Father's Day - That's That!

A vivid memory I have of my dad, Reginald George Stofer, from London, England, is the great struggle he undertook to build a home for his wife Violet and we three boys, myself, [Ken], and brothers Eric and Reg. Now I am 'enroute' to age 94 and have built my own house, I fully appreciate the trials and tribulations endured by my father in preparing a home for his family.   

Mom and dad had somehow acquired a small piece of land immediately behind the old original St. Aidans Church on Cedar Hill Cross Road on which stood a shell of half-finished house abandoned by someone else.  My father painstakingly turned this into a home for us.  We moved into 1645 Broadmead Avenue around 1932-33.  

Dad insisted that we three boys each have our own bedrooms, so he made sure there was a second floor.  My room faced the East, {upstairs left}, and brother Eric the North. My brother Reggie's room faced south towards [town] Victoria, about three miles away, and overlooked a country store on Cedar Hill X Road, owned by the Phillips family at that time. 

Reggie, a talented musician, often sat in his room [with his window open in the summer], and sang his head off while playing the guitar and practicing for an upcoming performance. Sometimes he sang in the garden.

Downstairs there was a hall leading to the front door, a bedroom for mom and dad, and right opposite their bedroom was the one bathroom for all of us.  

Beyond the bathroom was the Living Room which led into a sunroom with lots of windows overlooking what was to become our lovely garden.

I also remember the aviary that dad built and where he raised canaries.  He even "piped" music into the aviary and had a mike in there as well to "send" the birds singing back into our house. 

Off of the Living Room was quite a large kitchen [for its day],

and off of the kitchen was a small room into which came one end of a clothes line that reached from the house to the end of the garden.  Over the kitchen sink was a wide window overlooking the roof of our attached garage and into the lovely garden of the neighbour who was the minister of St. Aidans Church right next door.

I remember seeing dad sitting in his garden like this many times. 

His mind was constantly 'on the go' thinking about radios he could build, different varieties of canaries he could raise, or how he could change the garden.

Mom and dad were so pleased when the house was completed.  Mom told me once that she and dad were standing in front of the house side by side one sunny day, and mom said to dad, "Well that's that."  And so they named our house THAT'S THAT!   Sometimes they even used THAT'S  THAT as a part of their mailing address.  

 

I lived in this home until 1941, when by that time WW2 was underway in Europe.  I saved my money and paid my passage to England to join the R.A.F.  For five years mom and dad wrote wonderful detailed  letters to me so that I would always be in touch with home.

So on this Fathers' Day I remember my dad Reginald George Stofer and all of the effort he put into building a wonderful home for his family.

Grandpa 'sits' the twins

Some years ago, my wife went out with our daughter-in-law, so that 'Grandma' could experience a half-day at pre-school with Granddaughter Colleen.

I was left in charge of Colleen's twin sisters,  Lindsay and Heather, who sat quietly on the floor in front of me poking at some infinitesimal thread on a discarded sock. This is going to be a cinch I thought, as I stretched back in the recliner and opened my book.

They loved sitting on the hearth, right in front of the fireplace [usually unlit].  

They looked at me as if to say, "We might go in the fireplace."  With an authoritative wag of an index finger and a gentle, but firm voice I told them "No!"

My problems began when the telephone rang.  While  answering the call I tried to keep them in sight, playing with toys, but disaster had struck!  They were sitting on the hearth.  Their hands were filthy black with soot.  They gave me the sweetest little smiles, and knowing they had done wrong, said, "Hi", in that sweet, husky little voice designed solely to melt a grandpa's heart.  

I scooped them up, one under each arm.  We marched to the bathroom where I held Heather against the side of the vanity with the gentle pressure of an encompassing body and legs.  On the vanity top I held Lindsay with my left arm around her, holding her left hand immobile with my left hand. I turned on the taps.

Have you ever tried to hold and wash the hand of a little child who doesn't want to be washed, using one hand to make lather with a slippery cake of soap?  Cleaned and nice-smelling, I put Lindsay down. Now I gave Heather  all of my concentration and commenced to wash her.  Lindsay now had the toilet paper unrolled and the bath towels off the rack.

Needless to say I gave them an early lunch at 11:20.  I figured they wouldn't budge if they had food in front of them.  The sight of their feeding dishes signalled food and they surpassed themselves with cooperation, climbing into their high-chairs.

