In my career as a student, I have had some great teachers and truly some great duds. I remember most of them from poodle-skirted Miss Davidson in grade 1 to Stoner Haven in SFU. Dan Doyle comes to mind first but of course he had a chance to influence kids the most as he coached football. I spent from grade 7 to 13 with Dan, in biology classes as well as football, and don't remember a cross word yet he was able to inspire kids to work hard. In those days students weren't advanced from grade to grade unless they did the work and passed, so starting in junior high, we shared the classroom with guys that already had 5 o'clock shadow in the morning. Some graduated from junior high to jail.
Como Lake High School was a tough place in the 50s and 60s, or were the kids tougher? The principal, Cam MacKenzie, fond of big cigars, took the fights and class skipping in his stride and was often seen at the near-by pool hall herding the boys back to school after lunch. It seemed to me that he knew everyone of the 800 or so kids and their circumstances. I last saw MacKenzie a few years after I had left and he predicted that I would become a teacher which I fervently denied at the time. He knew.
In the late 1950s and early 60s, when I was in high school, some of the teachers were veterans of WW II and those days were still fresh in their mind. Mr. Cronkite, was a math teacher in junior high but had been involved in the allied landing into Italy. He was a tall, well built man with a nose that had been broken once or twice, but smiled a lot and could be counted on to tell some war stories. I suppose he became a teacher through some veterans' program. He caught the attention of us boys when he arrived at school with a brand new 1959 Buick. The last time that I saw Cronkite was in the summer of 1959 or 1960, working as a roust-about a the PNE, needing to augment his teacher's wages.
The teachers that were able to attract attention, mine at least, had interesting pasts. Mr. Ferguson, a little pompous in the British way, with a narrow, well trimmed moustache, had been involved in an archaeological dig in Marpole. When the tram lines were built in the early years of the last century, a large midden was uncovered. Ferguson had a beautiful collection of arrowheads from there. Vera Lightall had been a child of missionaries in China during the Boxer Rebellion. She was full of stories about the working conditions of children in China at that time. Mr. Meuldyk, from Belgium, taught French and Economics, and travelled extensively in Europe during his holidays. He was a little eccentric in that he took it as a personal affront if a student yawned during class and would be moved to tears by Edith Piaf music. Mrs. Waldy ran away with a student.
Teachers, like many people in those post war decades were colourful. Politically Correct (PC) hadn't been invented because people believed in saying it the way they saw it.
When, many years later, I found my way into teaching, it was in Coquitlam school district. Some of these interesting people now became colleagues. Indeed, Doug Grant
who was principal at Como Lake after Cam MacKenzie, was the principal at my first school, Dr. Charles Best Secondary. He was really a captain of the ship without micro-managing. Interestingly, Charles Best was built on the site of the old dump where I spent some time in my youth and had a close call with firearms.
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Saturday, 27 August 2011
Home Learning
I finished high school and attended two different universities, but when it comes right down to it, anything that made a difference to my being able to earn a living I learned right at home. Oh, I learned to type at school, I learned science and a little sports but when I left school I already had the basic building blocks of being able to turn my hand to different things.
My dad had apprenticed at age thirteen as a typesetter at a newspaper in Finland where his sisters and some cousins were also typesetters but he left at age 15 to apprentice as a mechanic on those exciting machines, motor cars. When he gave notice at the newspaper, his boss said "Don't leave. Here you have a career, anybody can be a (shudder) driver". Their loss, my gain.
When he came to this new country, he turned his hand to something different. The first job, and almost the last, was as a chokerman on a logging operation in Honeymoon Bay
on Lake Cowichan. That job lasted until a choker hook slipped and broke his jaw. No Workers' Compensation in those days so it was back to Vancouver, with his jaw wired shut, to recuperate in a boarding house owned by Henry Lane, another Finn, on Heatly Street and so there it was that we spent our first night in Canada when mom, my two sisters, and I arrived.
Dad then worked in a sawmill, a foundry, hauled peat from Burns Bog, and finally started to build houses with another Finnish friend, Niiranen. As his skills grew, he was able to join the union and take part in some of the large commercial projects then taking place on the lower mainland. In 1956, dad bought 2.5 acres of bush with a small house on it, for $1500, in Coquitlam, at the end of Austin Road. The property was subdivided and we started building houses. Niiranen came to show us how to cut the rafters for the first hip roof. I really learned building skills there.
