When I retired, I left them with my Christmas show — Cajun Christmas, co-produced by Lee Conger (right); it's a program which is still broadcast, annually. Also, I will participate in the Fund Raiser if I'm in town. My wife, Marsha, will work on the phone bank. The fund raisers are getting a little more arduous, year by year — a 'slog' I called it this time and Wally Derleth, the local jazz host, thought that was a pretty good characterization of the event. They were always difficult; most of us don't like having to interrupt the regular programming and ask for money. We are mostly artists, writers and musicians without much idea of how money is made. You can hear these "drives" on your local radio station, or see them at your PBS TV affiliate. They can be embarrassing, but the fact is: that's the way they make their money. They also make money through writing grants to government entities such as the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) and private foundations, and by applying directly to wealthy corporations and businesses. Part of the very small staff works full time raising money and organizing fund raisers. It's hard, complicated work, and it's a slog.
The whole business reminded me, this time, of my own experience with this radio station. The studios are in south Shreveport, Louisiana, in a converted chapel on the edge of the campus of the State University. They are beautiful, functional, and purpose-build within the last few years. When I worked for the station, beginning in 1987, the studios were located in a "temporary" eyesore, a rectangular hut with aluminum siding and a couple of rooms full of junk. This structure sat next to a similar hut which housed our offices. The fact is, it worked perfectly well for about 25 years and, since it's radio, nobody noticed that it looked like crap.
Back in the mid-80s Marsha and I had started a folk festival in Bossier City, (Grassroots,) and we visited the radio station looking to get some publicity. We probably got PSAs on two or three stations but KDAQ, this Public station, was the only one that asked me,"Would I like to start my own, hour-long, weekly folk music show?" I guess I leapt at the idea. I do remember a meeting with Tom Livingston, the lanky General Manager, when I said I'd like it to be about "Louisiana folk music." He agreed that would be a good idea and sent me off to make up a name for it.
I didn't know much about Louisiana folk music at the time, except that I'd been familiar with Leadbelly since my college days in Vancouver, B.C., and Marsha and I had visited South Louisiana and fallen in love with the culture of Cajunland. We'd also lured a Cajun band — Gene Savoie and his Playboys — to come up to Bossier City to perform at our Grassroots Festival. They stayed at our house, slept all over our living room, ate our food, and played for free. They were fabulous, and not all boys; Gene's wife played the bass.
The festival was a great success; along with the Cajun band we had an Irish band, two Bluegrass bands, Clog dancers, Otis and Artis Johnson and their African drummers, the state fiddle champ Mary Grimsley, and my wife and I. We did a set of mostly comedic folksongs like "Grandpa Went to Florida to Die" "My Son, the Preacher" and "Four Nights Drunk" about a woman who . . . oh, never mind! When I say "great success," I don't mean it made money or attracted a multitude. It just felt right; we repeated it the next few years.
The week following the festival I met with Tom Livingstone again to finalize plans for the radio show. In a burst of showmanship, I suggested we name it "Gumbo's Air Show," but Tom, a low-key scholarly fellow from Minnesota, seemed to prefer my second choice — "Louisiana Folk Music" — so we went with that. It was several months before we went on the air — an example of Tom's caution — I got a bit antsy but, truth be told, the delay allowed me to become much more familiar with my subject matter and I was able to gather quite an extensive library of 45 and 33 1/3 rpm records.
As the start date drew nearer, I had to go in for an hour of training, for nobody but me was going to engineer my program. There weren't enough staff to go around. Also, I was scheduled for 7 pm Saturdays (after "Prairie Home Companion:") and nobody likes to work on weekends. I would have to fly solo. In those days we were required to have a live body in the station 24 hours a day and for several hours on a Saturday, I was to be that live body. The night man, a hoary antique whiskey-voiced radio veteran named Leon Smith, didn't come on until 11 pm.
