A Place to Go

The aches of living day by day wear on us;

But not so fast - more like sandpaper on old wood.

We need something besides earning a living;

Perhaps just a sunny day or the taste of sweet water.

We are not always admitted to others' special places,

So we wander around and look for our own.

I find the places of the heart are all over;

Between the pages of unread books or in a dusty attic.

There are places we go in our thoughts and real life;

On the edge of a lake, a high spot on a mountain,

Maybe amongst the trees or in a canyon of colors,

Or a strong wind on an ocean beach.

We find ourselves there at odd times;

Sometimes alone or with friends or family.

It's a wishing place and a hopeful time;

One heals there, kneels there, and waits there.

There is no particular hurry and the air feels good;

Like a first kiss or the joy of running for the fun of it.

We hold things there like stones, or grass or memories;

We run to these places for refuge and a touch of something.

God seems more real and the earth more constant.

We smile, cry, but in a different way, almost shy;

We think of other places but in a better frame of mind;

We just feel special as we skip a stone across something.

We tell ourselves that all is well or getting better,

Even if it is not true we choose to believe it,

The tears are there - drops of pearls and sunshine,

All hooked to a rainbow that came for the day.

Digby

The Hill

I saw a hill and the cross in the distance;

There was no one on it or near it.

The silence crept over me and I listened;

I remembered the words

"King of the Jews," and I wept.


My heart never left the place;

My mind couldn't rest even for a minute.

I know so little about Jesus Christ;

But he knew so much about me.


So I pulled in all the light and the darkness faded;

Christ was now by the cross, hands outstretched.

I knew it was for all of us but I felt special just the same;

The feeling light had come and all would have access to it.


Now it was a signal to begin again;

It was a direction for the hesitant,

The shining hope of the most fractured heart.

Come follow me never meant so much.


Now the suffering is not over but we will go on;

The chains don't rattle as much when we're in the faith.

The purpose is clear and I'll stay with it to the end;

I'm heading home and taking my piece of the cross with me.

Digby

Morning

I awake each day refreshed

Sleep rubbed off by a night of peace;

The hour is early and I read.

A quiet time pushing past to present.



There are sounds just for the morning;

The scratch of a tree branch on the house;

The creaking and the rubbing of things;

Maybe my squeaky chair, a slight cough

Or is it that wonderful quiet.



A breeze sings through the open window;

My mind pauses on this or that and then,

Squanders its message for no reason,

And I just sit not caring and waiting.



Maybe it is just that any direction is fine;

Perhaps it's the warm cup of chocolate in my hand.

I sip and then sip again in complete satisfaction,

Just holding on and feeling well for the moment.


I see the cat slinking along the porch rail;

The dogs bark at something I can't see or hear;

I turn toward the sunrise and blink;

It's nice and warm and almost fuzzy.


There's a book on the table opened to a page;

It reads: "Fail your way to success."

I laugh and suck the jam off my fingers;

I hear my wife in the shower as the door bangs.


The sounds are beginning to be different;

The wind has come up and a train whistle

Sounds down the track to a given mile.

I await for the computer to warm up;

There's that funny connection sound

As I plug into the internet.


The headlines on the news are glaring

But far from sanitized or even worth reading.

The stock market is open and I check;

The stocks are down or at least mine are;

I think about that and doze off for few minutes.


I begin to stir for the new day begins;

I do my oblations, comb down my thinning hair;

I feed myself, the dogs, the cats and say prayers;

Kiss my wife good bye and stop for a moment.


I take a deep breath of fresh air as I step to the Jeep;

I'll be back tomorrow I promise myself,

And then feel that playful attitude comes over me;

I say just for fun: "Until then everybody out of the pool."

Digby

The Worst Place

I had just gotten out of the Royal Canadian Air Force and decided to go with new friends to Northern British Columbia to homestead. Well, I made the 1500 mile trip; the little money I had was almost used up in getting settled and having enough food for the month. Now I had to find a job and there wasn't much room in the back country for the skills I had acquired in the Air Force. Jobs were scarce up there but I needed a job, any job, and I found one. It was a job pulling lumber off a green chain in a Sawmill in the Chetwyn area. For those who don't know what that is - it is rather simple. Trees are cut into two by fours, 2 x sixes etc. Dimensional lumber is then placed on a green chain, which is a mechanism for moving the lumber along to men who stack it and sort it as it comes down the chain.

There were in town bunkhouses of a sort you could rent so I bunked with some guys who were raised in the north. Five thirty AM came early for me but that's the way of the north so you either go along or move away. If you are smart you can sleep until six thirty in the morning and get ready to be at work by 7:15 AM. If you were thinking, you showered the night before because in the morning the showers were quite busy and the last guy usually took a cold shower.

I reported to work and began the tedious task of sorting, stacking, piling, and lifting on the green chain. It went something like this: They sent the lumber down a long table with a chain that moved it at a required speed. You in turn pulled the lumber off the table and stacked it in piles of different dimensions and lengths. You were to slide them off the green chain and put them in stacks directly behind you. That meant you would stand sideways, pull them off, and slide them onto the different piles. Depending who you had for a sawyer, foreman or boss, he decided the speed of the chain.

So there I was, working up a sweat. I would work and think an hour must have gone by but instead, it was fifteen minutes. Time went by so slowly I thought my watch had stopped. The time not only dragged by but I dragged with it. By the time lunch came I was exhausted. I quickly found a pile of sawdust to lie down on for a little nap.

That nap was pretty good as it was the middle of winter. It seemed to me the sawdust I was laying on barely got warm when the back to work horn blasted me out of a place too far off to get back from, but I did. The afternoon was no better. By the time five oclock came around every muscle in my body was screaming at me. I had worked hard all my life but this required eight or nine hours of heavy lifting. However, my new friends were as chipper as could be. I went straight to the lodgings, almost fell asleep in the shower, and started toward my bed. My buddies asked me if I wanted to come along to the movies. I just stared at them in unbelief and promptly fell asleep.

I died in that bed for twelve hours and then was resurrected by a miracle called Jake who brought me back with some severe shaking. The same ritual went on that day and the days thereafter. Finally I could feel something else besides pain, and actually went to the shack we called home, read a magazine, had conversations and saw the odd movie. The days ahead were agony beyond tired muscles. I thought I would go out of my mind with the boredoom. Pull, stack and pile. Sort, stack and pull. My expression was always the same. I have no piano on my arm so what am I doing here?

My eyes were not blood shot but they seemed to have lost the light in them. I know I peeked out from them only to satisfy my craving for living.

The mill would shut down for various reasons during the week. Sometimes to realign or adjust the equipment or any other need that arose. They tried to do all of that maintenance in the off hours. There was no rest for us for we could then clean out the bark and sawdust bins but at least the screaming motors and other noise was still.

I found out some things about a sawmill and how it works. That's how I filled my empty days with anything that would take the mindless time to a tolerable step. The loggers cut the trees then send them to a sawmill by diferent ways -- by water they are put into a log pond, by truck to the mill or by railroad. The mill where I worked trucked in the logs. They store them on dry land and use loading equipment to load them onto a moving conveyor chain to the log debarker, or jets of water to remove the bark, or sand, or dirt, or small bits of metal. Next the carriage looks like railroad flat car and moves the log into the head saw. The saw makes a screaming sound as it tears into the wood. It is cut up into real rough pieces then the second saw called the edger trims up the board. This is done by highly skilled men who get the most and best boards out of a log. Next the boards go to a trimmer where they are cut up into exact lengths and the weak spots taken out. Now the green boards slide slowly on the green chain where a grader looks them over and gives them a grade. Size, quality and kind of wood are considered. It is well to note we cut softwoods in the Northwest -- evergreen fir, pine etc. They use a crayon to mark the lumber. Classifications are one to seven and stacked accordingly. Next the lumber is taken to dry kilns to get the moisture out of them. Specially heated buildings where instruments control the temperature and moisture of the air or in smaller mills by air drying. Now, aren't you glad for that information?

The seasoned workers at that time seemed to smoke or chew tobacco. The chewers had spitting contests and I swear they could hit a penny at ten feet. They didn't mind where they spit in the mill and a sweet sort of rancid smell came from their mouths. It was really a disgusting habit because it was, at best, looking at a puffy cheek loaded with chewing tobacco and a mouth with a constant need to spit.

Well, every day the excitement was hard to contain. What to do today! Shall I be completely numb or just half numb. Half numb was better because one needed to feel to work. The day took so long to end that the mind shut down and monotony hung over your spirit, plunging its dampers into your very being until you automatically did your work, unfeeling, unthinking and uninterested. You couldn't talk to the guy next to you! Why? Well the ringing in your ears was from the screaming saws. Shouting soon made you hoarse plus I was too tired to talk.

Two months went by and madness had taken over my mind. Minute after minute the boards came down. They seemed to never stop. The fierce cold made you bundle up and the hard work made you unbundle some. There was a light in the tunnel however. They had Chinooks up in that country. Chinooks are warm dry winds that come in from the south after dropping their moisture along the way. The temperature can go from thirty below to forty above in a matter of hours. Oh, sweet heaven when they came. We peeled off our jackets and felt warm enough to move without rustling.

My thoughts were interrupted when the foreman turned up the speed of the chain. The lumber came out faster than the two of us who were there could handle. Normally three or four did the work. We couldn't keep up, of course, and so the excess lumber went over the table to the ground. The foreman came out and saw the lumber on the ground and screamed and shouted and swore like a muleskinner at us. He asked who the "blankety-blank" let the lumber go over the chain. I told him he was the one who sped up the chain and walked away without a care in the world. He fired me on the spot.