Carpenters, then, didn't wear a leather apron with pockets as now, but wore carpenters' coveralls made by the Great Western Garment (GWG) Company in Winnipeg. If you were right handed, you had to learn to hang your hammer in the loop on the left side of your body because your left hand had to hold the cloth loop open. Carpenters now just drop their hammer into a forever-open metal loop. A sure give-away to a newby on the job was, other than brand new coveralls, that he couldn't put his hammer away correctly.
Houses in the 1950s and early 60s were still being built with shiplap lumber. This was 6 or 8 inches wide and as it was often applied at a 45 angle, every board had to be cut with a hand saw to land halfway on a stud or rafter. The board was then nailed with two 2 1/4 inch nails on every stud. Two carpenters working together got into a hammering rhythm and a proud moment was when I could keep up with the old man.
From the time that I was tall enough to peek under the hood of a car, I was "helping" to adjust points (cars don't have any points now), change plugs, oil, or rebuilding engines.
This all became a focus for a short time when dad leased a Royalite service station in Mission, B.C. In those days, cars had to be tinkered with to keep them running. Carbon built up on ignition points and spark plug electrodes and in time would make the engine miss on one or more cylinders. Nowadays, with no points, unleaded gas, and computerized, optimized timing, spark plugs often last beyond one owners ownership of the vehicle. I can't remember when I last changed a plug on a car.
Those were all concrete skills that I carried with me when I left home. Yes, I got some university courses and, for a time, worked at being a scientist and a teacher but eventually came to rely on my "fallback" skills. Not so bad looking back.
My dad had apprenticed at age thirteen as a typesetter at a newspaper in Finland where his sisters and some cousins were also typesetters but he left at age 15 to apprentice as a mechanic on those exciting machines, motor cars. When he gave notice at the newspaper, his boss said "Don't leave. Here you have a career, anybody can be a (shudder) driver". Their loss, my gain.
When he came to this new country, he turned his hand to something different. The first job, and almost the last, was as a chokerman on a logging operation in Honeymoon Bay
on Lake Cowichan. That job lasted until a choker hook slipped and broke his jaw. No Workers' Compensation in those days so it was back to Vancouver, with his jaw wired shut, to recuperate in a boarding house owned by Henry Lane, another Finn, on Heatly Street and so there it was that we spent our first night in Canada when mom, my two sisters, and I arrived.
Dad then worked in a sawmill, a foundry, hauled peat from Burns Bog, and finally started to build houses with another Finnish friend, Niiranen. As his skills grew, he was able to join the union and take part in some of the large commercial projects then taking place on the lower mainland. In 1956, dad bought 2.5 acres of bush with a small house on it, for $1500, in Coquitlam, at the end of Austin Road. The property was subdivided and we started building houses. Niiranen came to show us how to cut the rafters for the first hip roof. I really learned building skills there.
Carpenters, then, didn't wear a leather apron with pockets as now, but wore carpenters' coveralls made by the Great Western Garment (GWG) Company in Winnipeg. If you were right handed, you had to learn to hang your hammer in the loop on the left side of your body because your left hand had to hold the cloth loop open. Carpenters now just drop their hammer into a forever-open metal loop. A sure give-away to a newby on the job was, other than brand new coveralls, that he couldn't put his hammer away correctly.
Houses in the 1950s and early 60s were still being built with shiplap lumber. This was 6 or 8 inches wide and as it was often applied at a 45 angle, every board had to be cut with a hand saw to land halfway on a stud or rafter. The board was then nailed with two 2 1/4 inch nails on every stud. Two carpenters working together got into a hammering rhythm and a proud moment was when I could keep up with the old man.
From the time that I was tall enough to peek under the hood of a car, I was "helping" to adjust points (cars don't have any points now), change plugs, oil, or rebuilding engines.
This all became a focus for a short time when dad leased a Royalite service station in Mission, B.C. In those days, cars had to be tinkered with to keep them running. Carbon built up on ignition points and spark plug electrodes and in time would make the engine miss on one or more cylinders. Nowadays, with no points, unleaded gas, and computerized, optimized timing, spark plugs often last beyond one owners ownership of the vehicle. I can't remember when I last changed a plug on a car.