I was not only to keep the station up and running; I had to put my own records on the turntables. Therefore, the first order of business was learning how to use the record players like a DJ would: turn the table to where the music began, then spin backwards one half turn and hold it. You had two turntables, so you could line up one disc ahead. I learned how to switch on and off the microphones and modulate the volume on air and on headphones. Over my first few weeks there were occasional technical blips and stretches of the dreaded "dead air," but I got through them without being fired and the program became an integral part of the regional airwaves. I don't think anybody liked what I was doing quite as much as I did.
About mid-way through my Public Radio career, the new General Manager, Catherine Fraser, offered me a new, paid position as Arts Producer. Once again I leapt at the idea. Tom Livingston had been NPR's man to shepherd our new station into existence, and because he was successful, he was given the General Managership at one of NPR's flagship stations in Washington, DC.
As Arts Producer I was to produce, which is exactly what it sounds like, a four to nine minute module to fit into Morning Edition on Fridays at 7:20 and 8:20. My subject was the Arts and my territory included anywhere our radio signal could be heard.
By the time I took up this expanded job, perhaps early 1989, the station had grown into a regional network. We had coverage to the south of us in central Louisiana at KLSA, Alexandria, and another station to the north at KBSA, El Dorado, Arkansas. By the time I left, in June, 1992, we had added a fourth station, KLDN in the Piney Woods of East Texas. We were then, and still are now, known as Red River Radio, and in the year 2019 we have yet another East Texas station covering Kilgore and Longview.
My own personal goal, apart from making these modules as interesting and educational as possible, was to make them fit seamlessly with the slick, professional content of Morning Edition in general. I didn't want to sound like some clumsy local bumpkin, and I didn't want them to be boring. By the time I moved on from Public Radio I'm pretty sure I achieved my goal. And I loved my job.
At the beginning of this article I mentioned my radio program, Cajun Christmas, which I created originally in 1990 as a live show and then as a transcription for a syndication by American Public Radio. It was broadcast to some one hundred radio stations in the Public Radio nation, and has been broadcast somewhere annually ever since; on Red River Radio if nowhere else. One year I broadcast it on European Country Music from England.
Cajun Christmas was done in the style of all my radio shows — with tape and a razor blade. It has been safely transferred to digital and exists in CD form, Tech time marches on and we have only a foggy idea of what in store for us in the next few years, but the robots are on the march and they are not learning to wield razor blades. Not for making radio programs, anyway.
As for fund drives, how does the future look? Whenever you start spending more time raising money than spending it, it's going to feel like politics. Maybe things haven't gone quite that far, but what can be done to keep costs in line? Or to treat PBS and NPR like Britain treats the BBC. Like necessities. Like the National treasures they are. Presently, things are looking a little shaky. Lets hope that Public Radio stays with us a few more decades. It's up to all of us.
I was over at the Public Radio station during the Fund Raiser, to talk up the idea of giving financial support. "We know you're listening, so why not send in a few dollars to help us stay on the air?"
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| With KDAQ Stn. Mgr. Lee Conger, doing a remote from Doyle Jeter's Enoch's Cafe, Shreveport, 1990-ish. |
I have been associated with Public Radio for almost forty years, but have not been actually employed there since 1992. When I retired, I left them with my Christmas show — Cajun Christmas, co-produced by Lee Conger (right); it's a program which is still broadcast, annually. Also, I will participate in the Fund Raiser if I'm in town. My wife, Marsha, will work on the phone bank. The fund raisers are getting a little more arduous, year by year — a 'slog' I called it this time and Wally Derleth, the local jazz host, thought that was a pretty good characterization of the event. They were always difficult; most of us don't like having to interrupt the regular programming and ask for money. We are mostly artists, writers and musicians without much idea of how money is made. You can hear these "drives" on your local radio station, or see them at your PBS TV affiliate. They can be embarrassing, but the fact is: that's the way they make their money. They also make money through writing grants to government entities such as the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) and private foundations, and by applying directly to wealthy corporations and businesses. Part of the very small staff works full time raising money and organizing fund raisers. It's hard, complicated work, and it's a slog.