I picked up my things and walked over the the planer mill where my buddy was the foreman. I told him the story and he laughed and said I could work here on the planer mill. He just had a guy quit and he could use me. It wasn't an hour later that the Green Chain foreman came over to the planer mill and saw me and said, "Didn't I just fire you?" "Yes," I said, "but I found this other job." The two foreman had a conversation. The old foreman was waving his arms around. My buddy just shook his head, grinned and said: "He stays." I would have to watch old spittle in the mouth for he was not happy. Several times after that when we were caught up for the day I would go over and help at the green chain. The old foreman skulked around but I kept my mouth shut and eventually we tolerated each other.

Well, four more months went by and I had finally saved enough money to move on. I packed my gear, took a deep breath and shouted for joy. I'm back from the dead, back from tortured turtle slow moving days. I looked over at the sawmill and the buildings and the logs. I saw the faces of some of the older guys whose yellow teeth and brown spittle leaked out of the corner of their mouths. For them it was ok. They drank enough to keep going and chewed enough to deaden their senses. For some this was life but for me life stood still for six months. I left with a spring in my step and a thirst to get more education and training. It was like a real bad tooth had been pulled and the ache had finally gone away. My old car seemed to surge ahead and the road never looked so inviting. I remember thinking,"If that was bit of Hell, then Heaven help me."

Digby

Special Things in 3's

Air so fresh and the scent of pine trees that are almost intoxicating


The smell of new mown hay in the barn


The smell of the ocean; a slight breeze drifting in.





Three sounds from my memory



The sound of a steam engine and its whistle


A partridge drumming its wings on a log in the wilderness


The loons' haunting sound and startled grace





Three tastes from my memory



Fresh baked bread with melting butter


Wild huckleberry jam on a bagel


Soft vanilla ice cream cone on a hot day





The smell of new mown hay.



The new mown hay is not a sweet smell nor is it rancid. It is the smell of a farm at its best.


The smell is floating in the air and both city and farm folk find it to their liking. Farm people who are used to the smell can stop on a trip and smell it from the road or the pond. It has its richest fragrance as it is stored in the barn. City folks just know it goes along with horses, cows and sheep. Ranch hands can smell it as they work in it and when they feed the animals and it is as natural to them as the air they breathe. One is reminded of kids with tossled hair laced with hay and a shoot of it sticking out of their mouths. It is home for the day and memories that last.


New mown hay brings folks together and young and old alike forget about weightier matters and get involved in having fun. 'Throw the horse over the fence some hay" say the Newfoundlanders. Why not; it is better than a lot of bull. The haying season is short in the north and when the last cut is done and stacked, one takes a deep breath and moves on. I always remember the smell of new mown hay for some time and when the moon is full I see haystacks and cut fields and a long Russell fence winding up into the woods. Everyone who has been around hay find it in their hair or somewhere. They bounced in it, rolled in it, played in it or worked in it to feed the critters. New mown hay, a clean smell working its way over a fence, under a tree, close to a pond or lake with easy breaths pushing it along to freshen up all who breathe in it. But wait! Hay fever and allergies have some folks scrambling for their inhalers. Yep! But breathe easy, folks, and don't let yourself miss the fiddlers and the barn dancing. The drinks are on the house. Admission is free and hey, who needs grass anyway?

Digby

Watching and Thinking

Years ago I developed a habit of wondering what other people were thinking and where they were going and what they were doing. It usually started when I was in a crowd waiting for a parade or standing in line at a theater or just having to wait for a friend to show up.

At first it was a series of different folks of different sizes walking or rushing by. I would see a lady of proportion looking like the night before was one too many at the bar or a disheveled looking older guy whose beard needed a good combing or a business man in a suit carrying a brief case with something weighing on his mind as he tripped and bumped into someone.

A hundred faces pointed in different directions and yet there was an order to their travels. The large lady was heading to catch a bus and the older guy headed into a magazine store while the business man walked through the revolving doors of a commercial building.

At first glance it seemed the large lady had a hang over but a second glance showed someone clearly worried. I imagined she was on a tight schedule but missing the bus was not in her plan. She got on the bus and her eyes were moist and her head hung down as she gripped her purse tightly and the pain on her face was apparent. She was rushing to see a very dear friend. She was so anxious she started to rock in her seat and finally the tears came and she sobbed. A young woman, seeing her plight, went and sat beside her and didn't ask what was wrong but said: "Sometimes there are events in our lives that hurt so much perhaps you could tell me about it. I'm a very good listener."

The woman looked at her, weighing the words she had spoken, and deciding if it would be alright. She then spoke and said: "My friend Jinny has been in an accident and it sounds serious and I am on my way to the hospital to see her. She hasn't anyone I know of except me and it is such a long way to the hospital because I have to change buses several times and I am so scared I might get there too late."

The young women felt her panic and said: "I have two dollars but you can have that and take a taxi but I'm afraid it won't be enough." Several pasengers, hearing what was being said, quickly came over and each offered a dollar. Someone spoke to the bus driver and asked if he could stop at a place where the lady could get a taxi. It was agreed to and she moved up front close to the door. The driver pulled to a stop and just before the large lady exited the bus she turned to all the passengers and said: "God bless you and I shall never forget your kindness."

She hurried down to the taxi stand and took a taxi to the hospital. She arrived in short order and was soon ushered to a nurses' station where the nurse said: "It is good your here. No one besides you has come and she has been asking for someone name Betty." "That's me," the large lady said, and asked what had happened.

"She has had a accident and has a concussion; she is in intensive care but she is coherent and you can go in and see her for a few minutes."The nurse continued, "She had your phone number in her purse and that is the only contact we had."

Betty walked into the intensive care, determined to be up beat and cheerful. Jinny spotted her and soon the two of them embraced and Betty found herself saying: "I can't leave you alone for a moment without you getting into trouble." Jinny smiled and said: "Oh, Betty, you're here and I feel better already."

The conversation was low and the caring for each other boosted both their spirits. Betty told her the story of the passengers on the bus. Jinny had happy tears and Betty knew her friend would be coming home soon. "Jinny! We are going to have to save up and go to see my sister Lily in Calgary and spend a couple of weeks with her." They both laughed and then sighed, knowing in their hearts that it could happen and it was something to look forward to.

Digby

A Short Life

There are days when the sun shines that it is dark and unperceiving of anything but the unhappiness we find there. It is well to say good things and think good thoughts but the outcome of such a day is sadness personified. The soul doesn't soar nor is the mind easy to shut down and the pain of it all seems unbearable. You don't get there by not forming friendships or by any other means than loving and caring and sharing.

World War II had ended and it seemed the air was filled with renewal as a nation of people went back to dreaming, planning, and taking a direction that catered to their brighter side and made the world seem a lot better. The soldiers had come home and their uniforms were put away. The church bells beckoned the faithful and the ringing of the bells was a pleasant sound on a Sunday morning. A lot of hearts had to be healed and a great deal of patience was needed to help those who came back with injuries and damage to their bodies and minds. The religious leaders worked hard to console the souls of families whose men had gone away in this life and gave what comfort they could to those who had come home.

One such person was known in the neighborhood as gentle Jack. He had come home with some limitations physically, but mentally he was a beacon of hope. He had injuries to his legs. The right leg looked all right but he had trouble putting any weight upon it and needed crutches to get along. The left leg was more noticeable as it was not straight but it could take some weight, although not for very long. His left arm was not fully useful but he could tuck a crutch under it. He had some serious scars along the left side of his face but there were two big round blue eyes that you noticed right away that softened his look plus a smile as big as outdoors. His laughter was contagious, sounding like it came from deep inside of him. When it got to the surface, that laugh just naturally spilled out and was a pleasant sort of chortling.

Jack shuffled along, using his crutches as best he could. The combination of making everything work for him gave the appearance of a guy going forward with a look of being just off kilter. It was almost as if he took two steps forward and half a step back. We noticed over time that he became pretty adept at getting around but always with great difficulty. It was hardest on him in the winter but I never heard him complain. His injuries were extensive. The war had spit him out and left him for dead but he perservered and came home to a world far different from the one he had left.

What made Jack stand out was his ability to be happy and to make others feel good just to be around him. There was no pity party and whatever he felt in the wee hours of the morning never left his lips. He lived simply and had a small house on our street. It was just a one bedroom but as neat as a pin. Jack did the yard work and he had a garden, flowers, and a favorite spot on his porch where he sat in the summer evenings looking out at the world before him. Neighbors would often stop and talk to him and I could hear him relating something he had learned or felt strongly about and saying it so clearly that there was no doubt as to what he meant. His conversations were full of details that many of us would not have noticed. He was a member of the Veteran's Administration and they met often. He would be picked by one of the group and brought home after the meeting.

His ravaged body somehow enhanced Jack's countenance. He felt comfortable around people which, when you consider it, was on its own a great accomplishment.

Jack never talked about family and we used to wonder about where he came from and what was his story. We didn't pry and he didn't say and the neighbors watched over him. It was a beautiful thing. Little things were done for him without a lot of fanfare. The paperboy put his newspaper in a holder while everyone else got their paper thrown on a porch, doorway, or yard. Jack was invited to anything going on the neighborhood. He found himself the recipient of pies, baked goods, and savory dishes which he welcomed and accepted in such a way that endeared him to all of us.