Those were all concrete skills that I carried with me when I left home. Yes, I got some university courses and, for a time, worked at being a scientist and a teacher but eventually came to rely on my "fallback" skills. Not so bad looking back.
Thursday, 25 August 2011
(G)old Friends
We toured the B.C. Legislature building yesterday. What a beautiful building inside. Murals and stained glass. Gold leaf on all the trim, although architect Rattenbury had specified the gold, it wasn't applied at the time and more than one hundred years passed before that specification was met. Still looks great.
The tour was suggested by old friends and none of us, despite living in British Columbia for over 60 years, had been inside the buildings. Old friends are also worth their weight in gold. After long periods of not being in touch, one can pick up exactly where you left off the last time. Old friends can be imposed upon, relied upon, and can be expected to pick up the pieces if one of us stumbles.
August of 2011, has been difficult for old friends. Early in the month, Don Dixon passed away. Although not of my generation, Don was an old friend whose time ran out. In the third week of August, of course, Jack Layton passed away. Although never a personal friend, Jack so affected people of all ages that it was just like losing an old friend. And on the 25th of the month, very old friend Rex Offord in Australia passed away. He had been struggling with multiple myeloma for some time but was felled by a cerebral hemorrage.
My list of old friends range in age from in their thirties to in their seventies. I guess there isn't a min or max for old friends but the fact that somehow you click and it just feels right. However, the heartache as the ranks thin is still the pits.
The tour was suggested by old friends and none of us, despite living in British Columbia for over 60 years, had been inside the buildings. Old friends are also worth their weight in gold. After long periods of not being in touch, one can pick up exactly where you left off the last time. Old friends can be imposed upon, relied upon, and can be expected to pick up the pieces if one of us stumbles.
August of 2011, has been difficult for old friends. Early in the month, Don Dixon passed away. Although not of my generation, Don was an old friend whose time ran out. In the third week of August, of course, Jack Layton passed away. Although never a personal friend, Jack so affected people of all ages that it was just like losing an old friend. And on the 25th of the month, very old friend Rex Offord in Australia passed away. He had been struggling with multiple myeloma for some time but was felled by a cerebral hemorrage.
My list of old friends range in age from in their thirties to in their seventies. I guess there isn't a min or max for old friends but the fact that somehow you click and it just feels right. However, the heartache as the ranks thin is still the pits.
Wednesday, 24 August 2011
Jack Layton
My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.
All my very best,
Jack Layton
Jack was truly a man of the people. His whole adult life was dedicated to finding equality for the common, and often under-represented, man. Here was a man who spoke about the necessities for all of us to achieve if we are to survive together on this planet that we call home. If the environment was being polluted by our reliance on fossil fuels, Jack rode a bicycle.
Love and respect for one another was a way of life for this man.
We miss you Jack.
All my very best,
Jack Layton
Jack was truly a man of the people. His whole adult life was dedicated to finding equality for the common, and often under-represented, man. Here was a man who spoke about the necessities for all of us to achieve if we are to survive together on this planet that we call home. If the environment was being polluted by our reliance on fossil fuels, Jack rode a bicycle.
Love and respect for one another was a way of life for this man.
We miss you Jack.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
Monte Christo
In the late 1960s, word of mouth lead me to where the Monte Christo was being built. She was a Barkentine of 115' on deck, planked with mahogany on sawn Douglas fir frames. Four disparate dreamers had combined efforts to bring this tall ship into being. Alex Brigola, a Greek of lousy disposition, was the main push to build this ship. Joe was the partner with the building skills and like most builders was easy going and calm, confident in his skills. Jri Novak was the muscle. He was a deserter from the Czechoslovakian army and was a whirlwind of energy and raw strength, with flowing blond hair. The fourth partner, whose name I can't recall, was of equally foul temper as Alex and rode a Triumph motor cycle. Then of course there was a handful of dreamers and waterfront hangers-on of whom I was one.
I found out about the ship from my friend Bob whose brother Bill was likewise working at building the Monte Christo in any spare time that he had. Bob and Bill's dad had a bare hull that he was finishing off at Mosquito Creek Yacht Basin in North Vancouver. Bill and I, being the youngest of the group, were interested in how a traditional vessel went together. The building of the hull was the same as any wooden vessel we had been involved with but just much larger. But the rigging was where traditional, almost lost, skills came into use. All the hardware had to be fabricated, by Joe, for the spars for the square sails, for the stays and bowsprit hardware, for the shrouds and ratlines, for the blocks and lines and pin rails. Shrouds of 1" wire rope had to be "wormed and parcelled with the lay, turn and served the other way", as was the ages old method. Everything was covered in, rare today, Stockholm tar.