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| With Public Radio dog, Cammie, in our old broadcast studio at LSUS. |
The whole business reminded me, this time, of my own experience with this radio station. The studios are in south Shreveport, Louisiana, in a converted chapel on the edge of the campus of the State University. They are beautiful, functional, and purpose-build within the last few years. When I worked for the station, beginning in 1987, the studios were located in a "temporary" eyesore, a rectangular hut with aluminum siding and a couple of rooms full of junk. This structure sat next to a similar hut which housed our offices. The fact is, it worked perfectly well for about 25 years and, since it's radio, nobody noticed that it looked like crap.
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| Out in the field with Beethoven NPR T-Shirt & cassette recorder. |
I didn't know much about Louisiana folk music at the time, except that I'd been familiar with Leadbelly since my college days in Vancouver, B.C., and Marsha and I had visited South Louisiana and fallen in love with the culture of Cajunland. We'd also lured a Cajun band — Gene Savoie and his Playboys — to come up to Bossier City to perform at our Grassroots Festival. They stayed at our house, slept all over our living room, ate our food, and played for free. They were fabulous, and not all boys; Gene's wife played the bass.
The festival was a great success; along with the Cajun band we had an Irish band, two Bluegrass bands, Clog dancers, Otis and Artis Johnson and their African drummers, the state fiddle champ Mary Grimsley, and my wife and I. We did a set of mostly comedic folksongs like "Grandpa Went to Florida to Die" "My Son, the Preacher" and "Four Nights Drunk" about a woman who . . . oh, never mind! When I say "great success," I don't mean it made money or attracted a multitude. It just felt right; we repeated it the next few years.
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| With Marsha and Swallow Records' owner Floyd Soileau. |
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| Robert Trudeau's blessing in the Shreveport Journal — or was it Forum magazine? |
About mid-way through my Public Radio career, the new General Manager, Catherine Fraser, offered me a new, paid position as Arts Producer. Once again I leapt at the idea. Tom Livingston had been NPR's man to shepherd our new station into existence, and because he was successful, he was given the General Managership at one of NPR's flagship stations in Washington, DC.
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| My arm, microphone and Jazz man Danny Barker |
As Arts Producer I was to produce, which is exactly what it sounds like, a four to nine minute module to fit into Morning Edition on Fridays at 7:20 and 8:20. My subject was the Arts and my territory included anywhere our radio signal could be heard.
My own personal goal, apart from making these modules as interesting and educational as possible, was to make them fit seamlessly with the slick, professional content of Morning Edition in general. I didn't want to sound like some clumsy local bumpkin, and I didn't want them to be boring. By the time I moved on from Public Radio I'm pretty sure I achieved my goal. And I loved my job.
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| With blues singer Marvin Seals at Public Radio 89.9 FM broadcast from LSUS Theater. Nov.1, 1991 |
At the beginning of this article I mentioned my radio program, Cajun Christmas, which I created originally in 1990 as a live show and then as a transcription for a syndication by American Public Radio. It was broadcast to some one hundred radio stations in the Public Radio nation, and has been broadcast somewhere annually ever since; on Red River Radio if nowhere else. One year I broadcast it on European Country Music from England.
Cajun Christmas was done in the style of all my radio shows — with tape and a razor blade. It has been safely transferred to digital and exists in CD form, Tech time marches on and we have only a foggy idea of what in store for us in the next few years, but the robots are on the march and they are not learning to wield razor blades. Not for making radio programs, anyway.
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| Nunc Allie Young, a regular on Louisiana Folk Music. |
Tuesday, March 5, 2019
University School
The school we attended in Victoria, B.C., was University School. It has since merged with another private boarding school for boys and become St. Michael's University School, which is co-educational and very forward looking. It looks as if one could get a very liberal education there. My brother Peter got a four-year scholarship to the school and he was there from 1950 to 1954. Then he moved on to the (actual) University of British Columbia in Vancouver. I remained at the school in Victoria until June, 1957, at which time I was sixteen years old, graduating from 12th grade, and planning to attend UBC.
