19 Raisins

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2018 and the struggle endures. The never-ending battle, the fruitless quest for weight loss (well, not entirely fruitless….after all, raisins are the subject of this blog).

Speaking of “fruitless” — and getting off on a tangent before even addressing the question of raisins — most diets do allow fruit now. My last round at Weight Watchers permitted it “until satisfied”, dangerous words for us emotional eaters who don’t really get the meaning of “satisfied”. Does “emotionally satisfied” count? And I’m sure they didn’t mean dried fruit, like raisins or papaya leather.

Like others, I’ve tried diet after diet, exercised until I’m blue and hurting, jogged and walked, joined Jenny Craig, TOPS, and Weight Watchers multiple times, achieved “goal” weight, then put it all back on again and then some. Now I’m older and facing knee problems and phlebitis, neither of which responds well to my extra poundage and both of which prevent me from exercising as often I should. I’m caught in a Catch-22 situation: will gain weight if I don’t exercise but can’t exercise because of my weight.

I ask you…is this fair?

No, it’s not. It’s not fair that food should be allowed to kill me like this, despite my best efforts and my total lack of self-pity. I mean, a total lack.

So I’m angry. As angry as Father Mulcahy when Hawkeye reamed out poor Radar in an episode of MASH. The gentle Father really lost it: “I am incensed! I am outraged! I’m acrimonious!”

My doctor told me years ago, in an attempt to scare me into action, “Losing weight gets harder as you age.” Turns out he was right. Those extra pounds cling to hips and thighs like limpets  to rocks in the sea.

But I keep trying.

These days I use an online calorie counter called LoseIt, which I like because it’s free, for one thing. Also, it allows me to log my daily food and find restaurant calorie counts. So I can search for “McDonalds Chicken Chipotle wrap” and get the exact calorie count. Not that I would ever buy one of those. Oh no. The app will also find “Starbuck’s Carmel Macchiato, Almond Milk”, which, I’m pleased to note, contains twenty fewer calories than the regular variety. And who knew that IHOP’s blueberry pancakes were only 350 cals for two?? Very reasonable. We won’t discuss the syrup that goes on top.

Which brings me to the 19 raisins. It’s the allowable number for a serving, aaccording to this app. Not 20 raisins, mind you, but 19. This strikes me as odd. Why not round it off?Anyway, I use raisins daily on my muesli (half cup=170 cals, so I have three-quarters of a cup; more filling). At first, I actually counted out 19 of the little guys. Then, when I grew familiar with the visual, I just stuck my hand in like a carnival digger and pulled out a few.

“There! 19 raisins,” I told myself gleefully, pleased to have beaten the system in at least this one small way.

WHEN WORDS FAIL

Recently I’ve dabbled in Buddhism, finding its inclusive, laid-back philosophy soothing. I’ve developed a spiritual sense without going formally religious in any way, and this has brightened my life immeasurably by lessening my sense of aloneness and allowing me appreciate the present moment. But given all this, I often question the universe, the “god of my understanding”, for the way she seems to take from people their best assets as they age.

Good at walking? The Universe gives you crippling arthritis. Love to read? Cataracts or glaucoma for you, my friend. Work with your hands? Parkinson’s, I’m afraid. It’s as if the cosmos has it in for us. As if she takes notes as we go merrily about, building skills in our younger lives.

So when my husband developed dementia and then aphasia, it was just one more proof of the eeriness of fate. Don’t get me wrong; his vocal chords work just fine, but the effects of long-term illness and radiation have garbled his speech. So now he can’t talk, this intelligent, wonderful man of mine, a man of Scottish-English descent who didn’t complete high school but built himself a stellar reputation in the trucking industry by sheer hard work and a wonderful gift of gab unequalled by anyone I’ve ever known. Don could bend gnarly truckers and longshoremen to his will with verbal charm, good humour and jokes. If he needed a final load of plate steel at the dock but Forklift Freddie balked at the risk of going past quitting time, Don could soft-soap him into fetching it, even if the guy looked like Bluto or growled like Darth Vader. Don always found a way to make it happen.

He was known for his joke-telling. The boss of the company would take him on big-lodge fishing trips to Knight Inlet to help entertain clients. Don could tell jokes, both dirty and clean, for hours. Literally. He held a vast store of them in his nimble brain.

“Ever hear the one about the nun and the 9-iron?” (punch line: “she hit him with a 9-iron, right here!”)