In time, the Monte Christo was ready to be launched to be rigged, but the problem was that she was a quarter of a mile from the water. The Canadian National Railway lent us the ties and rails to build a railway to Burrard Inlet. Someone lent a front-end loader so the work was not entirely by armstrong. I don't know who of the partners had a friend in the provincial government but highways minister Phil Gagliardi, an ordained minister of a church in Kamloops, came to bless the vessel, and my Canadian flag draped the bowsprit. Phil Gagliardi was of that larger-than-life era of politician who were a little outrageous in what they said and did but by-and-large were important to the development of the province. If what they did in the 1950's and 60's were left to the study-it-to-death and contract-it-out-overseas politicians of today, nothing of any size and worth would have been accomplished. Indeed, today's politicians have dismantled some of what was accomplished at great expense to the province.
After the launching and the obligatory visits onboard, we were able to spend the first night afloat on the Monte Christo. She was then towed to Burrard Drydock to have one of the dockside cranes slide the sticks into her. Now, quite a few old retired seamen, who had learned the trade from the iron men of sail, appeared to help rig the masts and tension the shrouds and stays. Everything was done by eye. She had to look right, not some copy from a book. This is where I left the Monte Christo as I had gotten a job with Federal Fisheries at the Research Station in Nanaimo.
Unfortunately, after the ship had been rigged and the sails bent, Alex Brigola tried to motor her singlehandedly through the First Narrows, against the tide, and had to be rescued and towed back to dock. This was deemed as running out on the other partners and of course it went to court. Ultimately, she was sold and the new owners sailed her into the South Pacific. The last I heard of the Monte Christo was that she had struck a reef near Fiji and was a total loss.
I found out about the ship from my friend Bob whose brother Bill was likewise working at building the Monte Christo in any spare time that he had. Bob and Bill's dad had a bare hull that he was finishing off at Mosquito Creek Yacht Basin in North Vancouver. Bill and I, being the youngest of the group, were interested in how a traditional vessel went together. The building of the hull was the same as any wooden vessel we had been involved with but just much larger. But the rigging was where traditional, almost lost, skills came into use. All the hardware had to be fabricated, by Joe, for the spars for the square sails, for the stays and bowsprit hardware, for the shrouds and ratlines, for the blocks and lines and pin rails. Shrouds of 1" wire rope had to be "wormed and parcelled with the lay, turn and served the other way", as was the ages old method. Everything was covered in, rare today, Stockholm tar.
In time, the Monte Christo was ready to be launched to be rigged, but the problem was that she was a quarter of a mile from the water. The Canadian National Railway lent us the ties and rails to build a railway to Burrard Inlet. Someone lent a front-end loader so the work was not entirely by armstrong. I don't know who of the partners had a friend in the provincial government but highways minister Phil Gagliardi, an ordained minister of a church in Kamloops, came to bless the vessel, and my Canadian flag draped the bowsprit. Phil Gagliardi was of that larger-than-life era of politician who were a little outrageous in what they said and did but by-and-large were important to the development of the province. If what they did in the 1950's and 60's were left to the study-it-to-death and contract-it-out-overseas politicians of today, nothing of any size and worth would have been accomplished. Indeed, today's politicians have dismantled some of what was accomplished at great expense to the province.
After the launching and the obligatory visits onboard, we were able to spend the first night afloat on the Monte Christo. She was then towed to Burrard Drydock to have one of the dockside cranes slide the sticks into her. Now, quite a few old retired seamen, who had learned the trade from the iron men of sail, appeared to help rig the masts and tension the shrouds and stays. Everything was done by eye. She had to look right, not some copy from a book. This is where I left the Monte Christo as I had gotten a job with Federal Fisheries at the Research Station in Nanaimo.