They ate well, working their way through a half slice of cheese, an apple, and a half banana each, plus numerous crackers washed down with two glasses of juice. Then came the next big ordeal…change-of-diapers and afternoon nap time.  Pampers - what a wonderful invention - no safety pins to fumble with or fear of drawing blood.

Heather was first into the nursery. I left the door open, thinking Lindsay would naturally want to follow.  "Wrong"  -  Lindsay seized this opportunity to distance herself from the nursery.  It happened to be the hearth.  She stood with a very knowing and almost daring look on her cute little face, suggesting, "I might just get dirty again."  I quickly clutched her up and back to the nursery we went.   I closed the door behind me.

I decided to change Heather first.  While performing this almost-forgotten art, I placed Lindsay in her crib using it as a temporary holding pen.

Placement in the crib meant it was nap time ritual and all that went with it; blanket and dollies etc.  Out of practice, my diaper changing was taking a little longer than Mom's.  Screams of disapproval told me I'd done the wrong thing.  She wasn't being a bad little girl.  I just didn't have the routine quite right.  Aware that neighbours might be concerned, I quickly removed her from 'jail'.

Confined to the room, but now happily out of the crib, investigative Lindsay was now attempting to climb on to the changing table via a nearby chair, to reach a convenient roll of tissue and a stack of pampers.  All of these things were soon in various places, while Grandpa hastened to powder and re-wrap Heather.

Of course, during the entire procedure, Lindsay was using all of her baby Esperanto, [the twins understood each other perfectly], which served very well to describe and/or obtain anything she saw.  If you'll imagine the sound of "i" as in the word pit, you'll get the idea of the sound, when I say that the entire period of Lindsay's exploration was accompanied by "i,i,i,".  It's a language which suffices for any situation.  In this case "i" meant, "I want to be changed too." 

I placed Heather in her crib, tucked the blanket around her, along with a first-at-hand, and what seemed to be an appropriate dolly and gave her a kiss on the forehead.  I had Lindsay's diaper on before you could say "i".  Heather was in her crib but I had overlooked one very important fact - "Bay-Bee" wasn't.

Heather was now standing, holding the edge of the crib and crying, "i,i, bay-bee."  Hurriedly I powdered, wrapped and lay Lindsay  in her crib where she immediately took up the chant from her sister, and I now had a duet urging me on to do things right, singing, "i,i,i,baybee, baybee, i,i,i".

These two little cherubs, not yet two had already formed a protest group.  All they needed was the placard, "We Want Baybee".

Suddenly it dawned on me, that those knitted-wool-things, with a sort of face in the middle, that I had seen them hugging, or dragging by one leg, throughout the morning, were "bay-bee".  They each had one.  I rushed from the nursery into the disarranged toy department that was the front room.  Frantically I searched in and under everything, desperately trying to figure where I might have put a knitted-wool-thing with a face in the middle, had I been 15-months-old.

I wasn't sure which would be worse, to return empty-handed or to find only one and to have to make a decision as to who would get it.  From the nursery the volume was increasing and the "i,i,i"  had more of a desperate intonation…And Then I Found Them!  The relief I experienced was akin to finding my lost passport while travelling in Iran, or having my dentist telling me a root canal wouldn't be necessary after all.

Delighted, I quickly returned to the nursery where the sight of the contents in my hands immediately changed the looks on the baby faces and the "i,i,i" had a more approving sound.  I re-positioned each of the "protesters" on their tummies, shoved a "baybee" under a little arm, which quickly cuddled it, tucked their blankets around them, wound up a wonderful pling-kitty-plunk musical thing, which they loved, and left the room.  Silence reigned.

I returned to my reclining chair, picked up my book and commenced to read.  At that moment the front door opened and back from her pre-school, Colleen rushed in with a flashing smile and a "Hi Grandpa," with Mommy and Grandma close behind.  "How did it go?," they asked.

"Oh great," I replied, like an old vet.

 

It's hard to believe that those darling little twins will be 30 years old on May 16, 2014. But I think you'll agree, they are just as cute now as they were then!

Heather

Lindsay

Dear Mum

My Dear Mum  - 

Nothing seemed to daunt her.   She had every reason to be downhearted,  based on her life as she related it to me at times. When she and dad came out from England in 1912 everyone around them, save themselves, were sea-sick.  Mom and Dad cared for them.  