It got harder for Jack over a few years and yet he kept things up but he had slowed down and there was more pain in his eyes. One day as I went by his place, there he was pulling himself along the ground weeding his garden and attending to the flowers and still cutting the grass. You would say, "How are you doing, Jack?" and his classical reply was, "I got a hitch in my get-along but I work it the best I can." Sometimes when speaking with him there were moments when you could see he had trouble with his breathing. There were some moments of concern but he would bounce back and laugh and say, "Don't be nervous; it comes and goes but I like it when it goes."

Jack didn't want any help but never was pushy about it. He just smiled and said, "Oh, I need to work and you need to let me." He loved kids and we always felt the neighborhood would not be the same without Jack.

Then one day the word came to us. Jack had just keeled over at his house while sweeping the front porch. He had died of a heart attack and suddenly he was gone. The neighbors gathered around and there was little conversation at first, then the praises and accolades came forth in a way that showed such respect. Eyes were wiped and I looked over and there was a veteran who had paused in front of Jack's house. He raised his arm to a salute with tears running down his cheek. Jack had only been with us about five years but what an impression he left upon us. I heard neighbors talking about him a few days later and they said they had learned that Jack had just worn down from all his injuries until his heart just gave out.

Jack had been given some medals for his service with the Canadian Army and though he never displayed them or said anything to the neighborhood, his friends at the VA hospital said his injuries during the war came from holding back a small armored group. He had taken a direct hit but managed to give his comrades time to get out of harm's way. He was buried with full military honors and the veterans who showed up were considerable. Most of the neighborhood was there. Some words were spoken but it was the words that were not spoken that filled the air.

A happy decent man had left the earth and those around him had become his family. Jack had lived in pain and discomfort but always with a cheerful heart.

For a while it seemed that when I went by his house I could hear his laughter and see those blue eyes drinking in all around him and giving encouragement to all he met. The man we knew had embraced us and we had been part and parcel to his needs, although they were few, but that was the wonder of it. I was just a young boy but now, years later, I realize how God manages to make such noble creatures is one for the books. How he keeps them noble is one for the ages.

Digby

How Many Bars of Soap

Soap is more than a cleansing agent. It is history with a smell and a great deal of pleasure to it.

My younger years I can remember having my mother tell me to wash behind my ears and then she handed me a bar of soap. We were living on Dunrobin Avenue in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, and we didn't have any running water.

I fetched most of the water and filled up barrels. We got a lot from rain barrels that were hooked up to catch the water off the roof which ran into gutters and down spouts when it rained. The winter was harder as water had to be brought from a well several blocks away that a number of people had a key to access. So, water was used but not wasted.

I recall washing my hands in a basin filled with water but not warmed up, mind you. It was cold to the touch and one scrubbed his or her face and then when the hands had been rubbed together in that washing fashion, one took the remainder of the water and splashed it on his face several times, washing the soap away.

Often I would make that sound that everybody did where after splashing it on your face, you shook your head just like a dog does after you get done patting him or her. "Phaaaaughshuywop" and "blap," you gurgled out. You were done so combed your hair that had gotten all wet from the washing. A quick look in the mirror and you were ready to go to school or what have you.

As I got older and was still hauling water, there was the Saturday night bath. Boy, I hated that. My mother heated up the water on the wood stove and filled up two tubs. The old metal ones that you could barely sit in. That was fine but I had to use the same bath water that my sisters used and there always something floating on the top of the water that looked scummy. I would brush it aside and never dip my face in the water. It gave me good reason to hurry and get the washing done. It was also my job to empty the tubs and set them out on the back porch for the next bath.

I can only remember three types of soap in those days. Ivory soap, Fells Naptha, and Lava. Lava was rough and guys used it after doing a sweaty hard day's work. You could scrub up nice and clean from the Lava but it always felt like you were taking a little sand to your skin.

Ivory soap was great. It floated in the water and had a nice clean smell to it. It came in good size bars that us kids used to squeeze until it slipped out of our hands.

We used to have a great joke. You want to hear a new song? Yeh ! Ok, let me hum a few bars for you. "Soap, soap soap, soap."

Oh well, we finally moved and had running water. One could take a bath without heating up the water on the stove and no second hand water, just plain pure stuff out of the tap that was hot to start.

The first few times I scrubbed with Ivory, buried my face in tub water, blowing bubbles and singing a song I still remember. "Ivory soap is good for you, wash your face until it is new. Scrub your toes and wash your hair, and take a bath in your underwear."

Well, thru the years they came out with new toilet soaps. Why they called them that I don't know but the new bars gave the ladies a sense of smell and downright pleasure. If Ivory soap was 99.9 percent pure then the new soaps with all their perfume etc., were never as good in my opinion.

But then guys like things that don't smell too much and Ivory soap was right up there with "Brylcreem, a little dab will do ya. Brylcreem, you'll look so debonair. Brylcreem,the gals will all pursue ya. Simply rub a little in your hair." That was the jingle on the radio and once you heard it hundred times you remembered.

I can recall all sizes of soap but not packaged that way. I think my mother found an outlet for bits and pieces of soap and bought a lot of rejects for a time. Soap was soap. At least in the 1940's and 1950's.

I finally came back to my roots in my twenties and went homesteading in British Columbia, Canada. Back to no running water and rain barrels and ponds and creeks and a good bar of Ivory soap. There was a wash basin, usually next to the back door, with soap dish and a bucket of water. Man, that was refreshing. Scrubbing up was almost a ritual. One could throw the water around and splash and gurgle and make those "holy cow that water is cold" sounds.

Yet there was something about cold water early in the morning and all that washing going on and smelling the morning breakfast floating in from the kitichen stove. I have eaten a lot of things from store bought to homemade but when they're cooked on a wood stove by experienced hands there is a flavor that fills up your senses and you eat like there is no tomorrow. Coming in clean to the breakfast table was expected and the clean smell of soap added to the atmosphere. We took soap to a lot of locations in the wilderness where privacy could be had along with some interesting washing places.

Bathing in a creek is intense. You have to find a spot where you won't get jabbed in and out of the water. There are parts of a body that just don't take well to getting poked or pinched. Once in the water, especially in the early spring, the bathing process can be hurrried to within seconds of turning blue. The other times are more tolerable, especially when the sun is out. Mid summer almost makes it enjoyable and in winter one just gets by with sponge baths and heated water in the wash basin. Clothes are washed with a scrub board or at a laundramat, depending on how flush you are with money.

Well, the cares of the day are ahead in the morning when you're performing your ablution. It is invigorating, gets the blood pumping, and you feel alive with all that is around you.

One exception -- my buddy Barry sounding the breakfast call even as you are getting your last leg into your pants or buttoning up your shirt. He had an uncanny way of knowing when we were off schedule. What I liked about it was his good natured way of looking at things. "Come and get it or I am throwing it out." I never knew that man to be mean or unkind but he had his way and with some thinking about it you got to see his point of view. Sure there was grumbling and good natured shut up attitude but we liked him. His friendship for us was never in question.

Soap is a clean look at the world. More soap was when your mother caught you swearing and stuck a bar in your mouth. That cleaned things up considerably. Soap is in your saddle bag and suitcase and hand carry when you're poor. When things get a lot better financially, you can afford a regular motel where soap is provided. Most of my young adult life if I stayed anywhere it was in a cabin and no soap was found there. Every once in a while I would have a soap dish rather than the counter or bathroom sink or a board to lay it on. I would look at the soap dish with satisfaction and somehow feel it was a step up. I would grin at myself for how funny that would seem but nevertheless a soap dish is a thing of beauty. Someday I am going to convince Tanya McGraw to paint a picture of it for me in a western setting. In the meantime, put soap on your list and put a line under it to remind yourself of one of the simpler pleasures of life.


In my later years I always took the little soap bars from the motels. They must have expected it and I never let them down.

Making soap is a good idea, I think, even though I was never involved in it. I knew homesteaders who made soap and usually it was pretty good. I would bet if they had their wives use it, it would sit in the soap dish a good long time. Now, if the wives made it, you can bet it would be a lot better product.

Fats boiled with ashes or animal and vegetable oils with akaline salts is not high on my list of saving money. Buy the soap, I say!

Well , there are lots of uses for soap and some you know. There is saddle soap, rope soap, soap for getting things slippery, soap for washing, and one time soap for things like running into a skunk or falling into an outhouse or anything else you can name.

I would bet there is soap in heaven and for the gals it would be heavenly and for the guys soap that wouldn't slip out of your hands unless you wanted it to. As for me and soap, we have a long relationship and I would just as soon keep it that way.

I once stepped on a bar of soap in my half sleepy condition toward dusk. I let out a yahoo sound and headed for the wood pile that was near by. As luck would have it, all that got hurt was my pride. The point is, if you want to go for a ride, don't step on a bar of wet slippery soap.

I have used bar soap to scrub down some blue jeans when it was all I had. It was real hard to wring the soap out with cold water but it was clean and the result ok for a working guy.


One last thing when it comes to soap -- the white soap, especially Ivory, still has a high mark on my list. Do you think Ivory soap still floats?

Digby

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Your thoughts today are not worth what they were in the 1950's. A 1950's penny is worth considerably more today as the copper content then was a lot higher. Today a penny has about 90% zinc with a copper clad face.

In Canada, the penny of 1950 was plentiful but not as easily obtainable for us kids as the penny is now. We often would get a penny and put it on the railroad tracks before a train went by. Usually the penny came back to us in an oval shape and it became sort of a keepsake. If you tried that with a penny now I am not sure how it would look but I am sure it would not flatten out like the mostly copper penny did.