Unfortunately, after the ship had been rigged and the sails bent, Alex Brigola tried to motor her singlehandedly through the First Narrows, against the tide, and had to be rescued and towed back to dock. This was deemed as running out on the other partners and of course it went to court. Ultimately, she was sold and the new owners sailed her into the South Pacific. The last I heard of the Monte Christo was that she had struck a reef near Fiji and was a total loss.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
Dog Walking
Dog walking used to take Baxter and me for hours long hikes to Kal Lake Provincial Park, just up the hill from home. Time, though, has taken its toll on dog and walker and we now drive to the bottom of the hill to Creekside Park. Baxter needs a ramp to get in and out of the truck but he still does his oh-boy-I'm-going-out dance when I make a move toward the truck keys.
Dog walking can be a nice solitary break where part of your mind can wander or one can watch the ways of the Canada Geese as they ready their young for the trip south. Since Baxter doesn't have a lot to say and is busy scenting out previous travellers, the walk is really a time to think, without problem solving - just a free ranging mind wander that really is a healthy defrag of the musty old files.
The dog park has become busier with old guys and their dogs so the dog walk has also become an opportunity to crab about the politicians at all levels of government and their abysmal lack of common sense; lack of empathy for the people that they are supposed to represent; lack of consideration for the problems common people have in providing for their families; and all those things. Weather is the next best topic. Of course, the dog park is not restricted to men. Women also walk dogs but really, it's like the men's barber shop, when a woman walks in, meaningful man talk stops.
Baxter, however, has found a girlfriend there. He is a Turkish Akbash cross and we bumped into a woman with a female Akbash, Tia. There really is something to species recognition because the first time that Tia saw Baxter, she just went bananas, which she just doesn't do with other dogs. Several meetings later, she got just too rambunctious and pushy so Baxter gave her a snarl and poor Tia was just terribly hurt. You could see the surprise in her face. All is back to normal now. Tia is still smitten and Baxter is playing hard to get.
When Baxter came to us, I was still in the decade of my fifties, and despite mobility handicaps, we could still put in a couple of hours of good exercise. Eleven years later, dog walking has become more of a shuffle for both of us. The spirit is willing but the follow-through is limited.
Friday, 12 August 2011
Sailing
Sailing comes easier if a person has already learned boat handling basics
through power boating, at least that is how it worked for me. It started with dad renting
aluminum outboard skiffs from Sewell's in Horseshoe Bay. The fleet of boats improved
over the years until the rentals had wheel steering. Once a person can picture in his
mind how the rudder points in connection to how the boat reacts, the rest is easy. So by
the time I came to sailing, or did sailing come to me, I had been in Georgia Strait in
skiffs, up the coast in a 50' Fisheries boat, up numerous streams and rivers in a jet drive
river skiff, on Babine River and Lake in 30' wooden riverboats, on the Skeena River in a
cannery work boat, on Okanagan Lake in a log boom tow boat, and finally working a
lumber mill dozer boat to push log bundles to the lift.
When we moved to White Rock, a good friend John Ford, owned a 41' ketch and
in return for some hours of labour we would go sailing. Ultimately, our crew won the
yacht club regatta on Semiahmoo Bay. Sailing that ketch was really a revelation, and a
great change from pounding along with a roaring engine. The boat did not have a lot of
electronics so sailing was done with the senses, watching the set of the tide and feeling
the apparent wind on your cheek or neck. There was no auto-pilot so we were always
trying to balance the sails to get her to sail herself. I was thirty then and still had the
energy needed to be constantly adjusting the rig. Another friend bought a 30 something
foot sloop from Brentwood Bay on the Island and we sailed her back to Port Moody in
the depths of a winter that saw snow even on the Gulf Islands. Brentwood Bay had a
skiff of ice when we left, from fresh water laying on top of the salt and freezing.
We moved inland then and a growing family and having to make a living kept me
from the ocean for the next three decades until we reconnected with another old friend,
Doug Williams, with a 37' Jenneau and a tradition of cruises with us "old boys" started.
What a relief that was. There really is no other feeling like it when you get the sails up
and she heels to the wind and starts to accelerate. You can feel the power of the hull as
the bow lifts to the swell. There is no engine noise, just the chuckle of the wake being
left behind. Even in the rain, which sometimes happens on the coast, there is
satisfaction in the drumming of the rain on the deck and the sizzling of the drops into the
ocean around you.