From the very beginning, September, 1950, I liked this school. It compared so favorably to Athlone School in Vancouver that it was hard not to. It was like paradise — the food was edible and the discipline relaxed. It wasn't ruled by despots. The only drawback was its location: being in Victoria meant we couldn't go home on weekends, so we only saw our father for the three annual holidays, Christmas, Easter, and summer. Having our parent(s) in Prince George meant that we were among a small group of boarders who lived more than a couple of hours from the school. About half the students were "day-boys" who lived in Victoria; another batch lived on Vancouver Island, and thus could drive home; some lived on the mainland in Vancouver, Seattle, and Tacoma and so were a ferry ride away. We were a ferry ride plus another five hundred miles; there weren't many like us, though there was one from Venezuela another from Costa Rica during my time; there was also Jim McClaskey from Portland; also Spike Dalziel from the Yukon and a guy called Gordon Geddes who also came from Prince George. He was in my brother's class but back in Prince George he moved in different circles.
As for ethnicity, we were predominately White Anglo-Saxon Protestant; I wish my Dad had signed us up as Roman Catholic (he was an atheist so it didn't matter to him) because what few Catholics there were got the freedom of a bus ride into town and a very short Sunday service. We Anglicans had to form up in two columns, march a mile or two to St. Luke's Church in Saanich, and get excruciatingly bored by an hour and a half of ritual and sermonizing. Lucky catholics! They probably could have skipped the whole thing and nobody would have noticed.
There was a family of Sikhs from an hour or so up the Island: Mindy, Gindy, Vigindy and Mike - Mayo. They were on the roll call as Mayo I, II, III and IV. Mike was my age and we were on pretty good terms. The three elders (Vigindy may have been a cousin) wore turbans, but not Mike. I have no idea why. I do know that the family integrated well into our society, and Mindy was an asset to the rugby team.
We had at least one jewish guy, (Levi), who came from Vancouver or maybe Portland, Oregon, the latino from Costa Rica who was heavyweight boxing champ, and LaTour from Venezuela who we considered French rather than Latino. We did make fun of Levi, had a little jingle ("Levi's got a deal") because he often came up with "a deal," but I think we liked him OK and even thought he was pretty cool. There was certainly cruelty in the way we dealt with one another, and it wasn't a good idea to parade any weaknesses; but racism wasn't rampant by any means.
This picture of me would've been taken on a Saturday
morning when we were allowed to wear any clothes we wished. I am in the quad with Harvey House in the background. I may have been serving detention, though I don't look unhappy about it. Detention was handed out in "hours" by teachers and prefects during the week, and worked off like community service on Saturdays. Accumulating three hours of detention during the week was not uncommon (9-12 am) and 1 hour was expected now and then. There were so many rules to be broken.
Most of our teachers were characters: white-haired Mr. Genge always seemed to be in a world of his own. It was generally understood that he'd gotten shell-shocked during World War II. The story was that he'd been a tank commander, blown up in his own tank. He taught Latin and Greek and was heard tom say "gneep" at irregular intervals. We felt we had to be careful around Mr. Genge lest he suddenly explode. In fact there was the time in Latin class when we were working quietly on some project and MR. Genge looked at his watch and muttered "time" and someone thought he was asking for the time and we all thought this mis-communication was so funny we very nearly laughed out loud, so that when Shaefer actually DID laugh, a kind of wild horse laugh, Genge exploded and flew down the aisle, yanked poor little Shaefer out of his desk, dragged him to the hallway and gave him a violent beating. The rest of us were horrified.
Mostly, though, Mr. Genge was a reasonably peaceful man. Mr Storr was another story. Middle-aged, compact, with a big salt-and-pepper mustache and a red face, Mr. Storr was in charge of the book store and the junior rugby team. One time in 7th grade we discovered that the teachers' chair had a broken leg, so between classes a group of us set it up so that it would collapse a soon as anyone sat in it. Mr. Storr was the next teacher and for about ten tantalizing minutes he criss-crossed his platform while our eyes followed him with a mounting sense of anxiety. Finally he went to sit; the chair collapsed and he disappeared behind the desk only to rise seconds later with a roar like a wounded lion. He picked up the chair and, in one motion, hurled it at the wall where it made a satisfying crack as it slid to the floor in several pieces. He may have made an attempt to find out who was responsible, but we never let on. His nickname was "Crazy."