“How about the Scotsman who hid his small child in a large bag and when he refused to pay, the driver threw his bag out the door. (punch line: “First ye try to rob me and now you’ve killed my son!”)

Then he’d tell the whole story, complete with Scottish accent, and have ’em rolling in the aisles. He was known for it. My mother told him once he should write a book about his funny trucking experiences, and he did, with my editing help. We got it published too, a best-seller for a couple of years in Canada1.

His fluency came from self-defense, he once told me in confidence. He was never as tall or muscled as some of the guys, and he feared being manhandled, so figured he had to learn how to “talk quick” to get out of a jam. It never failed him.

This darling man has just turned 76 and has lived in a care home for almost two years. He can’t use his communication skills to get by any more, as the words just won’t come. Knowing him so well, I can usually infer what he means, but the staff cannot. So they look right through him, carrying on as if he weren’t there, as they do with other residents. To be fair, their workloads are heavy, and ultimately, management must take the blame for not hiring enough aides and LPNs, enough staff to handle emotional needs as well as physical. Enough to give residents the respect and human contact they so desperately need. Poor Don tries valiantly to get the words out, but they just aren’t there, and the staff don’t or can’t take the time to wait for them. And so he’s just another “care object”, a “unit” to be helped with toileting, changing, feeding but little interacting. This breaks my heart.

I see him as often as I can, several times a week. My goal is to provide attention, loving care and fun. Luckily, he hasn’t lost his sense of humour. We sing, we laugh, we behave in silly ways. Like children.

It seems to help.

1. Big Rig: Comic Tales of a Long-Haul Trucker. Available online at Amazon.ca or Chapter-Indigo.

CHRISTMAS-LITE

snowflake

Well, it’s all over. Christmas has flown back to the North Pole, leaving us with leftover snow and fewer house lights, but we’re content nonetheless. Perhaps I should speak for myself. Gifts or no gifts, Christmas always enlivens me, and for that, I’m grateful. Friends call from afar, cards and packages arrive, carols stream from servers, shops, satellites, and old-fangled radios. The endless bad news out of America abates for awhile. Best of all, the convenience of Amazon.ca has turned holiday shopping into a simple joy: scroll, point, click and deliver, usually the same day or the next (I know, I know….it kills jobs, but it saves my aching legs).

I’ve noticed a paradoxical angle to my Christmases. Each year that I cut back on holiday activities, my seasonal enjoyment increases. So, for me, no more entertaining, dinner-hosting, party-going, store-trudging or standing in line (or “online”, as New Englanders say).  Even concert-going becomes unpleasant, a shame, really, since I do so love Christmas choral events. But just getting there! No, no. I now enjoy one lovely turkey dinner with relatives at my brother’s place in Port Moody, and then I hunker down for some real fun.

On balance, and not only at Christmas, the older I get, the less outside activity of any kind do I need or desire. My legs are less steady, but luckily, the rest of me still works well, and my own head is full of wonder, with resources enough for ten. Cleared of past cares – and without Alzheimer’s yet –  I can wander Vancouver’s Festival of Lights at Van Dusen Gardens from happy memory, or visit warm Waikiki, or dine with myriad relatives in Finland and Sweden. I can stroll once again the magical streets of Paris (sigh). The whole world awaits, without pain or impediment. I can still swim and write, two major joys.

Less activity! It’s a new and wonderful freedom. I’m thinking of becoming a hermit (JK!)

As I sit at my computer post-Boxing Day, JazzRadio fills my ears with soft, complex sounds, and with a slight turn of head, I can see it’s snowing. This alarms me not, as I have nowhere to be today. The Crown awaits on Netflix, and my electric blanket periodically beckons. My fully-charged IPAD holds the Wizard of Oz game I like to play (Level 575 and climbing). I have a book on the go, and my best friend texts me regularly. I’m seldom lonely, and besides, my husband is nearby.

What could be better?

The house is quiet, my cat asleep in the next room.

Until the furnace guy comes and the vacuum noise sends him into the snowy cold.

I’d best go check on him; he’s old too.
Continue reading CHRISTMAS-LITE

ADAPTATION

chimps laughing 2

My husband and I watch BBC’s Planet Earth on his small flat-screen. It’s about primates, some of whose names I’ve never heard. Names like Tarsier, Aye-aye, and Diademed Sifaka. David Attenborough wanders the planet, showing where the various apes live, how they survive.