The saying "A penny saved is a penny earned" doesn't have the same meaning it had when we were kids. Imagine a steam engine weighing up to 175 tons rolling over that penny.

When I worked for the railroad, steam engines were on the way out and were being replaced by diesel engines. It took two or three diesels hooked up in tandem to replace those large steam engines. They were phased in slowly but in the late 1950's there were more and more diesels coming on line. I imagine those big diesels could flatten a penny in the same way but the steam engines had a magic to them all their own.

Travel by train was great. It started at their beautiful train stations. The one in Winnipeg was a thing to behold. The ceilings were higher than a little guy could throw a rock and the patterns and the little shops and ticket counters were like looking at a dream place. We waited around there to catch a train but we were just kids and we were not going anywhere. We imagined what it would be like to catch the 10:15 or 12:30 flyer.

Youser!! One just got excited to see the trains coming and going. The platforms were filled with people and the baggage carts were loaded. The passenger trains were a half mile long with skydome cars, sleepers, dining room cars, and us kids peeking from around pillars, seeing a world far away from the one in which we lived.

We caught a look at a state room one time as we snuck aboard a parked train that was open for cleaning. We poked our way down long corridor of cars that were out of sight when it came to luxury and accomodations.

We got chased away many times but we would head down again to the Winnipeg's main railroad station during our lunch hour, eating our lunches and taking a bus to and from the station to the school area with tickets we saved by sometimes catching a ride to school with folks we knew on their way to work.

Hanging around that railroad station was such fun. We used to watch a train leaving the station. The wheels of the engine would spin and there was a clatter and a chatter that made that steam engine slip and slide on its wheels for a moment. The steam would pour out above the engine along with the smoke from its belching smoke funnel. Slowly at first, it would move and then we would see the train conductor standing on the platform between cars waving at us kids. The engine roared and the sound was music to one's ears as the whole procession got underway.

We would head back to the station and look over the huge waiting room where announcements of arrivals and departures could be heard over the loudspeakers. Folks were everywhere and the sounds were like a live beehive in action. People were busy checking times and destinations and on their kids.

You heard all the sounds of living. Coughing, clearing of throats, singing, laughter, sometimes adults crying and babies crying. There were feet sticking out from the benches and the smell of food was everywhere. The most pleasant sound of all was of the train bells, steam engines puffing and railroad people calling out to all within hearing distance that it was fifteen minutes to boarding.

There were murals on the station walls and our imaginations were in full play as we imagined we were one of the passengers heading to a far off place. So much happens in a train station that it makes for a story a day. However, this story lasted a lifetime.

Four of us went to the train station on a Friday at noon. It was the usual combing the station and skirting around workers and staying away from anyone looking official. We were laughing and acting up and being mischievious when we were stopped in our tracks. There was a group of black people singing and playing musical instruments that sounded like it was coming from a far away place but it was right there before us. There must have been a good forty to fifty of them and they were waiting for a train. I never knew where they were going but their songs were especially spiritual in nature, coming from the depths of their souls. Folks in the station were gathered around and those singing were good natured people who sang like they were heading home after being away so long.

I never knew the songs but years later recognized them when I went to a special session of spiritual singing at Assiniboine park. Songs like "I feel like a motherless child," " Just a closer walk with thee," "Swing low sweet chariot."

The singers at the station sang many of the songs acappella in a bluesy sort of way. There were shouts at times along with dancing, handclapping and foot tapping. Us kids wanted to join in and the folks singing invited all who were watching to clap and dance if they felt like it. There was some moaning that was blissful mixed with humming and it was all so grand. We hung around until the last song was sung and the feeling we had was exhillarating. We left with the wonder of it all and felt in those songs there was more pain and more joy than we kids could understand.

Oh yeah, but we knew how it made us feel and so we left tapping our feet and dancing as we went back to school. What we didn't realize is that we had stayed an hour longer and we would be in for it when we went back to school. We talked it over and decided to say it straight to our teacher and principal as we knew we would be in his office before you could say jack rabbit. Sure enough, it was coming down on us but we had Jimmy speak for us because he had a way with words. He described it to a T and ended up saying, "We were caught up in the moment and we just couldn't tear ourselves away as it was like it had a hold on us." I remember the principal was smiling but Jimmy had done such a good job of saying it, and truthfully, that the principal gave us a lecture on obeying rules and how they affect everybody and went on about keeping order and the like. Finally he said for us to go back to our class and to remember in the future to think about not being late or next time there would be serious consequences.

We couldn't get out of there fast enough. Sometime later we heard back that the principal and teacher were so taken with all that had happened that they just couldn't bring themselves to punish us.

I knew from that day that our thoughts were worth much more than a penny. Every once in a while I close my eyes and I can hear those singers. The sounds fill me up and my heart seems much the better for it.

It was a place in time and the four of us kids never could shake it off. I guess we were lucky. Those kinds of experiences are not just classic, they are character building and us kids were characters that needed building to keep us going when the winters came and the home life pulled us down.

Digby

All Things Considered!

It was 1945 and World War II was over. I was nine years old and the excitement was tremendous. People were outside their homes celebrating. It was a day to remember. What day was it? I don't remember and even if I did it wouldn't make much difference. My uncles had gone to war and it was over. My mother and all my relatives, it seemed, got together which was rare for our family.

I was a Canadian and the war had started for our country in 1939. We were a member of the British Commonwealth and as such were bound to take England's part and do our duty. The British Commonwealth consisted of the United Kingdom, England, Scotland, the Irish free state and others. In a nutshell, they were former colonies who united with Britian in a mutual agreement for all countires that belonged to the commonwealth. That agreement took us to war.

Most of my uncles that I knew went off to war. Including my favorite uncle. He would talk to me like I was the only person in his life. I was just little and in my childlike way looked forward to his visits and loved him dearly. He came to say goodbye one day and I didn't understand except for the fact that he would be going somewhere and wouldn't be back for a time. I remember fighting back the tears because I was told to be a be a big boy. I wanted my dad to be like him but that dream was never a reality and far from anything my dad could possibly produce.

I digress: He went to war and when I was a little older I was told he wouldn't be coming back. I went off by myself and the tears came and there was nothing I could do to stop them. I shuddered, finally lay still and thought about him as only kids can do. The twinkle in his eyes, that laughter he could so easily bring forth and his kind way sat on my chest like a heavy playmate. I stared off somewhere and remember how the sadness engulfed me. There were no answers to my questions that I found any comfort in.

Why won't he be coming back? "He was killed in the war," I was told.

Why? Who would want to hurt uncle Tommy?

Sure, all kids at my age knew about death but we never welcomed it in and made sure it kept it's distance. It was hard to explain war and even harder to tell a little kid that war brings its own pain and there is nothing we can do about those who don't come home. I was told years later that he was part of a tank crew. The tank was hit and he managed to get halfway out of the hatch opening only to die there in a foreign country. The circumstances were never explained to me. I never asked a lot of questions in those days but for my uncle the questions came and it made no difference. He was dead, it was done, and we had to think about other things.

I told myself I would never forget him but time went by and he became a pleasant memory. I wished I had done something special for him. I'm not sure what that would be but I have since learned that those thoughtful things were not part of some families. That would come later in my life.

Well, as I said at the beginning, the War was over. It was on the radio and it was everywhere. Horns were honking like it was New Years Eve. People were coming outside of their homes and hugging each other. The air was electrified with voices and it seemed as if nothing could contain the happiness everyone was feeling. Neighbors talked about their sons coming home and how they could hardly wait to hear from them. One lady jumped for joy and said: "At last my son is safe."

I have been part of celebrations throughout my life and yet never was there a feeling like that day. Tears, of course, but the tears were happy tears for most. Many just sat down and bawled and even as a kid I knew what that meant.

Neighbors were out in the street in force laughing, crying and clasping their hands as if in prayer. Those with the heaviest of tears just seemed to be releasing all the pain because of someone they had lost and I can remember going over to a lady and putting my arm around her neck and saying, "Don't cry, lady, the war is over." She hugged me so tight that I could hardly breathe and said, "Yes, it is finally over and the world will be better off." I have since understood that remark so much better but the war was not over for mankind. Peace never sat down very long without being interrupted by destructive forces of evil.

My uncle was a bright spot in my life and he was taken from me. I don't know what would have happened if he had come back. Would it have been the same? I like to think so. I believe he would have made a difference in my life as we were kindred spirits. Yet, I knew what the effect of wars had upon my other uncles and they were the same personalities but there were changes that showed the effects of war. My aunts would sometimes talk of it. I never got the full sense of it then but I can imagine they were wrestling with things that took more than they could explain. The reasons of war were lost to a kid but the effects for some of us were not ever forgotten nor should they be.

After the war there were happier days when the sounds of living bounced us back into thinking better thoughts. I have taken many a road since them with an uncle's memory cheering me on at times. Who knows when the final book is closed on my earthly life what a story my uncle will tell me of his other journey in the heavens. All things considered, I think it's better to end this way. This one is for you Uncle Tommy.

Digby

Tulugak -- Raven

The ravens at Tucktoyatuk were a special lot. They were much bigger than the crows, which I never saw there, but had some mischievous ways. The Eskimos were always laughing at their antics.

It seems the Ravens liked to perch on the modules because they were the highest things around there. Often we would see them sitting on top of the roofs looking regal and fluffing their feathers. It seems they would take turns flying off and the line of black lumps would have a gap in it. Another would soon fill the hole and that went on for a long time. Sometimes they would all take off in flight and gather somewhere down on edge of the lakes.