J.J.Timmis, M.A. (Oxon) was Headmaster during my seven years at University School. We gathered that he'd got his MA at Oxford; he spoke like he had a mouthful of hot potatoes and taught Mathematics to the seniors. For six years, then, I knew I had J.J. to look forward to at 9 o'clock each school day; it was not a happy prospect. We did not call him J.,J.; we had another nickname for him which made fun of the way he spoke. Each morning there was an assembly which involved a roll-call, announcements, the handing out of awards, a prayer or two, and a hymn. We particularly liked the idea of Timmis nnouncing the number of "Hymn number 444," because of the way he pronounced his 4s, and his nickname became, "Foi-foi." I'm not sure there was a hymn number 444, but the nickname stuck.
Mr Hinton was the science teacher; he rarely strayed from his natural habitat, the Chem Lab. He was a gentle soul and we never bothered him much nor did we saddle him with a nickname. His story was that he invented radar during the war. HE didn't tell us this story, but in retrospect it's possible that he'd worked on some such project.
Mr. (Reg) Wenman was the most notorious teacher, and, because he called us "birds," he was known as "The Bird." He lived for the school; indeed, he'd been a student at the school and returned later to become a teacher. When I was at my smallest, I feared the Bird. He was a tall, hard man who stood like a vulture in the doorway of his sports equipment room as we walked past during breaks from class. His room was across the hall from Crazy Storr's room and either one or both of them would be standing in their doorways, monitoring the flow of traffic in the hallway. The Bird was the coach of the Rugby and Cricket teams and therefore wielded a lot of clout. He used heavy sarcasm and picked at one seemingly randomly, so one didn't want to draw his attention. During my second year at the school, the Bird was sent away to a sanitarium to be treated for tuberculosis. Much to my relief and the relief of many other students.
During the years that the Bird was away, we had a blond-haired body-builder name Derek Hyde-Lay to replace him as Games Master; we didn't use the term "Coach." Hyde-Lay was just too Sportsy for me and I dare say he never knew who I was. I was passable at Games, but certainly no "athlete." Sports were compulsory at our school and this included boxing during the Spring term, and Cross-country running during the mud season. Of course we played rugby and cricket and I was on the Colts rugby team, which was the team for boys under 120 pounds weight. I qualified for that team right up through the 11th grade. We had three teams to represent the school: the 1st XV, the 2nd XV, and the Colts XV, and a game day against St. George's school of Vancouver or Shawnigan Lake School up the island had a real festive air about them. We also played against local high schools like Oak Bay and Victoria High, but they rarely had a 2nd XV.
We did quite a lot of travel just to get to and from the school. I'm sure you could fly from Victoria to Vancouver, but I don't have any clear memory of doing it; we went by boat. As soon as school finished and the holidays began, we were off to the docks to catch the CPR Ferry off the Island. Sometimes it was the overnight service known as the Midnight Boat which left at midnight and got you to Vancouver in the morning. I think you had to debark by eight or nine o'clock, though the boat arrived probably by five or six.
I remember having a cabin on board and I remember getting drunk on lemon gin; my first experience with liquor was on the Midnight boat to Vancouver. There were usually about six of us kids from the school on the boat.
The CPR ferries were like small ocean liners. If you took the Queen Mary and just smalled it down somewhat, you'd have the Princess Mary. Looking back through the names of these boats that plied the routes on the West Coast during the nineteen-fifties, I find the Princess Patricia — or, Princess Pat — to be a very familiar name. Perhaps that was the ship we travelled on most often.