We sit close on my husband’s single bed or, when my bent knee aches,we stretch out side-by-side, squeezing in as best we can. I miss this cuddling, this physicality. Following his two major surgeries and the slow onset of his dementia, I can no longer look after him at home. Luckily, his facility is a good one, clean, friendly and close by. His room is warm, but we huddle together regardless.

Attenborough shows us the Aye-Aye of Madagascar, In captivity, several types of olfactory clues were observed, including buccal (cheek) marking in which the aye-aye’s cheek is rubbed on an object.”

I smile, noting how often I stroke Don’s cheek with the back of my hand, especially in the car when hugging won’t work.

The camera moves on to the Snow Monkeys of Honshu, Japan. Don laughs at their antics, a full-on whoop, disproportionate to the occasion, but I don’t mind. As long as he’s happy. He doesn’t hear well, often talking over Attenborough’s commentary, but as I listen, I’m impressed with the way these northern-dwelling primates snuggle together in lanky treetops, huddling for warmth during the sub-zero nights.

“Twenty below!” I exclaim loudly, giving Don the short version.

“Wow!” he responds. “Now that’s cold!”

They have old-man faces, these Snow Monkeys, and double-thick fur for insulation. Watching them amidst the falling snow, we feel even cozier in our warm room.

Don seems engrossed throughout the program. His laughter is my tonic, but I know he’s a skilled pretender, ready to applaud anything he thinks may like. Chimps can deceive and empathize too. But what we watch isn’t the point anyway. It’s what we share. We can still be together, physically and emotionally. We can still laugh; we can still bond.

Attenborough wanders among the ring-tailed lemurs of Madagascar.They also huddle together for warmth, adorable in their white faces and kohl-dark eyes. The commentary says they’re female-dominant and active only during the day. They have long snouts and wet noses.

“Like you!” I say, wiping his own beak with a Kleenex. He laughs, aware that it tends to drip.

At the moment, he sits on his bed while I gently stroke his back and shoulders, communicating love while receiving it back through his trust. He drinks the Starbucks coffee I brought while continuing his delighted comments about the program. His happiness comforts me.

We survive – he and I – as the apes do, by adaptation. We may not forage for food, but we do scrounge for affection. That never changes. Together forty-five years, we’re well-attuned to the other’s emotional climate and have learned to trust in the other’s regard. Of course, there have been difficulties, serious ones. But in these final years, only the love matters. All else has fallen away, eclipsed by our need to see one another to the end, to guard jealously our time together. I can’t help but wonder how long we’ll have even this limited contact. At the same time, I thank all the stars that I recognize its value.

Attenborough moves on. In a wildlife orphanage in Zambia, chimps mourn the death of a friend. Don and I watch in silence as the apes sit for fourteen minutes with Thomas, the dead chimp, alternately sniffing and touching him. They neglect even fresh food, so caught up are they by grief and the great mystery of death.

We humans struggle to prepare for death, to achieve peace of mind as we age. Sitting with Don, I realize we have it now, at least in part. Peace comes with full commitment; it’s impossible to love this deeply and still wonder about life’s meaning.

Love is why we’re here.

 

SS Catala: Ch 2 (Memoir)

Summary:  In 1953, when I was five and my brother was three, my father proposed that our family move from Vancouver to a remote logging camp on Vancouver Island where he and my mother had been offered teaching positions. This admittedly out-of-order chapter marks the start of our 3-day journey there.

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My brother and I quivered with excitement on the morning we left Vancouver. We had never sailed on a ship of any kind, and now here we were, standing at the foot of the gangplank in Canada’s largest port, ready to board the steamship SS Catala.

“Do we really get to sleep overnight on this boat?” I asked, looking up at my folks.

“We really do,” laughed my mother. “We’ll have our own private cabin. The ship doesn’t arrive at Englewood until noon tomorrow!”

This was a thrill beyond words for two small children who had never before travelled out of the city, let alone slept on a real ship. We could hardly contain ourselves.

The Catala looked huge from where we stood. It was a steel, twin-propeller passenger freighter with 20 cabin berths and a cargo capacity of three hundred tons. Called the SS Catala, it formed part of the Union Steamship Line, a cargo and passenger line which serviced remote communities along the northern BC coast.