One particular day a strong wind came in with some real cold weather. It was in the fall and the following morning I went outside and noticed that where the crows usually sat were these icicles lined up.

I couldn’t see any crow-type blackness at all. It was like they were entrenched there. I banged a pot as loud as I could and was not prepared for what I saw. The ravens tried to lift off but the icicles’ effect was still with them and they began to fall. It was only a short distance to the ground but what followed had the Eskimos and Indians laughing to beat the band.

The ravens were crashing into each other -- half flying and half falling. A moment later there were ravens squawking and yodeling as they do with one missing ingredient -- the icicles.
Having shed the icicles they all started to fly at once. The mid air collisions were hysterical. It was like watching a drunk trying to cross a skating rink. It was great fun.

The Eskimos nicknamed me Tulugak. Every time they saw me they would repeat it and then start smiling and laughing. I am not sure to this day what was going on there. All I know is that it would have been a great shot if I had had a camera.

Digby

The Multi-Colored Jacket

In 1950’s there was great concern for the Russian Menace so the United States and Canada built a “Distant Early Warning Line.” They called it the DEW line for short.

The Russians had built long-range bombers and exploded a hydrogen bomb, so a series of radar stations were built across the Canadian arctic, Alaska, Greenland etc. The whole idea was to detect incoming Soviet planes. The radar stations were scattered across frozen tundra and spaced so that each station covered an area plus over lapped the next station to make sure that there were no empty spots.

We who worked up there were from all walks of life. It drew Canadians, Irish, Scottish, Americans, and Denmark etc. The lead guys were the radar techs, electricians and other technical trades.

I was on the office staff at that time. Which in itself is peculiar because I had no skills except the ones that were self-taught like typing.

The radar stations were of different sizes. Some had up to 150 men while others a mere 25 or so. The stations had airstrips and were mostly served by the workhorse aircraft DC-3. They were totally reliable and our life line to the outside world.

When the weather was good we had a plane come in with supplies at least every two weeks and sometimes every week. You can imagine how we looked forward to getting mail and movies.

We were at a place called Tucktoyatuck. It was a peninsula with gravel base in the summer and hard frozen snow and ice in the winter. The fishing was Arctic Char and the small lakes were teaming with them and other species. So in the summer the fishermen amongst us had a ball. The rest of us stayed up too late in the constant daylight of the summer and in the winter found the darkness a little heavy on our moods.

There were amongst us Indians and Eskimos who lived off base in housing provided for them and managed, at the time, by the Federal Electric Corporation who had the contract for the stations.

So there we were, a small group living in modules lined up and connected by corridors with wide spots for kitchens, dining and recreation.

There was a bar and I was assigned to be the bartender by the Crew Chief who said it was best if I did it because I was the only one who didn’t drink. I was paid a small extra sum for it and, along with cutting guys’ hair, I made a little extra money. The Bar was opened at night after all the work was done and, as you can expect, it drew a number of people like a pin to a magnet.

One Saturday afternoon a DC –3 had come in and dropped off one passenger and picked up another who was leaving for “outside world.”

As was the custom, the new guy got himself settled and when the bar opened that evening he came in wearing a jacket that was multicolored. It had three colors -- blue, white and red. The lines on the jacket were fitting. The arms were red, the main body blue with a white collar and a white stripe down the center and around the base. It was a sight to behold.

The new guy was Irish and had quite a way with words, entertaining us with news from the outside and just generally having a good time. Through the evening, he took off his coat and placed it over a chair. In time he was a little drunk as he had been imbibing before he got to our base. He left to go to his room and forgot his jacket on the chair.

Meanwhile, another Irishmen had come in who was known as the practical joker amongst us. He noticed the jacket and asked me whom it belonged to, but before I could say anything one of the guys interrupted and said it belonged to him. I looked up rather startled but kept quiet.

The guy said to the Irishman: “I bought that jacket a while back and paid $60 for it but I hate the colors and I was half sloshed when I bought it.”

The Irishman said: “Why, that is a fine looking coat to be sure.”

The other fellow said: “I would sell it for $10 and be done with it.”

The Irishmen said: “Look lad, if your serious I’ll buy it from you.”

Sure, he wanted to sell the coat but he had to appear not to be too anxious. The fellow selling the coat hemmed and hawed. He sat straight up and looked the Irishman straight in the eye and said: “I want to sell it alright but you won’t change your mind tomorrow will you?”

The Irishmen said: “What do you take me for? I’ll give you my word and that’s the end of it.”

Just to make the deal stick, the Irishman spat lightly on his hand and offered it. The exchange was made and the Irishman went off with his new jacket.

The very next day the other Irishman was looking for his multi colored jacket and couldn’t find it. That evening when the bar was open the Irishman who bought the jacket came in wearing it. Of course the other Irishman said: “That’s my jacket!” and an argument ensued.

The two of them, being Irish, soon had their dukes up and ready to fight. It was getting quite heated when finally one of the people in the bar stepped between them and said: “Let’s sort this out.”

It was agreed and after much talk, the explanation was with the fellow who sold it. The two of them went looking for the fellow who sold the jacket. Pretty soon the two of them were back at the bar with the fellow that sold the jacket between them. They made him fess up to the trick of selling the jacket. After some explanation, the jacket was back in the original owner’s hands and all three of them were getting on ok and the $10 was back in the hands of the Irishman who bought the jacket.

Finally, the fellow who sold the jacket said to Ryan, the other Irishmen: “You had that coming, Ryan. You have played more tricks on all of us and it was about time you got your come up pence.” They all laughed good-naturedly and those in the room roared with laughter.

It was a moment of relief from the cares and isolation and being away from home was forgot for a moment.

The following morning a new episode came about but my laughter got me in trouble. The superintendent told me to grab a notebook and come with him. I did so and he said he was going to inspect the housing they had built for some of the regular Eskimos and Indians. It had been a year since they were finished and the families had moved in.

No one was notified; we just knocked on the doors and proceeded with our inspections. The first few places were pretty dirty and the walls were in bad shape. I was busy taking notes as the Superintendent muttered under his breath and made sure I had noticed what he noticed.

There were six houses in all and the last one made me laugh. We knocked on the door and a woman opened the door. There was her Eskimo husband skinning out a seal on the front room floor.

Why, I don’t know. Yes, it was bitterly cold outside but it didn’t make sense to make that mess when it could have been done outside.

The superintendent sputtered out to the Eskimo: “Why are you skinning the seal inside your house?” He replied: “Sure was a good idea at the time. Should I take it out now and finish outside?”

I broke out laughing and the Superintendent, who was from the south, said: “Ah don’t know what you find so funny, Mr. Granger, but this is no laughing matter.”

We started back and the Superintendent asked me again what I found so funny. I replied: “Well, the Eskimos have been here a couple of thousand years. I can’t see how a few years would change their habits.” He barked some unkind things at me and I was on his list after that no matter what I did.

Digby

Speaking From The Pulpit

It was 1958 and I had just joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The world was full of troubled areas and I was still in the Canadian Air force. Nothing really eventful had filled my life until this transformation of accepting the gospel of Jesus Christ.

To my friends it was a passing phase and the question: “You joined what? The Mormon Church! Never heard them (or) don’t the men have more than one wife?”

My mother said: “Just don’t get sanctimonious on me.” I looked it up and it meant pretending you’re something you’re not.

Well, there I was at twenty-one years old a full-fledged member of a faith still strange to me.

Bobby Fischer, a fourteen-year-old boy, had just won the United States Chess Championship.

Nikita Krushchev became Premier of the Soviet Union.

Elvis Presley received his draft notice.

I was walking and chewing gum at the same time.

The small group of Latter Day Saints numbering just eighty people in a city of over 200,000 would not be impressive in anyone’s circle, except the great folks gathered in that part of the Lord’s vineyard. I was immediately accepted and felt quite at home with the setting and the people.

When you join a new organization there are rules, traditions, and requirements that make up its reason for being. I soon found myself busy and just a little nervous, as there was no paid priesthood in the church. Yet, things got done and there were some really talented people doing them.

The first two months I was invited to people’s homes and began to feel part of that Branch. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

A fellow named Monty Stout, who was the head of Canadian Linen Co, had expertise in so many things. He was well liked, well educated, and talented, which always drew people to him like a pin to a magnet.

One day Monty came up to me and said: “Can you come to my house on Thursday?” I said: “Sure; what’s going on?” “Oh nothing,” he replied, “except for you.” “How’s that?” I said. “Well, I noticed you talk using a little slang and street talk and thought perhaps we could explore some grammar lessons.”

He was quite right, of course. I had two languages at that time: Profane and English and I certainly could use a little polish.

For a few weeks Monty worked with me and was really kind and considerate which gave me some pause for reflection. He never made me feel anything but special and threw a little fun in with it.

Monty could play a musical saw and his wife Lois played a fine violin.

So started my association with other church members and my life took on greater meaning.

A few Sundays later, I was asked to speak in a sacrament meeting for five minutes. My mind raced ahead to that day and I thought about it. I looked at the Branch President, who had made the call, and said: “You can’t mean it.” He said he surely did and not to worry about it. It would be fine and I was amongst friends. He didn’t assign me a subject but said my testimony could be part of it and gave me some idea of how to go about it.

Now, Monty Stout heard about it and also was helpful as I prepared.

At last the Sunday came when I was to speak. I had almost backed out a few times. I had made some preparations and now it was finally here. I bought a suit and thought I was presentable and ready.