On arrival in Canada they had nothing, other than to be greeted in Victoria, B.C. by dad's two brothers, Rob and Will, who were working at the Empress Hotel.  Dad didn't have any promise of work, but on his first day while still in a suit he got a job right on the street of Victoria digging ditches.  Mom made a lunch for him and they sat on the side of the road and ate together.  Their story for a few years, was one of hardship.  My mom, Irene Violet Stofer was a real trouper and knuckled down to doing all that was required.

It wasn't an easy route for them in Canada, but mom especially made it work.  Work is the key word here.  As I recall the house that dad built for all of us, I recall the work that mom also put into it.  Nearly everything in the home was made by mom and dad with mom as the planner and designer so to speak.  All of the rugs and mats on the floors were made by mom and she shared with all the painting and wall-papering.   I remember very clearly that at the Times newspaper office where dad worked there were long cores of compressed paper almost like drain-pipe, very solid that came from the centre of the huge rolls of the blank white paper that would eventually become news papers.  These solid cores were discarded.  Dad brought them home.  Mom and he worked together to construct a base at one end, then threaded an electric wire up the centre where they affixed a socket for a light bulb and added a shade that mom had made to fit over the top.  We had several of these in our house as standing lamps.

Mom also designed and cut out floor mats from some sort of hard rubber matting that dad had obtained from his work place.  These were cut in such a way as to follow the shape of the hall.  If anything was needed, it was made.  Mom designed and cut out the material to make on her sewing machine, dress suits for myself and brothers and dad.  

Not only did mom design and make things for inside the house, but she also worked in the garden with layout of lawns and flower beds, with dad doing the 'bull-work'.  She was an all-around person. Mom was a religious person and we attended the Christian Science Church on Pandora Avenue.

When I was overseas  for 5 years during  World War Two, mom wrote letters to me at least every week and many times more often than that.  One thing about mom was that she wasn't going to allow me to miss anything.  Her letters were very detailed.  Because there were so many ships being sunk, mom numbered every letter she wrote to me and I could keep track of what I had missed and so she repeated items I might have missed. Everyone in the district was mentioned when an event affected their lives.   And where possible there was a photo or two.   She kept me up to date with the local newspapers and didn't allow me to miss a thing that was going on in the old home town. Mum and dad both anticipated my letters home to them and read them together.

Mom listened faithfully to a special "do good" type of program broadcast on KIRO from Seattle.  She became so involved that she made me a member of the club, The Time Klock Klub, which resulted in a charity drive she instigated to supply London's bombed out children with a huge quantity of toys and candy, which I presented to the war-orphaned children in St. Andrews Hospital in London's East End.

I had gone to England to join the R.A.F. and now mom learned that it was possible to transfer to the RCAF where my salary would be twice as much.  She did all of the letter writing to Members of Parliament re my status in the R.A.F. resulting in my transfer and being immediately sent home from Burma after my transfer to the RCAF in Bombay, India.

And then there was that wonderful day in August of 1945  when I walked off the boat ramp in Victoria, B.C. and there was my mom, arms open to greet me while dad stood back patiently waiting.    

I often think of my mom and all of the things she did for me, especially on Mother's Day.

Dear Gentle Readers

I know it can be frustrating to navigate the 'leave a comment' on this blog, so if you'd like to comment, you might prefer to email me at:  mr.write@shaw.ca 

Thanks!

Easter on the Mountain

I always remember the week- end of Good Friday to Easter Sunday, because of  the hot cross buns that mom used to heat up and serve, buttered. They tasted really good.   Then of course there was THE big day Easter Sunday.  If the weather was nice, we all got up very early and hiked up Mt. Tolmie just before sunrise.

About 1928, a new illuminated cross had appeared on the mountain.  It was six metres high with a four- metre crossbar, and outlined by single red neon tubing, built by Bill Bayliss of Bayliss Neon.  The modern age had come to the Easter Sunrise Service.  Bayliss built a home on the mountain  many years later.

  

As kids we used to watch for the cross to go up.  Suddenly, one day it was there and someone would cry ‚ "The cross is up!‚"  It was an eye-catching and inspiring sight, as it glowed in the night, 125 metres above the city.  On Easter Sunday everyone dressed in his/her Sunday best, as the saying goes, and, some who could afford it actually bought, or made,  new outfits.  Young and old came to the mountain in droves from all areas of Greater Victoria. 