“See how the bottom is painted red and the upper part is black?” said Dad. “All the Union Steamships are painted the same way. They were all built in Scotland and brought over here in 1925. That’s more than 25 years ago, kids!”

We clambered aboard. Soon our heads were full of wooden decks and chunky, white portholes. After standing at the rail for some time and watching huge crates being loaded by crane into the hold of the ship, we climbed to the upper deck.

Everything was new to us. We discovered a covered deck halfway down the ship with shuffleboard pitch painted onto its wooden planking. We found discarded chairs, stacked in a corner and covered by heavy tarpaulins. We craned our necks at the huge, black-and-red funnels towering above the steep, “crew only” staircase. We peered excitedly at the lifeboats and ran our hands along thick ropes and polished, wooden railings.

An hour after we’d boarded her, the steamer pulled out of Vancouver harbour and headed west into Burrard Inlet, past the docks of the North Shore, where loose piles of bright yellow sulphur towered skyward like inverted traffic cones. The morning sky was cloudy, with the kind of misty overhang unique to the west coast. There was a chill in the air that made our noses run and defied any sweater or coat, but we were used to this and didn’t give it much thought. We hugged close the notion of sleeping overnight on this great monster, and this was enough to keep us warm. Having toured the ship, we kids were as ready as the other passengers to watch the Catala negotiate the narrow passage under the Lions Gate Bridge, a suspension bridge similar in appearance to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fransisco, only much shorter.

As we approached the bridge, everyone clambered onto the upper decks. We had travelled across the bridge many times in the family Ford, but to see it from below was a rare treat and not one to be missed. In our collective minds, there was always the danger that the ship wouldn’t clear the bridge.

“What if those tall chimneys scrape the bridge and come off?” I asked, meaning the tall, red-and-black smokestacks. “What if we tip over?”

Dad laughed. “Lots of room!” he said. “It just looks narrow from here. Not to worry.”

I wasn’t convinced, still believing the funnels might scrape along the bottom surface of the span and scuttle the ship. Pleasantly horrified, I held my breath as the distance between the Catala and that great ribbon of concrete narrowed. Would we make it? To my untutored mind, it was a case of irresistible force meeting immovable object.

People got out their Kodak box cameras. Suddenly, the huge cables of the suspension bridge drooped and swooped above us like streamers at a birthday party, forcing heads back to watch the unfolding drama. At the very moment of potential contact, there was a tense silence on the decks. Then we were under with buckets of room to spare! It seemed incredible to us that such a large ship could pass through such a narrow space, but of course, ships even larger than the Catala sail under that bridge today. It was a fine lesson on the tricky optics of perspective.

I felt immense relief. Reassuring, too, was that immediately after the bridge, the channel widened out. We passed the endless beach of Spanish Banks on our port side and the Point Atkinson lighthouse on our starboard side. Calm returned to the passengers as we watched the pale, yellow lighthouse blinking in the distance.

“Wanna hear a good lighthouse story?” said an older man standing near the rail on our side. He wore a slicker and a canvass rain hat. “This here ship had quite an adventure fifteen years ago, up near Prince Rupert.”

“Tell us!” we cried.

“Well, farther north, the ship sailed past Egg Island, in Queen Charlotte Strait. Noticing that the lighthouse was strangely dark, the Captain tied a rope around his waist and swam to the Island.”

“He swam?” our eyes were agog.

“That’s what they say. Anyway, he found the lighthouse’s usual keepers missing and the remnants of their last meal on the table. After resurrecting the light, he came across two overturned fishing boats and suspected that the lighthouse keepers had been drowned. They were never heard from again.”

“My goodness,” said my father. “Is that a true story?”

“Yep,” said the stranger. “I should know because I was that captain!”

He sauntered off, smiling at our gaping mouths. It was difficult to believe that anyone would jump into these cold northern waters voluntarily. My mother was skeptical.

“I think he just made that story up,” she whispered.

Soon, however, we caught sight of the Point Atkinson lighthouse on the starboard side.We watched its light wink on and off, then we swivelled around to watch the headland of Point Grey pass by on the opposite side, where the university sat atop some sizable cliffs. On the beaches below, one or two crumbling gun emplacements and submarine watchtowers still sat, remnants of home defense efforts during WW II.

We had truly left Vancouver and soon floated in the vastness of the Georgia Strait, with low, brontosaurian humps of land visible in the distance on either side. The chill wind continued to cut through our clothing, so we decided to head inside to our cabin.