Before the Sacrament meeting began, Monty came up to me and said, looking at my new suit: “Nice set of threads! “Keep wearing it; it will come back into style!”

I didn’t know what to think.

A little later Monty came back to me and said: “Digby, I have been thinking it over and I apologize for saying that about your suit. Now that I’ve been thinking, it looked better on the sheep!”

He began to laugh and so did I. It was light moment that helped.

My turn came to get up in front of the congregation and, as I stepped up to the podium, I somehow stumbled so it wasn’t a good start.

Looking over the congregation, there was Monty Stout sitting on the third row back, quite visible. I began to speak and about one minute into the talk Monty took his watch off, shook it next to his ear and then looked at me. One minute later he did the same thing, followed by a big yawn, a look of complete boredom and another exaggerated yawn.

I stumbled over some words and almost lost my place. My face, I am sure, was beat red.
Finally I finished my talk and sat down, noticing an immediate feeling of relief.

After sacrament Monty came over laughing and said: “Digby, when you are up there you are in charge. You did fine but remember, what gets your attention gets you. It doesn’t matter what I do or say. What matters is you’re expressing your love of the Savior. And by the way, that came across quite well.”

After church some of the guys came over to me and said: “You sure were nervous and a couple of times there looked quite alarmed. What was going on?”

I told them what Monty had been doing and they burst out laughing.

Here came Monty again and this time he gave me a hug and said to the guys with me: “It’s great to have brother Granger with us. A couple of times there during his talk I thought we might lose him.” The guys broke up with laughter and I had the greatest feeling of at last being in that place, at that time, amongst those who would add so much to my life and I knew I was home.

The Fight, the Escape, and the Policeman

We were living at 2246 Gallagher Ave in Winnipeg. We had just moved in and I was about fourteen years old. We lived in a two-story house and the neighborhood was a melting pot, but mostly Caucasian. We had one black fellow in our high school, which was a fair sized school.

I began to get acquainted with the surroundings and the people. Down on the corner was the grocery store run by Joe and Oscar Kantor, with help from their mother. They had a butcher shop and grocery store and delivered groceries in the area. They were always pleasant to their customers and were kind and thoughtful in many ways. Grandma Kantor would cook up something every once in a while and call me over to take it home.

Next door to our house were Arthur Stubel and a couple of blocks away, his cousin Oscar Loeffler. They were great guys and we became life long friends, although our paths have not crossed much these past few years.

Around the corner was a movie theatre and some other stores in an area known as Weston.

The homes were close together and the streets were narrow. So that was the environment, which was quite pleasant, but things at home were another story.

Mom and dad were fighting constantly and more than once I left the house because the language and the bickering were rubbing me raw and I just had to remove myself from it.

Dad was ignorant, without any schooling, and refused to learn. Mom had a sharp tongue and worked my Dad over in spades. Over the years the two of them fought and it was never pleasant.

I remember Mom throwing a knife at my Dad, which stuck in the door and gave us all a fright. Another time he was complaining about the food. Mom was serving spaghetti again, to make the money last, and he mouthed off about it. She walked over to the stove, picked up the pot of spaghetti, and dumped it all over him. That was funny but then they got a little rough so all of us kids ran for cover.

The fighting was always over money and Dad’s unwillingness to learn to read and write. He was a construction worker and it sometimes was lean pickings when the work was not steady. Our family was poorer than church mice.

Mom kept a low profile with the neighbors. They all liked her but she was another story at home. I understood why but it didn’t help much.

The police were called to our house a couple of times. One of the times I had made sure my brothers and sisters were OK. I knew when to leave and when not to leave. This time the cops were there and I was totally embarrassed. I felt insecure and my frustration grew.

I took off. I walked for about fifteen minutes, staying close to home, but walking through the neighborhood.

My mind was full of resentment for what was happening and I had a burning desire to just leave and never look back. Of course I didn’t, but it would not have taken much more for me to bolt.

As I was walking, two policemen who had been at our house and calmed things down, stopped their car along side the street and motioned me over. My face was taut and my eyes were riveted on them, as I did not know what to expect.

The police officer nearest the window said: “It has been a hard night, hasn’t it son?”

I nodded and he continued: “Been taking a lot of walks when the fighting is going on at home have you?” I nodded again.

He then said: “This will be hard for you to understand now, but I want you to know that you can make things better in the future. For now, though you are stuck, you must adjust your attitude to not take this personally and remember that none of this is your fault. What is happening is unfortunate, but it will pass and someday you will be the one who will make a home and, if you’re smart, you will remember what not to do and to do what is best for your family then. In the meantime, you are a fine kid. We have been over to your home several times and noticed you kids are frightened but always respectful and, considering what you have had to put up with, you are all doing OK. We will do what we can to keep a lid on things. You’re in a neighborhood that is relatively safe but see that you don’t stray too far on your walks.”

I looked at him and said: “Thanks, I needed that.” I turned away so he would not see the tears in my eyes.

I never forgot that kindness and no one could ever persuade me, after that, to make an unkind remark about the police force -- at least in our area. I never knew his name but I can still hear the words that had such a calming effect on me.

Strangers who reach out, officers who take a second step to help, and neighbors caring, made the experience more tolerable.

Art Stubel and Oscar Loeffler, my new friends, also made the journey much more tolerable. They were good Christian guys and made allowances for me that I never forgot

As the saying goes: I got by with a little help from my friends.

Digby

My Crows

Number 3 Wireless, by now dear readers, must be familiar to you. We lived amongst 48 families close to the country and yet really somewhat the same as a city block in Winnipeg. The difference was the 48 families living there were complimented by The Manitoba Teachers Normal School. I do not know the enrollment there but it did impact our lives.

The elements of living were made more interesting by having a small town of people learning their trade.

Libraries were not close except for the Normal School and I don’t know, nor ever did know, about the use of the Normal School’s library. Many of us went to the Mulvey School in downtown Winnipeg and sometimes we could go to a Library not too far away. I mention this only as getting information in those days was not easy or always accessible, especially for a kid. You will soon see why I needed that information.

With this in mind, I spent half a day in the woods close to our apartments. The kinds of woods I refer to were Maple, Oak, Willow, Birch and others. I spotted a large Oak tree with a good size nest in it. Upon investigating, I discovered some baby crows. I climbed up the tree to check out the nest. There were five baby crows but no sign of the parents. I watched the baby crows for a few minutes in their nest. Looking down from the tree I spotted two large crows lying on the ground. It appeared they had been shot. I hung around for about an hour and stayed a safe distance from the tree. Time went by and still no sign of other crows coming near the nest.

I decided they needed rescuing. I went home, found a cardboard box, and lined it with some grass and dry dirt. I went back to the Oak tree. The nest was undisturbed and by this time, there wasn’t any noise coming from the nest. I climbed the tree and there were still five baby crows. They began making a noise as soon as I looked in on them. It puzzled me why the nest hadn’t been disturbed but I wasted no time in getting them into the cardboard box.

I don’t know how old they were but they had feathers. I knew they couldn’t fly yet because of the way they stayed in the nest as I picked them up one at a time.

I soon reached home and shared my catch with my Mother. I asked if I could raise them up until they could be on their own. To my astonishment, she said I could. She cautioned me that I would have to build a pen to keep them in and it would have to be completely covered with chicken wire so cats and dogs couldn’t bother them.

I got to work immediately. I found some old chicken wire at a near by farm and talked the owner into giving me some. He also said I could have some old lumber if it would help. In a couple of days I had that pen built. It was not craftsmanship in the least, but it had six posts buried about foot in a half in the ground with a height of around six feet. The nails also came from the farmer. He said the used lumber had some nails in it and I could pull them out and straighten them for use. He also gave me some wire staples that sure came in handy.

I fastened a door of sorts, using some bailing wire to hang it. I had some rope which I used to keep the door shut. I made a sort of nest that was lined with grass and twigs and other plants so it would be warm at night.

I was ready but then needed to decide what to feed these baby crows. I knew that crows would eat just about anything. I dug up worms, and took a long ride on my bike when I learned there was a spill of corn along side the railroad track. It turned out to be true but I had to work at it to fill the flour sack I had brought.

Most of the corn had been picked up but with careful work - about two hours, I think - I got enough to last a while.

I soon found out that getting water to the baby crows was not easy and getting them to swallow it was even harder. I started dipping small pieces of bread in milk and those little crows went for it. I fed them bugs, pieces of apples I had scrounged from friends, and any kind of scraps I could dig up. Their appetites were insatiable, for no matter what I fed them, they wanted more.

Somehow I got them to the point where they were hopping around the cage. I soon put limbs across the cage so they could hop up on the lower ones. The bigger they got the more noise they made. Soon they were flying up to the higher limbs in place and just pecking at everything they could find.

I now had to be careful before I opened the door of the cage, as they were pretty quick to want out. Soon they were pretty big and, to my amazement, the five crows were still alive.

I finally heard from the neighbors. One guy said: “Look kid, I appreciate what you are doing to save them birds but they are so darn noisey we are all getting tired of them. It is time to let them go.”

It was just like he slapped me in the face. “Let them go?” I thought! I talked to my Mother and she said it was the right thing to do. I had questions. What if they can’t fly right and the cats and dogs get them? I have been feeding them for several months so will they know how to get their own food? “What if this” and “what if that” questions went through my mind.

My Mother, who had little patience, said: “I don’t want to hear any more about this, so get it done.”