Many of the youngsters climbed the mountain by a more precarious route, scrambling up the rugged side, enjoying the challenge of forging a new trail.  On exceptionally fine Easter Sundays, many carried blankets and picnic baskets intending to make an outing of it. 

It was somewhat like a pilgrimage, although many on the scene could well have been agnostic or even atheist. All were drawn by the magnetism of the day and the beauty of the mountain.

The B.C. Electric Company arranged for their streetcars to depart terminals at 6:15 a.m. running to Mt. Tolmie.  Because of this special [streetcar] service, a double Tickets were normally six for 25 cents.

When all were assembled, barely a square foot of mountain remained uncovered by human form, waiting quietly for Dr. Davies to speak from the highest point, where he stood facing the East.  Below the cross, on the lower ground, sitting or standing on the uneven terrain, people of all denominations would wait for his words.  The Easter Service touched all of us in one way or another. Even hard-nosed reporters, obviously moved by the occasion, revealed their feelings in their comments:

"The distant sound of a church bell...echoing against the ridge of rocks....was an index of the call Easter was making to the worshippers‚  With Spring flowers in bloom and the buds of the broom turning to gold among the verdant foliage.  The waters of the straits and the gulf, shimmered in the early morning sunshine.  The Olympics were palest blue, capped with banks of snow."

In order to reach his audience spread out around the mountain top, Davies installed an electric amplifier.  Frank Hall was quoted in the Times in 1975, as saying, "We had a Magnavox unit with a vacuum battery set, and horns something like the horns on His Master Voice Victrola, for a loud-speaker system.  Jack MacKay set the unit up, with Leo Main giving advice.

  

"Just as Dr. Davies was ready to start, someone tripped over the connecting wires and we had to work like blazes for a few minutes to get the thing going."

The Mt. Tolmie Sunrise Services continued for nearly 20 years.  The largest crowd gathered was estimated to have reached 8,000.    The smallest crowd was the result of torrential rain that didn't  let up all morning.  Only a few hardy souls stayed around to listen to the service that was shortened to 30 minutes.  In 1937, Dr. Davies spoke to the gathered mountain worshippers for the last time.  He died in 1951, at the age of 61, in Los Angeles, California. 

When World War Two was declared the services were stopped when the mountain was put off limits by the Dept. of National Defence.

Through the subsequent decades, time, tourists and residents have taken their toll on the mountain.  Progress has encroached where songs of many birds filled the air, in those halcyon days, when one could barely step without crushing a beautiful peacock flower, Easter lily or chocolate lily.  Nearly everyone who went up the mountain came down again, boarding the streetcar bearing a bouquet of these freshly picked wildflowers.

Rock-a-bye Baby

Ken Stofer-My Life.

FOUL BAY, VICTORIA, B.C. AS A WEE BABY

The telling of this story is not by me, but from memories of my mother's story telling.  It was 1921. At the time my parents lived in Foul Bay, in a rented house right above the beach, on the bank.  Times were tough.   Dad used to go out in a row boat and fish for just about anything he could catch.  He was actually fishing for our next meal. Mom deserved "a break" so I [just a wee baby] always went along with dad in the boat, all tucked up in blankets, practically at dad's feet. 

I was told in later years that the rocking of the boat put me to sleep immediately.  At one time, years later when I could understand, mom told me that I was considered dad's lucky charm.  On one hand I was someone he could talk to, or rather mumble to about the good or bad fishing days, even though my response, if I was awake, was generally just a sort of gurgle.
Whenever I heard that story [and I did hear it many times], I realize what a wonderful experience it was for me, and what a wonderful sleep with rocking of the boat and breathing in of fresh sea air.  It is a wonder I didn't take to the sea and become a sailor. Interestingly enough, I never was fond of the ocean and I never did learn to swim. Many, many years later, as an adult I have never driven by that spot on the Victoria waterfront without recalling all of the story of that time in my parents' life when they were really struggling and I an innocent wee baby in a rocking boat was totally unaware of how desperate they were to make a life for us all; myself and my older brothers, Eric and Reggie.
  