Stranded in Englewood – Ch. 3

In 1953, my parents moved with two small children to a remote logging camp on Vancouver Island, inaccessible by road. It was my father’s first teaching job, the principalship of a two-room school. The second teacher? My mother. This chapter outlines our arrival at the halfway point in our journey.

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My father burst into our stateroom after an early walk to the bow of the ship.

“She’s docked! We’re here! Everybody up!”

Rousing ourselves, we were soon shivering on the wooden deck of the steamship Catala and peering out at a thick, forested world. My brother rubbed his eyes and clung irritably to our mother.

“I hope we get breakfast before we get off,” she muttered, shifting him around. “What a cold, busy place!”

She was right. The whole area was alive on this grey, misty morning. Logs choked the bay surrounding the dock. They bobbled and jockeyed for position, roiling around in the choppy waters. Men in boots and woollen clothing dotted the pier. Fork lifts rumbled across the wooden dock, running steadily at piles of logs or lumber, picking up great stacks of wood, dumping loose logs into other piles or trundling stacked lumber into various sheds.

“I don’t know where to look,” chuckled Dad. “What do you suppose….” His final words were lost as a rail car to our left released its logs and sent thirty thousand pounds thundering like an avalanche into the salt chuck below. White spume billowed well above the pier, and fingers flew into ears.

“Omigosh!” shouted my mother. “I wish we’d known that was coming!” Rubbernecking passengers beside us stood in stunned silence. Few had seen such a sight. We felt as if we were in an action movie.

Our city eyes gaped, watching dock workers in hard hats and flannel tees striding along the oily pier or darting in and out of big, green shacks nestled the whole way along, with the massive, green mountains for a backdrop. A huge A-frame, used for loading and unloading logs, loomed in the middle-distance, while tugboats bustled about the log booms like harried nannies. The booms lay everywhere; one could almost walk to shore just hopping from one log to the next. In fact, men with peavies – long spiked poles – did something similar; they burled and poked stray logs into position within each boom.

“The lower-grade logs go for pulping,” another shivering passenger pointed out. “And look at those tugs, farther out, wrestling with whole booms.” It was a stunning sight, as busy as a crowded downtown street in rush hour, without the cars.

“I want to see!” I wailed, climbing one rung up the railing, with my father’s steady hand holding me. My mother held up my younger brother. Our hair blew around our faces and we grinned until our teeth froze in the cold breeze.

After breakfast, we scrambled down the gangplank with our suitcases. Boxes of our linens and kitchen supplies sat in the ship’s hold. Once off the ship, we huddled at one end of the dock, totally lost.

“Excuse me!” my father said to a hobnailed worker wearing green rain gear and carrying a large chunk of wood. “We’re the new teachers for Woss. Where do we catch the rail car?” The dock worker smiled. His face showed two days’ black stubble and a toothpick wobbled between his teeth.

“Speeder 121 takes passengers there once a day,” he said, slowing his pace, “and it left an hour ago. Next one is at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” Our jaws dropped.

“But we were told we could connect right away!” said my mother. “We have nowhere to stay the night!” She drew her cloth coat more closely around herself and glanced up at the surrounding forest and the grey clouds above. It was a forbidding outpost, this Englewood.

“Well, I dunno what you were told,” said the fellow,”but for sure you can’t get out until tomorrow. Maybe talk to Marge at the Canteen over there.” He gestured at one of the smaller green shacks down the pier. She can likely find you a place to stay.”

We stood there in the rain, dumbfounded. Walk the length of the pier in the rain and oil and grease? It was over seventy-five yards! Each of us carried two suitcases and the rain had begun, a cold drizzle that seeped inexorably into our shoes and coats. It was not pleasant, but what could we do? We picked up our bags and shuffled along, trying not to get in anyone’s way, stepping over cables, cords and bits of bark. My mother, who wore low heels, slipped at one point and almost fell, grabbing onto my father’s arm at the last minute.

“Welcome to Englewood,” she muttered under her breath. “It may be a log dump, but to my mind, it’s just a plain old dump!” My father at least had the grace to look sheepish, as this whole venture had been his idea.

We arrived bedraggled and grumpy at the Canteen. Dad wrestled with the heavy wooden door, propping it with a knee  to allow the rest of us to shoulder in with all our baggage. A large, friendly woman behind the tiled counter gave us a big grin and motioned us over with her beefy arm.