I forget how it worked the next day; we may have stayed overnight in Vancouver with our alternate parents, Marie and Bill Harrison-Eke. I would guess they'd pick us up at the boat and take us to the airport or wherever we needed to be. I believe we took the PGE railway during the early 50's when it ran from Squamish to Quesnel, and the only way to get to Squamish was by a Union Steamship vessel from downtown Vancouver. I don't remember, but we may have just gone from one dock to another,
The Ekes were our home in Vancouver: our Dad had met them soon after we arrived in Canada, in 1947, and they lived in a comfortable apartment on Haro Street in downtown Vancouver. By the early fifties they had built and moved into a house with a view and a giddy location halfway up the mountain in West Vancouver. It would still count as one of the best locations in the city. We could always count on Marie and Bill to take good care of us.
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| At our Dad's apartment in Prince George, dressed to leave for school in Victoria. |
From the very beginning, September, 1950, I liked this school. It compared so favorably to Athlone School in Vancouver that it was hard not to. It was like paradise — the food was edible and the discipline relaxed. It wasn't ruled by despots. The only drawback was its location: being in Victoria meant we couldn't go home on weekends, so we only saw our father for the three annual holidays, Christmas, Easter, and summer. Having our parent(s) in Prince George meant that we were among a small group of boarders who lived more than a couple of hours from the school. About half the students were "day-boys" who lived in Victoria; another batch lived on Vancouver Island, and thus could drive home; some lived on the mainland in Vancouver, Seattle, and Tacoma and so were a ferry ride away. We were a ferry ride plus another five hundred miles; there weren't many like us, though there was one from Venezuela another from Costa Rica during my time; there was also Jim McClaskey from Portland; also Spike Dalziel from the Yukon and a guy called Gordon Geddes who also came from Prince George. He was in my brother's class but back in Prince George he moved in different circles.
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| Peter on rugby field with main school building behind. |
There was a family of Sikhs from an hour or so up the Island: Mindy, Gindy, Vigindy and Mike - Mayo. They were on the roll call as Mayo I, II, III and IV. Mike was my age and we were on pretty good terms. The three elders (Vigindy may have been a cousin) wore turbans, but not Mike. I have no idea why. I do know that the family integrated well into our society, and Mindy was an asset to the rugby team.
We had at least one jewish guy, (Levi), who came from Vancouver or maybe Portland, Oregon, the latino from Costa Rica who was heavyweight boxing champ, and LaTour from Venezuela who we considered French rather than Latino. We did make fun of Levi, had a little jingle ("Levi's got a deal") because he often came up with "a deal," but I think we liked him OK and even thought he was pretty cool. There was certainly cruelty in the way we dealt with one another, and it wasn't a good idea to parade any weaknesses; but racism wasn't rampant by any means.This picture of me would've been taken on a Saturday
morning when we were allowed to wear any clothes we wished. I am in the quad with Harvey House in the background. I may have been serving detention, though I don't look unhappy about it. Detention was handed out in "hours" by teachers and prefects during the week, and worked off like community service on Saturdays. Accumulating three hours of detention during the week was not uncommon (9-12 am) and 1 hour was expected now and then. There were so many rules to be broken.
Most of our teachers were characters: white-haired Mr. Genge always seemed to be in a world of his own. It was generally understood that he'd gotten shell-shocked during World War II. The story was that he'd been a tank commander, blown up in his own tank. He taught Latin and Greek and was heard tom say "gneep" at irregular intervals. We felt we had to be careful around Mr. Genge lest he suddenly explode. In fact there was the time in Latin class when we were working quietly on some project and MR. Genge looked at his watch and muttered "time" and someone thought he was asking for the time and we all thought this mis-communication was so funny we very nearly laughed out loud, so that when Shaefer actually DID laugh, a kind of wild horse laugh, Genge exploded and flew down the aisle, yanked poor little Shaefer out of his desk, dragged him to the hallway and gave him a violent beating. The rest of us were horrified.