MOBILE SIGNALS UNIT #5836 BECOMES OPERATIONAL

The tank was always kept topped up.  All auxiliary batteries were kept charged and topped up.  While we were near camp we had a long land line that supplied power direct from the camp diesel generators, but we could operate efficiently on our own.   AND THEN! -  one day we were in business, that is, totally operational.  We could go anywhere at a moments notice, and we did, but for now we were located on this high point of ground amid the rice fields about a 20-minute walk from our basha.  We were Mobile Signals Unit # 5836 and from here we commenced to operate three Beaufighter squadrons, 27, 177 and 211, from our own strip, and any other aircraft requiring assistance. 

A small ditch about ten feet wide, which was actually one of the winding little tributaries of the Irrawaddy river, came very close to our tender.  We had to build another little bridge across it on the top of large empty fuel drums.  When the tide was out, miles and miles away, the drums rested on the ground.  When the tide was fully in, the bridge rode high on the drums in the water.  On shift in the still of the night it was quite eerie to hear the gurgle of water as the tide slowly "crept" in.

The airstrip was about a ten minute walk away. Our actual living quarters bashas, were on the other side of the airstrip and were made entirely of bamboo.   We didn't have windows as such; just open areas that could be filled as required with drop-down bamboo windows, but open in the hot season.  There was no electricity, just lamps, candles or flashlights.  We were about eight miles from Japanese lines, but between us and them was a very, very thick, almost impenetrable jungle. 

Some chah wallahs (tea & goodies) who could freely roam the camp were bribed by friends of the Japanese [Indian or Bengalies], to toss grenades in the open-windowed bashas. During my time there I didn't hear of any deaths as a result of this.  It didn't happen to me in my basha.  Some lads elected to sleep on the ground between the bashas and take their chances with snakes.  This (grenade) situation was short-lived and soon corrected.

One nice feature of the camp was that there was practically nothing on which to spend money.  It was easy to save.  If you didn't need,  or didn't want to go on pay parade you didn't  A list was put up in the cookhouse, the Tuesday before parade.  If you wanted some money  you just wrote your name on the list with the amount required.  Then you went and got it,  just like you would at a bank and without all of the coming to attention bullshit, "SIR! Stofer, 801"  It was great.

To begin with we went on a four-watch system, which gave us plenty of time off to write letters home, do our washing etc.  There were quite a few new guys here and I only list their names, so that they will not be forgotten:  Les Warren, Len Baxter, Sid Clayton, Arthur Godfrey, Dick Hawkes, Frank Laundon, Pete Humphreys and Ron Hinton.  It wasn't long before Arthur Godfrey got ex-Burma on medical grounds, then Les Warren was posted on a Combined Ops course.   Then Dick Hawkes left ex-India medical grounds.  Pete Humphreys was posted home to UK as he was nine days over his four year tour of duty.   As a result, our time on shift became more frequent. 

I think this is a good time to tell you what I was doing. Our Mobile Signals Unit was required, at a moments notice to service any aircraft in need at any time. From our airstrip we operated three Beaufighter Squadrons, 177, 211 and later 27.  A squadron consisted of 12 aircraft each when all were fully operational.  

Depending on the age of each aircraft and what damage it had received in action, we were generally operating only about nine of the 12.  This would be about 27 aircraft at one time.  We were a sort of control tower working in conjunction with the operations room that was located right on the air strip.  Missions for the day or night, would be discussed and planned in the Ops room.   We would be given the orders of the day, or night, squadron numbers involved, departure times and approximate arrival times.  We were never given the target destination of our aircraft.

Every squadron had a name and each flight of three or four aircraft in each squadron had a colour, such as BLUE, GREEN, YELLOW or RED.  So if a flight consisted of three,  there would be a Blue One, Blue Two and Blue Three.  Same for the other colours.   Each squadron would also have another designation such as FOXTROT or WITCHCRAFT or TOMAHAWK.  Names were chosen that had a sharp and distinct sound on the R/T.  When an aircraft was about to take off and become airborne, the pilot would call us.  We were called BENTON, while at Chiringa.  The pilot would simply say, "Hello Benton this is Foxtrot Blue One, about to Scramble."  This was his way of telling us his squadron,  his position in the squadron, and that he was taking off on his mission.  Each aircraft would follow this procedure.  When they were all airborne the flight leader would usually be the No. 1 man and on spotting all of his mates, he would chat with them getting them to fall into line and off they would go.  TO BE CONTINUED