I stalled for a few days and finally opened the cage door. I watched the crows go outside. They hopped around and flew several short distances and seemed to call to each other. Pretty soon they were flying around and sitting on top of the cage. Still, I had feed them at night when they were all in the cage. I would lock them in for the night.

I noticed that their flights were longer and their coming back to the cage dropped off as soon as I quit giving them food. One day I watched them fly off and they were gone for several hours. Soon they took off and showed up occasionally and then one or two and then none at all. I don’t know if they could forge for their own feed or if they were just got leary of being around that cage.

In the end they were gone.

I recalled the fun I had when they were helpless and squawked and competed for the food I was feeding them. I remember the bread and milk and the noises they made when I was feeding them. Their antics with each other and how their sizes were about equal except for one that seemed tougher and tiny bit bigger.

When they flew off and didn’t come back for a several hours, I fretted over their safety. But in the end, watching them fly around and getting stronger and flying farther each day gave me satisfaction.

No pun intended here but I had nothing to crow about for it was the right thing to do. How I managed to keep them alive for the time I did was probably one for the books.

I soon scrapped the cage and sat down one day to look at the spot where the cage had sat. I smiled at how clumsy looking it had been, although serviceable. I almost laughed out loud when I thought of what I went through.

I heard a voice and when I turned around, there was my Dad. He rarely spoke to me and I was mostly afraid of him. He just looked at me and said: “You can’t keep birds like that in a cage; it just isn’t a good idea.” He then tussled my hair and went inside. It was a rare moment when I had real contact with my Dad. I often wished that had been different but it was what it was.

Much of the time I had felt like those crows and felt penned in and decided it wasn’t a very good idea for a human being either. In those days a nice day at home was when Mom and Dad weren’t fighting. When they were fighting, I left as quickly as I could and went for long walks. Perhaps that is why I had such endurance in those years because the walks were frequent and staying away from home always seemed like a good idea.

Raising those crows gave me some satisfaction and, to this day, I see crows and have a fondness for them. Crows are moochers, scavengers and a bird wise to the traps and dangers around them. Many crows don’t live for more than a year and after the first year they are pretty cagey. Since they mostly have their young only once during the year it is a wonder they are as numerous as they are. Robins can have several nests during the year but they have a higher mortality rate.

Finally, I would like to have three cheers for the crows -- city dwellers, country dwellers, and survivors in a sometimes-toxic world. Now that’s something to crow about!

Digby

Rats, Geraniums and Mom

There was a city dump a few miles from our home in Number 3 Wireless in Winnipeg. The Winnipeg city dump was a favorite place for us kids at times. We went there to hunt rats. One of the kids had a bb gun and the rest of us had long poles with a nail on the end. We had taken a 2 x 4 nail, cut the head off and then, using a pair of pliers to hold it, drove the dull end into the end of the pole. The purpose was to try to hit a rat by throwing the pole at the rat with as much accuracy as we could.

The first trips to the dump were fun but the only kid who hit a rat was the guy with the bb gun. He had to shoot several times to get it done. He got lucky with one shot that stunned the rat but he kept firing until he got the job done, then finished it off with a heavy pipe he had found. For the rest of us there were seldom times we got a rat, even though there were hundreds of them, because they were faster than our crude poles.

There were men working at the dump but we could steer clear of them as the dump was huge.

Since Winnipeg is so flat the dump formed a hill and it was quite high, thus one could see a lot of country from the top. Years later I heard they abandoned it for a new site. After many years I understood they built a restaurant up there. I can imagine why because it was the highest point in the city. The standard joke was it was so flat there you could watch your dog run away from home for three days.

But I digress. During one of our hunts I found a red geranium in the dump. At first I walked by it but then went back and picked it up. It had dirt attached it and the dirt was pitch black. l looked around for a bucket to put the geranium in and finally found one that was the right size.
I had noticed that there was a small pile of black dirt in one spot. That usually meant the workers with the caterpillar hadn't pushed things into a tight bundle yet. I put some dirt in the pot and then headed home and found a safe spot for the gerananium.

I watered it and put it in the sun. I got a little absent minded and forgot about it for several hours. When I went to look at it, it was perking up. I watered it again and left it alone until the next day. I have since found out one should be generous with water for that flower. Being a kid, I was surely giving it more water than normal.

I asked a neighbor who was a flower person how to tell how much to water it and she said, "Put your finger into the dirt about one inch and if it is dry give it water." I did that for several days and that red geranium just blossomed. I triumphantly marched into the house and gave it to my Mother.

At first she was astonished. She wasn't the hugging type or the complimentary type either. She looked at me for a minute and a smile came to her face and she thanked me. For my Mom that was something.

I found out that geraniums could be kept for quite a while and I noticed a few months later there was more than one.

I got a clue that day as to my Mother's nature. One couldn't always hit her straight on with something; you had to approach it another way to get her attention.

Just before my mother passed away I went up to see her and she was still conscious. I felt a tug at my heart as I thought through what I was going to say to her.

I started by talking about all the good things I could remember. I must have had a ten minute conversation and she was so tired but she laughed a few times and finally I saw a tear come to the corner of her eye. I then knew I had accomplished the task of telling her I loved her in such a way that the hardness in her didn't come to the forefront.

I squeezed her hand and stood aside as some of my family came over to her. I went out in the hallway and finally my tears came and a Mom was gone. She did as much as she knew how for us. It was hard to like her but love is another thing.

I have since learned that the lives of some of us are so filled with despair and sorrow and a desperate reach that doesn't make the mark.

Some folks handle life with an appreciation for all that is around them, showing love, consideration, and respect for people and things.

People like my Mom spit in the eye of everything. Dried up from neglect and abuse, they can't go where there is happiness because of the bitterness they feel. My Mom mellowed some in the latter part of her life but always it seemed she could take a bone and suck the juice out of it. She could never leave some things alone. Still, she was my Mom and I always loved her.

Digby

The French Canadian girl

There was a girl living right next door to us. Her apartment was not sound proof for on some nights, there was some harsh language and mean talk. She, of course, was not part of that and neither were her brothers and sisters.

Her last name escapes me, for some reason, but not her mannerisms or her charm. She was two years older at that time and fourteen years of age for her was about like ten years of age for me. Annette would often talk with me with an accent that was, of course, pretty cool.

All the guys I hung out with liked her and we often laughed at the way she said things like: “Hello, what are you eating? Don’t pull away; is it so much for you that you can’t share? Is it because you are an asses’ horse or do you forget to think of others?”

One time she broke us up by saying: “What is in your faces? It looks like your dog ran away from home and you stepped in the poop.” She then would laugh and say: “You boys are looking for sometimes the thing to do and you have not found it.” Of course she meant, “You are all bored but keep looking, something will turn up.”

We would see her around and always stop and talk with her. She just had a good way about her and we accepted her as a friend.

One time it was getting late and I went outside to get some fresh air and there she was sitting on the sidewalk with tears in her eyes. I said: “Annette, is something wrong?” She looked up at me and shook her head while the tears kept coming. I sat down by her and said nothing and just waited. Finally she said: “My foot sticks in my mouth but I am sad for my mother.” She took a deep breath and went on. “My way to go is to beg her to not do it but she does not catch on.” “Do what?” I said. “You know, the fooling around with men and picking up ones that are – “ She shivered and said: “So strange and stupid.” “Stupid?” I asked.

She put her finger to her head and turned her finger around. “You know to have bugs in your head.” She sighed and said, “I am not just off the boat; these men are danger types.” I understood what she was saying for the other day, I went to have a shower in the common washroom, which was in the center of the apartments for us all to use, where this friend of her Mother’s was shaving. He had such a scary look and it frightened me enough that I didn't shower at all but went home. I met him one other time in the hallway and it sent shivers up and down my spine. To look at him was to see a really stocky guy with short-cropped hair and strange appearance about his clothes and manner.

Annette continued: “It is better for me to be away here tonight and wait until he is gone.” I kept her company for a while until he left and, when he was gone, she returned to her apartment.

I felt uneasy for her and did not go to sleep for some time as I thought about how scared she was. I saw her two days later and she said her mother had not come home last night or the night before. The look on her face was a worried one and finally she said: “Something is fallen to the ground and it is too heavy for me to lift.” I said, “What do you mean?” She thought for a moment and then grew quiet and started to speak.


“I am so saddened and I am scared for the night to come.” Toward evening there was some commotion going on next door. The word was that the police were there. I could see a police car on the street and a couple of other cars. I watched as she and her brothers and sisters left with the police officers. I was standing real close to where she came out. She saw me and gave me a halfhearted smile and then hung her head down and walked away.

Many times I have pictured her at that moment. To see her with eyes swollen from crying, confused and weighed down by it all and still with the presence of mind to be the one in charge for the other kids.

It wasn't until the next day the story came out. Her mother was found in a motel room and had been stabbed many times with an ice pick. They had caught the guy and it was the fellow I had seen in the washroom.

My knees went weak when I heard who it was and I immediately thought of her and tears came to my eyes. I remember thinking, “What is to become of her and the others of her family?”

Several years later I was taking the bus to work at the Canadian Pacific Railroad when a voice said: “Digby.” I looked up and it was Annette.

She explained she had been in a government home for kids. She had been separated from her brothers and sisters. She introduced me to a fellow with her. She said he had been her lifeline and that they were drawn together as they had both lost a parent in something ugly. She did not mention the heartache in the past but smiled and said, “You were a good friend and I have often thought of you.” I smiled and clasped her hands and remarked how good her English was. She laughed and said, “This is our stop,” and suddenly hugged me and left with her friend.