Mostly, though, Mr. Genge was a reasonably peaceful man. Mr Storr was another story. Middle-aged, compact, with a big salt-and-pepper mustache and a red face, Mr. Storr was in charge of the book store and the junior rugby team. One time in 7th grade we discovered that the teachers' chair had a broken leg, so between classes a group of us set it up so that it would collapse a soon as anyone sat in it. Mr. Storr was the next teacher and for about ten tantalizing minutes he criss-crossed his platform while our eyes followed him with a mounting sense of anxiety. Finally he went to sit; the chair collapsed and he disappeared behind the desk only to rise seconds later with a roar like a wounded lion. He picked up the chair and, in one motion, hurled it at the wall where it made a satisfying crack as it slid to the floor in several pieces. He may have made an attempt to find out who was responsible, but we never let on. His nickname was "Crazy."
J.J.Timmis, M.A. (Oxon) was Headmaster during my seven years at University School. We gathered that he'd got his MA at Oxford; he spoke like he had a mouthful of hot potatoes and taught Mathematics to the seniors. For six years, then, I knew I had J.J. to look forward to at 9 o'clock each school day; it was not a happy prospect. We did not call him J.,J.; we had another nickname for him which made fun of the way he spoke. Each morning there was an assembly which involved a roll-call, announcements, the handing out of awards, a prayer or two, and a hymn. We particularly liked the idea of Timmis nnouncing the number of "Hymn number 444," because of the way he pronounced his 4s, and his nickname became, "Foi-foi." I'm not sure there was a hymn number 444, but the nickname stuck.
Mr Hinton was the science teacher; he rarely strayed from his natural habitat, the Chem Lab. He was a gentle soul and we never bothered him much nor did we saddle him with a nickname. His story was that he invented radar during the war. HE didn't tell us this story, but in retrospect it's possible that he'd worked on some such project.
Mr. (Reg) Wenman was the most notorious teacher, and, because he called us "birds," he was known as "The Bird." He lived for the school; indeed, he'd been a student at the school and returned later to become a teacher. When I was at my smallest, I feared the Bird. He was a tall, hard man who stood like a vulture in the doorway of his sports equipment room as we walked past during breaks from class. His room was across the hall from Crazy Storr's room and either one or both of them would be standing in their doorways, monitoring the flow of traffic in the hallway. The Bird was the coach of the Rugby and Cricket teams and therefore wielded a lot of clout. He used heavy sarcasm and picked at one seemingly randomly, so one didn't want to draw his attention. During my second year at the school, the Bird was sent away to a sanitarium to be treated for tuberculosis. Much to my relief and the relief of many other students.
During the years that the Bird was away, we had a blond-haired body-builder name Derek Hyde-Lay to replace him as Games Master; we didn't use the term "Coach." Hyde-Lay was just too Sportsy for me and I dare say he never knew who I was. I was passable at Games, but certainly no "athlete." Sports were compulsory at our school and this included boxing during the Spring term, and Cross-country running during the mud season. Of course we played rugby and cricket and I was on the Colts rugby team, which was the team for boys under 120 pounds weight. I qualified for that team right up through the 11th grade. We had three teams to represent the school: the 1st XV, the 2nd XV, and the Colts XV, and a game day against St. George's school of Vancouver or Shawnigan Lake School up the island had a real festive air about them. We also played against local high schools like Oak Bay and Victoria High, but they rarely had a 2nd XV.
We did quite a lot of travel just to get to and from the school. I'm sure you could fly from Victoria to Vancouver, but I don't have any clear memory of doing it; we went by boat. As soon as school finished and the holidays began, we were off to the docks to catch the CPR Ferry off the Island. Sometimes it was the overnight service known as the Midnight Boat which left at midnight and got you to Vancouver in the morning. I think you had to debark by eight or nine o'clock, though the boat arrived probably by five or six.
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| Peter on the daytime Ferry between Vancouver and Vancouver Island. |
The CPR ferries were like small ocean liners. If you took the Queen Mary and just smalled it down somewhat, you'd have the Princess Mary. Looking back through the names of these boats that plied the routes on the West Coast during the nineteen-fifties, I find the Princess Patricia — or, Princess Pat — to be a very familiar name. Perhaps that was the ship we travelled on most often.