“Hi there, folks!” she laughed. “You seem a tad damp. Are you lost?” She stacked dirty plates into a plastic, grey tub as she spoke. Her white scrubs sported sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a red kerchief corralled her hair. She looked old to me but was likely about forty.

“We are rather lost,” said my Dad, brushing water from his hair. “We’re the new teachers for Woss.”

“New teachers, eh?” She stuck out her hand. “Glad to meet ya. Name’s Marge Brandon. Been living here fifteen years and likely to die here.” She chortled comfortably. “Leastwise, unless I can find me a man to support me so’s I can retire from all this!” She waved over a stack of dirty dishes piled up in a commercial dish-washing trough. “Anyhow, next speeder leaves tomorrow at 10. You’ll have to stay in Englewood tonight.”

“But where? We have two children!” I could tell my mother was nervous, thinking we’d have to pitch a tent on the dock and fend off cougars single-handed.

“No bother. Just head down the road there.” She pointed out the large front window toward the wall of mountains to the west. “See that white and yellow house just beyond that last shed? That’s the Michaels’ place. They’ll put you all up.” She nodded comfortably. “Don’t worry if they ain’t expecting you. They’re friendly people and always ready to take on stranded travellers.” She smiled and grabbed for a water nozzle dangling from the ceiling, then began sluicing down the dishes before stacking them in a green dish rack. We took this as our signal to leave.

The drizzle had intensified, but luckily, it was only a ten-minute walk from the dock to the dirt road and then twenty yards more to the Michaels’ house. Our hands were frozen numb from holding onto our bags. My father opened the rickety screen door and knocked without conviction. He and my mother exchanged dark looks. After a moment or two, the door was wrenched open by a couple of young kids laughing to beat heck and falling over one another. We reeled back a little, startled.

“Boys! Boys! Settle down. Where’s your manners?” An adult voice boomed in the background and a tall, portly man with a buzz cut appeared. “Hi there! Name’s Jim Michaels. I’m the First Aid guy in these parts. “Welcome to our home.”

We were grateful for the refuge. The Michaels put us up in a couple of spare rooms. They also fed us and entertained my folks with a game or two of Gin Rummy later on, while we kids played Parcheesi and Chinese Checkers on the bedroom floor with the Michaels boys, who proved to us that they could indeed settle down.

“How bad is the trip down to Woss?” I heard my mother ask at one point.

It was the Michaels’ turn to exchange looks.

“Well,” piped up Wanda, pouring out more wine. “From here, it’s two hours – about 56 miles – down to Camp Nimpkish. You have to get off the speeder there and travel one hour by boat to the Vernon Reload because the rail track doesn’t go all the way through yet.”

“After the boat ride, there’s one more speeder that takes you right into Woss,” added Jim. “But that’s a short ride– only about forty minutes. All told, it’ll take the whole day to get down to Woss. Don’t worry! We’ll make sure you have sandwiches with you.”

My mother blanched. All day! Two transfers! Two kids. Six suitcases.

“We’d better get to bed early,” she said morosely.

The next morning, the family gave us eggs with English muffins and jam before herding us back to the rail track. It was here that we caught our first glimpse of Speeder 121.

Convincing Mother – Ch. 1

“I’m sorry. I just don’t like the sound of it!”

My mother at breakfast in 1953, in the kitchen of our one-bedroom home in Vancouver. We lived a few blocks east of Little Italy, a quaint area in the city. We kids loved to walk the 2nd Avenue hill and trudge up the other side to Copp’s Shoes, which offered the most wonderful toffee suckers wrapped in wax paper if you bought any small thing – even a pair of shoelaces. What a thrill to open the wrapper and taste that creamy caramel toffee inside!

At the moment, however, toffee suckers were off the table, as it were, since my father had just proposed that we pick up and move from Vancouver, lock, stock and barrel, to a remote logging camp on Vancouver Island. Hence, my mother’s reaction.

At the time, our tiny, stucco house felt cramped and old. Cold, too, as I recall, since it rained steadily in Vancouver and my parents had to economize on heat. However, Granny Davis, who lived in our basement suite, owned a pot-bellied stove. Her place always exuded a cozy warmth. Orange poppies bordered the cement stairs down to her door, and I remember smelling their pungent odour when we visited her for tea and cookies on occasion.