Brother-in-law Rob, and his wife Fran, live overlooking Cordova Bay and the
busy Haro Strait, between Vancouver Island and the U.S. San Juan Island. I can quite
happily spend hours watching the traffic on the water. The large commercial traffic in
and out of the Port of Vancouver must go by here. The smaller traffic comes closer,
tugs and their tows, crabbers pulling pots, and private craft of all shapes and sizes.
S.A.L.T.S., Sail and Life Training Society in Victoria, operate two schooners for the
purpose of introducing youths to the teamwork needed to successfully sail a large
vessel and the spirituality inherent in wind and sea power. Fortunately for us, the Pacific
Swift or the Pacific Grace will come around to anchor 500 yards from our windows for
their first night at sea. The green crew is separated into watches and begin to "learn the
ropes". Always a treat to watch a large vessel under sail come to anchor.
through power boating, at least that is how it worked for me. It started with dad renting
aluminum outboard skiffs from Sewell's in Horseshoe Bay. The fleet of boats improved
over the years until the rentals had wheel steering. Once a person can picture in his
mind how the rudder points in connection to how the boat reacts, the rest is easy. So by
the time I came to sailing, or did sailing come to me, I had been in Georgia Strait in
skiffs, up the coast in a 50' Fisheries boat, up numerous streams and rivers in a jet drive
river skiff, on Babine River and Lake in 30' wooden riverboats, on the Skeena River in a
cannery work boat, on Okanagan Lake in a log boom tow boat, and finally working a
lumber mill dozer boat to push log bundles to the lift.
When we moved to White Rock, a good friend John Ford, owned a 41' ketch and
in return for some hours of labour we would go sailing. Ultimately, our crew won the
yacht club regatta on Semiahmoo Bay. Sailing that ketch was really a revelation, and a
great change from pounding along with a roaring engine. The boat did not have a lot of
electronics so sailing was done with the senses, watching the set of the tide and feeling
the apparent wind on your cheek or neck. There was no auto-pilot so we were always
trying to balance the sails to get her to sail herself. I was thirty then and still had the
energy needed to be constantly adjusting the rig. Another friend bought a 30 something
foot sloop from Brentwood Bay on the Island and we sailed her back to Port Moody in
the depths of a winter that saw snow even on the Gulf Islands. Brentwood Bay had a
skiff of ice when we left, from fresh water laying on top of the salt and freezing.
We moved inland then and a growing family and having to make a living kept me
from the ocean for the next three decades until we reconnected with another old friend,
Doug Williams, with a 37' Jenneau and a tradition of cruises with us "old boys" started.
What a relief that was. There really is no other feeling like it when you get the sails up
and she heels to the wind and starts to accelerate. You can feel the power of the hull as
the bow lifts to the swell. There is no engine noise, just the chuckle of the wake being
left behind. Even in the rain, which sometimes happens on the coast, there is
satisfaction in the drumming of the rain on the deck and the sizzling of the drops into the
ocean around you.
Brother-in-law Rob, and his wife Fran, live overlooking Cordova Bay and the
busy Haro Strait, between Vancouver Island and the U.S. San Juan Island. I can quite
happily spend hours watching the traffic on the water. The large commercial traffic in
and out of the Port of Vancouver must go by here. The smaller traffic comes closer,
tugs and their tows, crabbers pulling pots, and private craft of all shapes and sizes.
S.A.L.T.S., Sail and Life Training Society in Victoria, operate two schooners for the
purpose of introducing youths to the teamwork needed to successfully sail a large
vessel and the spirituality inherent in wind and sea power. Fortunately for us, the Pacific
Swift or the Pacific Grace will come around to anchor 500 yards from our windows for
their first night at sea. The green crew is separated into watches and begin to "learn the
ropes". Always a treat to watch a large vessel under sail come to anchor.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
Suits
I was still in high school when I bought my first suit. Strictly speaking, it wasn't my first suit because I had a suit when I was fired off to church confirmation but that was about fifty or sixty pounds of muscle and bone earlier. This was a suit that I bought with money earned working summers on the Great Northern Railway. Wages were good and so was the suit.
The cloth was a brown sharkskin. When the light fell on it at a different angle there was a shine of different colours revealed, like the scales of a fish through clear, cold water, but really understated. It was beautiful and I looked like a million bucks. I first wore it on a trip to play football against Skyline High School in the States. "Nice threads", said the coach.