The Ekes were our home in Vancouver: our Dad had met them soon after we arrived in Canada, in 1947, and they lived in a comfortable apartment on Haro Street in downtown Vancouver. By the early fifties they had built and moved into a house with a view and a giddy location halfway up the mountain in West Vancouver. It would still count as one of the best locations in the city. We could always count on Marie and Bill to take good care of us.
Friday, January 25, 2019
Arriving at Prince George
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| Prince George is north-central crossroads. |
Arriving at Prince George: (Below): My brother, center, and I arriving at Prince George Airport, circa 1952, Dec-ember. My father (r) was the Medical Health Officer for an area in British Columbia about the size of an average Southern US State. We dropped in on him from time to time. The winters were c-c-cold in this part of the world. I remember one night it got down to —57˚ F. I don't know who took this picture, but if I had it to do over, I'd ask them to stand a little closer. Canadian Pacific Airlines equipment included DC-3s which had been broken in during World War II. They had a scheduled route from Vancouver to Kamloops to Williams Lake to Prince George. For seven years, between 1950 and 1957, my brother and I lived between Prince George and Victoria, B.C. Victoria is the Capital of B.C. and is at the bottom left of the map, on the southern tip of Vancouver Island. Just to give some sense of scale, The Island is more than 350 miles from top to bottom.
Our boarding school (University School) was in Victoria so we lived there during the school year, from mid-September to Christmas; from early January to Easter; and then the summer term up to the June equinox; about nine months of the year. My brother was there during his four years of High School and I was there for seven years, starting in sixth grade.
I remember the flights, but not separately or individually. I remember the sick bag; I used it once or twice. I remember the time we lost power in one engine, but apparently DC-3s are quite happy with one engine out, so we survived. The stewardesses were young and cute and asked the question, "Coffee, tea or milk?" There was a lot more room in the seats. I was a lot smaller. I think I did the trip three or four times, at least. Over a period of seven years, I took the trip from Victoria to Vancouver to Prince George and return 21 times. That's a lot of take-offs and landings. Though some years we took the train, and a couple of times we had other arrangements. The drive from Vancouver to Prince George was 500 miles of hard road. A lot of gravel. From Victoria to Vancouver we took the Canadian Pacific Princess liners, big old ferries that looked like ocean liners.
We flew "home" to Prince some of those holidays, but a couple of times we took a train, the PGE.
The PGE (Pacific Great Eastern) was described as "the railway that started nowhere and terminated nowhere." The original intention was to build a railway that started in Vancouver and ended at the largest, most prosperous city in central B.C., but for many years, between 1912 and the early '50's, it ran between Squamish and Quesnel. There was a steamship ride to Squamish, and on the way, though I don't recall it, a stop in Bowen Island. At least according to the accompanying video. (See map — Squamish is north of Vancouver and Quesnel is south of Prince George.) When I lived in Prince George there was a gravel road from Quesnel and I seem to remember there was no road between North Vancouver and Squamish!
Video shot for the Government of British Columbia circa 1946, which would be the year before my father, my brother and I arrived in BC, drove up the Fraser River Valley to Lac La Hache in the Cariboo country, visited Williams Lake for the first time — I think we shopped there — and had a magical summer at Emerald Lodge. In 1950, my father. Dr. Hugh Brown, got the job as Director of the (Govt. run) Cariboo Health Unit, based in Prince George with subsidiary offices in Williams Lake and Quesnel, and, going east from Prince George, Vanderhoof. The idea was to staff these regional offices with a couple of nurses (RNs) and a Sanitary Inspector. The video's a little choppy, but if you're interested, it's a good historical document.
So the PGE was the but of jokes ("Prince George Eventually") and indeed, sometime in the 1950's, it was completed at both ends and made for a wonderfully scenic rail journey. It was an overnite trip which included the romance of Pullman Cars, a Dining Car and an Observation Dome. The track wound through the Coast Range of mountains which are easily as scenic as the Rockies. Now, the PGE has been extended to Dawson Creek, BC, but, sadly, it no longer carries passengers.
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