The sadness came back but I was left happy at the thought of her well being now.

The choices made by others can so affect our lives.

Digby

The Painter and the Teacher

While living at number 3 wireless, I was able to see teachers from the Manitoba Provincial Normal School where they were training to be teachers. Sometimes they substituted at the school house and, since they were in teacher training, we looked forward when they came by to train or to subsitute. There were some who just stood out and others who were quite normal and taught the same way.

One time there came a teacher who was close to graduating who taught geography and history. She made the people of that time so interesting and had such a flare for getting our attention. She would present to the class the name of the historical figure and then talk about that person as if he or she were alive. She described their mannerisms and choices. Often she would give assignments to the class and I would do my best to complete the assignments and turn them in on time.

She called me after class one day and said: "Digby, you need to do more research. You have a flair for word imagery but your sense of history leaves a great deal to be desired." Saying it another way when I didn't quite get the idea, she said: "Read about the time and place. Find out what made it so important and put yourself in their place and then report."

I liked her a lot and so the subject was the Hudson Bay Company and the fur trade. I can still, to this day, remember how excited I was to do that kind of homeork. Other assignments came and since she was only going to be there on certain days and only for a short while, I needed to make the most of it.

I worked hard and one day she said to me: "Now you have the idea. History is reported and events are part of history but when men or women are called upon to make decisions only the ones with courage can make the right decisions." The idea stuck and I began to think about what she had told me.

I always will remember her. She was not tall but stood out as if she were. She had coal black hair and a smile that made you feel so special. Her ability to bring out the best in us kids was her understanding of human nature. She would compliment, discipline and raise our expectations simply with a guesture or a word. I learned she would be leaving soon as she would graduate that summer. I felt sad and thought, "If only I could do something for her." I thought about it and decided to paint a picture for her.

I had some oil paints and a brush and started to draw a picture of my dog Skip. He was a bull terrior and was black and white with a pug face that was alert and friendly. I worked on that painting for two weeks. Now that I think about it, it was rough and not any prize but it was the best I could do. I waited one day when the teachers were all going to lunch at their cafeteria. She finally showed up and I approached her with the painting. She was with other teachers and they all stopped to listen. I was embarrassed and stumbled over my words but finally got out the fact that I wanted her to have the painting. Some of the other teachers were smiling and sort of nodding and looking at me.

She took me by the shoulder and walked me over to the grass area and said: "What a wonderful gift to give me." She then asked how I thought of it. I said I really loved my dog Skip so I decided to paint something that meant a lot to me. I didn't come out and tell her I thought the same of her. She somehow understood. I said I wanted to say goodbye. She thanked me and gave me a big hug and I looked up at her and said, as was my nature: "You're alright for a teacher," and then waved good bye to her - half sad and half glad.

I never saw her again but sometimes when I hear someone teach who looks a little like her the words just naturally come to my lips: "What a wonderful gift you gave a ten year old. "

A friend of mine quoted a saying which applies here: "When the student is ready the teacher appears."

Digby

Awakenings

Sometimes being melancholy can alter the senses and words are transferred to a different light.
I suppose that is why I have chosen to write down these words that have come to me. They're not entrenched but they have awakened in me some thoughts closer to home than I care to admit.

Here it is:

Up from the dust like an apache hunter
Down from the mountain a Moses wild
Mother earth rocks the cradle
Heaven awakes the child

And these words from long ago:

One full moon a billion stars
A Loon's lost cry of startled grace
Two Owls crossing the bars
Where wilderness shows its lace.

Freedom breathing in my soul
Arches of cotton woods there to bring
My wanderlust of the distanct knoll
Under firm root of nature's wing.

Now the shadows climb my door
Shaping a stooped frame on sunlit grass
Waters reflecting an eagle's soar
Such years, good years, too good to pass.

Now we rest in God's green hills
Content with life we have learned to love
Gazing thoughtfully at heavens sill
So far, so far, up up above.

I had a calling at the Washington Women's Correction Center in Purdy, Washington
The women there often had the blues and holidays were hard on them. Their confined life weighed them down and I often thought about how they must feel. There are a myriad of thoughts there but I have chosen to write some prose, and the way I saw it.

Forty dollars and a cardboard box;
Standing at the prison door;
This time it is open to the outside,
Out into freedom once more.

Been in a prison marking the days;
Locked up and dreaming my way out
Angry and bitter in all other ways;
God help me I have to shout.

Many laws and regulations are written;
Rules and discipline for all of us fools;
Time here is like frost when your bitten;
The thaw is painful and part of the tools.

Each day passes and each night is long,
The fences are up and the razors are sharp.
I've got the blues and all is so wrong;
Far too early to be playing the harp.

Dancing on slow time hating each hour;
I'm swearing and cursing mankind;
I'm in the hole and the taste is so sour;
I swear I'm going out of my mind.

Sorting through a grimy bucket of mud
Just to get a sorry kernel of grain;
I don't want anymore of this crud;
I realize there was nothing to gain.

Forty dollars and a cardboard box,
Standing at the prison door,
This time it's open to the outside;
Out into freedom once more.

Digby

The Officer and the kid

Assiniboine Park was huge and we kids used to go from #3 wireless to the back entrance of the park, especially on the weekend, and ride our bikes all afternoon. It was fun and our one speed bikes were ok because as the saying went: "It is so flat you can watch your dog run away from home for three days." The park had lots of entertainment. There was a huge English style pavillion where you could buy food and drinks. We never did that very often as we were broke most of the time. There was a palm house that had all kinds of tropical plants, banana tree and lots of flowers and such. There was a cricket field where we kids often stopped to watch a cricket game. We never knew much about it except the guys wore knee and shin pads. Also, they used a ball made of cork and other materials with a leather covering that they threw at a peg some distance away. They also had wooden bats (at least I think they were wooden) with which they hit the ball. There was a good sized Zoo for that day and numerous ponds, foot bridges, riverside views and good roads that were built all around the park. Many times we would go on a Sunday and there would be quite a number of black people who would walk across the foot bridge over the river and sing hymns and old Porter tunes that were just great. I never heard any bands but there were individuals who took their musical instruments to the park and just entertained people.

Well, we rode around and just enjoyed the summer days and were happy to be there.

On one particular day when the weather was hot and muggy, the four of us were riding around the park. Harold, Ron, Jimmy and me, Digger. It was getting towards dark and most people had left, except for just the stragglers. We were about to go home when a young guy came riding by with a German shepherd in tow and swore at us because Harold hadn't seen him coming and swerved into his path. The guy went around and then came back. We stopped our bikes and were about to apologize when he got off his bike and, with the German shepherd on a leash, walked toward us. He began to yell at us while the dog barked and growled viciously. We started to leave and he let the dog get more aggressive. We were pretty scared and said: "We didn't mean anything." but to no avail. He crowded us toward a tree and said: "I just have to mention the word and this dog will tear you up." He had a chain in his hand and struck Jimmy and Ron with it. They started toward him but he used the dog in a very threatening way. He then took a whack at me and Harold and laughed like he was enjoying himself. We didn't know what to do but fortunately some people came along and he took off. We were so mad that he could get away with it. We started home and on the way Jimmy said: "We can't let this guy get away with that." Of course we didn't know if we would see him again but were not cheered by the prospect. If we told the police they might watch for him but he was careful and would probably avoid a problem. We talked to a Mounted Policeman we knew and told him of the circumstances. He asked where it happened and had us describe the guy. He asked if we would be willing to help. "Yeh," we echoed, "Sure," but in a meek sort of way. The next weekend we met with the officer and he had a huge dog with him that was not friendly or unfriendly. He stayed by the officer's side and was black and big with a sort of massive look. The plan was to ride around the park, especially toward dusk, and see if we could spot the guy. We rode around and just about dark the jerk showed up with his dog in tow. He spotted us and remembered us and started in with the dog and cussing us.

Meanwhile the RCMP officer had gotten out of his truck and brought his dog with him. When jerk head started to make threats and throw his chain around, that big black dog came around the corner on a leash with the officer closing in on the kid and his dog. The German shepherd must have sized up the situation for he stopped growling and baring his teeth and watched that other dog with keen interest. The kid was trying to hold onto him and the officer said to the kid: "You had better get him under control or my dog will tear him up." The officer shortened his dog's leash and brought his hand down close to the collar on the dog and took a good grip. When asked what he was doing in the park and why his dog behaved that way, the kid tried to turn it back to us and said we threatened him. Since that was baloney, the officer told him so and said he had better come with him. He told him to get in the back of the truck with his dog and the officer put his dog in the front seat next to him. He then told us to go home and he would look after it.

We left and but not before noticing the kid was looking real scared. We started to ride toward the rear gate and went on home. The police station was right next to #3 wireless and we saw the kid there with his dog tied up at the front entrance. Later on we found out the kid was in trouble in the city of St James and was turned over to them to deal with. I still don't know what the RCMP's jurisdiction was but I know they worked with other police departments at the time.

We never did see that kid again and never wanted to. One thing for sure - "my dog's bigger than your dog" - worked pretty good. We wondered what would have happened if the kid had turned that dog loose. We think that German Shepherd would have been worse off and that would have been a shame. The dog was trained and it was not his fault. There are some crummy people in the world and it's best to avoid them whenever possible but if you can't, it doesn't hurt to have a Royal Canadian Police Officer to help out. I was taught a great lesson that day along with my friends. We got a real cold feeling around that creep and remember it sent shivers up and down our spines.

Digby