My folks were young then, children of the Great Depression, struggling to raise two kids and earn enough money to keep a roof over our heads. Times had to be tough for my mother to even consider such a drastic step as my father was proposing. The Post-War boom hadn’t yet reached full momentum, so many families still struggled as we did. Luckily, Mom had attended university on scholarships and now had a full-time teaching job in an elementary school.

Looking back at their discussion, I picture my father reaching for the sugar and stirring two lumps into his coffee, then sucking on a third in the Scandinavian way. He likely wore his Yellow Cab hat, one that he no doubt hoped to “deep six” for a teacher’s garb if he could convince my mother that this move was a good thing.

“It’s a principalship in the Nimpkish Valley!” he exclaimed. “And it’s a two-room school, so you and I would be the only teachers. We’d have free reign!”

He made it sound promising, even exciting.

“Why would you be the principal when it’s your first appointment?” objected my mother. “I’m the one with the teaching experience! You’ve only just earned your diploma.”

“I agree it’s not fair, but you know how the world works, sweetie,” replied Dad. “They always offer the men the best jobs. At least the money will be all in the family. And it’s an adventure! Think of it that way. Remember, Huey Grayson will be there.”

“Your forestry friend?”

“That’s the one. He’s stationed at Woss Camp, where we’d be living. So we’ll know someone going in.”

“Yes, I remember him. He has the thickest British accent I’ve ever heard,” said Mom.

“Well, knowledge of the Queen’s English is no barrier to a love of virgin forest. He knows they could log that area for decades and hardly make a dent.”

I can certainly understand my mother’s reluctance to move. There she sat, staring at one dependent child across the kitchen table, while offering strips of toast to a smaller child on the floor beside her. It was difficult enough to be a working mother in the city. What would it be like juggling work and family in a remote logging camp?

“Who’ll look after the kids during the day?”

“We’ll find somebody. We’ll hire a nanny before we go.”

That sounded reasonable, but I’m sure that even my father, who had grown up in mining camps as a child, didn’t fully grasp how rustic those Island logging camps really were.

“There aren’t any roads!” bemoaned Mother. “How will we get in and out?”

“We’ll go by steamship from Vancouver,” said my father. “Then they have company rail cars from Englewood to the logging camps. They call them speeders.”

speeder 121 at Woss Camp
Speeder 121 at Woss Camp (courtesy of the Museum at Campbell River, BC)

“Speeders!? Good grief. I’ve seen pictures of those things,” said Mom. “They look like big tin lozenges on rail wheels. Are they safe?”

“They’re safe,” said Dad. “Not exactly luxury travel, but they have bench seating around the walls and sliding doors to get in and out. Like self-propelled boxcars, really. And it’s only a two-hour ride!”

It was true. You could only get halfway to the logging camps by steamship or by sea plane. Then you took a long railway ride in those metal contraptions, not well-equipped for passengers. And CANFOR, Canadian Forest Products, owned it all. Or leased it, which amounted to the same thing. They owned the camps, the houses in the camps, the rail line, the speeders. And for a song, they held long leases on the forests, courtesy of the BC government.

“It’s a booming frontier!” said Dad. “They’re making nothing but money logging those mountains, so everyone who works for them does pretty well.”

Then he quickly changed the subject.

“Would you like to go on a big ship, kids?” he said, glossing over the rail car part. Naturally, our young eyes lit up. Then he sweetened the deal. “And sleep in a stateroom for a whole night?”

We were sold. Or at least, I was. My mother still frowned. She did not like that our ship would dock at a remote log dump, and that when we arrived there, we’d still be in transit. She knew that Englewood existed only to receive logs from down-Island, logs which were then dumped into Queen Charlotte Strait, tied into log booms, and towed to sawmills and pulp mills in Vancouver, Prince Rupert or Victoria. Our steamship port wasn’t much more than a huge pier, cut out of the wilderness. There was no guest house.

My mother had one final protest.

“What if one of us gets sick?”

“No problem! There’s a camp medic, and they can always fly us out to Alert Bay if they have to. It’s only a twenty-minute flight by emergency float plane.”

“Twenty minutes! We could bleed to death in that time!”

As it turned out, some bleeding did take place during our stay there, and one of us did fly out on that emergency float plane.

I’ll tell you more about that when we get there.