A couple of years later, I had my first and only suit made to measure at a tailor shop on Granville Street in Vancouver. I think it cost me 130 bucks, which was quite a bit considering wages were about $2.25 per hour. What a head turner! The cloth was a teal colour with a light gold vertical stripe, and the jacket fitted well from well padded shoulders to a double vent in the back. I went from the tailor shop down to the beach front walk at English Bay and was promptly nailed by a passing seagull right on my left shoulder. I wonder if he had something against teal with a stripe.
I can't for the life of me remember what happened to those suits but they didn't follow me into the 1970s which was really a time of anti-suit. When we got married in 1974, Betty & I came to Vancouver in search of wedding finery. We went to the men's wear shop on Granville where I had gotten the teal suit. I happened to be wearing a colourful African shirt that Betty had brought back from Barbados and asked the clerk for something flamboyant. "I'm sorry sir, I can't beat that" says he. We ended up with a white shirt covered in small blue flowers and a pair of navy cords instead of a wedding suit.
The next suit that I bought was for my brother-in-law Rick's wedding in 1978 in Ontario. This was a beaut. Cream coloured polyester with bell bottomed slacks. Two pair of slacks were included, one pair to match the cream jacket and one pair a dark brown, with a vest that was reversible either cream or brown. My white shirt had large collar ends that were made for being open chested in the fashion of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Yowser.
That was my last suit for twenty years. For dressy occasions, there were a number of blazers ranging from polyester to corduroy until 1999 when Auntie Enid had her 80th birthday in Victoria. I bought a nondescript but pleasant suit of indescribable colour and pattern, that I have worn to weddings and funerals, parties and business meetings. The inner me still yearns for a little daring sharkskin or a splash of teal with a gold stripe.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Straw Hats
Straw hats were once the universal head gear for men and women. Indigenous peoples everywhere still have straw hats and these were probably the beginning of the what later became fashionable. Hunters and gatherers were not into straw hats but rather wore whatever the forest or wildlife provided, perhaps going so far as to weave headwear from leaves or roots of plants. People engaged in agriculture, however, developed the hat from essentially what was leftovers - straw.
Straw hats often had very wide brims, until they became haute couture, to protect the wearer from the sun or rain. Joshua Slocum, the first man to sail solo around the world in 1898, is pictured in a straw hat with a brim reaching almost as wide as his shoulders. Jolly tars waterproofed their straw hats with, you guessed it, tar and spruced them up with ribbons of national or ship's colours. Western ranchers wore straw before they had the means for the Stetson's seen everywhere. Straw is still summer wear around ranches, if it hasn't been replaced by the ubiquitous baseball cap.
I took a magnificent western straw hat to Finland on my first trip back after coming to Canada which caused some problems for the cabin attendants, stewardesses back then, to find a place large enough to put it. Come to think of it, they had a problem with me on the return trip too because I carried cross country skis and poles onto the plane. I wore that straw hat for awhile but sophisticated Europeans weren't really impressed by touristy stuff and indeed in Finland to call someone "a straw hat" is a pejorative for a farmer. "Oh, he is a real straw hat."
At the turn of the last century, straw was high fashion. Men of means, or at least university students, wore the "boater". Especially in the USA, the boater is so symbolic of better bygone times that plastic boaters are available. Women, of course, have always had flamboyant straw hats available, especially in England, with royalty, or during Ascot Racing or polo. Traraa.
I now have several straw hats. Living in cowboy country in the interior of British Columbia, I have of course a straw stetson. I also have a Caribbe Islands hat which I use in the garden. For going to town, I have a small brimmed straw Fedora. When my son Shane was travelling in South America, he sent me a wonderful straw hat - a Panama Fedora with a moderately large brim. This hat arrived rolled up into a 2" x 2" x 12" box made of Balsa wood. The straw was that pliable and it was woven so tightly that it was waterproof. Oddly enough Panama Hats are now made in Bolivia. I still wear it with my "Cerveza" shirt at summer parties. Shades of a Bogart movie.
Straw, to a certain extent, seems to be making a comeback in hats. With holes in the ozone layer and the evils of too much sun, even young men are wearing straw hats to save themselves from skin cancer. Women are wearing wide brimmed hats for the same reason. I don't think that we will ever get the hat industry that we had at the turn of the 1900s, when no one ventured out of doors without a hat but it is nice to see that straw has not been forgotten.
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