My Trip to Montreal via Detroit - April, 1941

My boat from Victoria, B.C. docked in Seattle, Washington,  at 9:15 p.m. I took a taxi to the Great Northern Station and boarded a train for Chicago that left at 10:15 p.m. 

It was a most interesting trip and as I recall I sat up all the way, talking with five American National Guardsmen who were going home on leave, and two American sailors off the battleship Maryland who had been honourably discharged after four years service.  Of course at this time my new American friends  were all blissfully unaware [as I was] that by December 7th the United States would be at war after the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbour, and no doubt all of them would be recalled to service.

  But for now it was a time of jokes and laughter with chaps about my own age.  They were of course very interested in the fact that I was going to England to join the R.A.F.  One of the sailors had a portable radio, a novelty at that time and while the train sped us through the night across the United States, we listened to some of the many radio shows popular at the time.  The Jack Benny show in particular was one of my favourites.  

There was a German refugee on the train. 

I can't recall now, but he was most likely Jewish and had got out of Germany earlier when he had the opportunity.  He had lots of tales to tell us.

On the Monday morning I arrived in Chicago, said goodbye to my friends and changed trains for Detroit.    As  arranged, when I got to Detroit I was met at the station by my cousin Ernest [he worked for the Chrysler Corporation], who took me  to mom's sister Edie, and her husband, my Uncle Otto.  Aunt Edie wanted to see me before I went overseas, and she also wanted me to meet her brother, my Uncle Bert, as he had a bad experience during World War 1.  Mom had told me something about it, but Aunt Edie said Bert wanted to speak to me personally.  

I was with them just a few days, not even a week, I think, and during that time Ernest and his girl friend Peggy took me out to a fancy movie house in Detroit, the Michigan Theatre.  I recall that Ernest drove the car right up to the front of the theatre under a covered entrance and a young lad in a fancy theatrical uniform with lots of gold braid and trimmings, hurried to the car, took the keys from Ernest, gave him a ticket and parked the car.  We then went in to see the show.  For the life of me I cannot remember what we saw. I know there was also a stage show with the Harry James orchestra. 

When we came out Ernest's car was paged and brought to the entrance.  Ernest gave the lad a tip and we drove home.  I had never experienced anything like that before, and especially in the "40's" 

The following day my Uncle Bert took me to the Meadowbrook Golf and country club that he managed. We had a steak lunch  and then we had a chat.  He asked me why I wanted to pay my way to England to join the Royal Air Force.  We had a long talk about patriotism.   I tried to convince him that at that stage of my life what I was doing had nothing to do with patriotism.  I just wanted to learn to fly, and it seemed like a great opportunity to get free flying lessons, now that Britain so desperately wanted young men for aircrew.  He tried very hard to dissuade me from joining up by telling me his personal story of World War 1, The Great War.  It goes as follows:

When Uncle Bert was in the army in World War 1, his regiment had taken so many German prisoners they were outnumbered by them. Also they did not have enough food to feed themselves and the prisoners.   They dared not release their prisoners as they would reveal all they knew and the position of Uncle Bert's regiment.  His regiment could not advance because of this and they were at a standstill. They had to dispose of the prisoners.  They could not shoot them as they did not wish to waste ammunition.  The solution arrived at was that each man had to bayonet six prisoners.  Uncle Bert could not do this and so at an opportune moment he deserted. 

In my younger years I had heard some of this story from my mom, but didn't think to ask her more questions about it, such as:  How did he desert?  How did he get out of Europe and to the United States?  At this time in my life I was so convinced, enthralled, excited etc., with what I wanted to do, that foolishly I did not ask my Uncle Bert those same questions when I had the opportunity to do so.  The lesson here kids is always ask your elders for more details and record them in a diary or journal.  One day you will be so glad that you did.

After only a few days in Detroit I received word through Capt. Biggs that it was time for me to move on.   On Friday, April 25th Aunt Edie and family took me to the train station to catch the 4:55 p.m. train for Montreal, where I arrived at 6:55 a.m. on Saturday.

On arrival in Montreal per instructions from Capt. Biggs, I went directly to see Mr. Rowley my contact in the CPR office in Windsor Station.  I was advised my ship would sail on the following Monday.   He arranged a room for me in the Patricia Apts., which were very close by, and told me to await instructions.  

As I recall my rooming house was kitty-corner from Windsor Station, separated by a lovely little park. There was still lots of day left, so I walked to the top of Mt. Royal to enjoy the view.  It was worth the exercise.  I also visited the Notre Dame Cathedral.

On the Monday I received another message from Mr. Rowley that there was a delay. He would be in touch.  Damn!

So, one evening I decided to live it up.  I had not really experienced, so to speak, much of life.    I walked out on to the street and stopped a cab.  I asked the driver where I could find some excitement, something interesting.  I wasn't quite sure what I wanted. [who knows, maybe I was seeking a brothel or something].  He took me to a place I will never forget, and for a very obvious reason.  Today I couldn't tell you in what part of Montreal it was located, but the name I still remember.  It was called THE HAPPY HOUR.   Looking back I think it was just a bar where men and ladies went, single or otherwise to pick up other ladies or men.  It was mostly little tables with four to six chairs at each, much like a beer parlour.  Once sat down one was [almost immediately] confronted by a waitress who was all set to sell you drinks.  I think I had a beer but I am not sure.  There was a small stage and on the stage there was a pianist banging out  songs one after the other, that were popular at that time.  I guess in some ways I was fortunate in that I had arrived there later in the evening, when things started to liven up.

The pianist left with a splattering of applause and then there was a lull of a few minutes and an MC came out and after lots of introduction and build up introduced another pianist, a young coloured lady of ample proportions.  She started off quite ordinarily playing the piano very professionally, gradually leading into faster-paced music.   Her gyrations on the piano stool, spinning around away from the keyboard and then back to it again, in time to the music, were astounding.  She grew into a frenzy and then finally at one point after building to a climax, ran her fingers over the keyboard from one end to the other a couple of times and then quickly reached up and with a flourish removed her already scanty top.   Now she was bare-breasted and playing and moving in such a way that all she had to display danced [should I say bounced], with the music. I can tell you it was quite an eye-popper for me.  Today, when I think back on that scene occurring in 1941, it seemed so far ahead of its time that it is hard to believe.  Although I suppose in those days Montreal was Canada's little bit of Gay Paree.  Ah, you are wondering about the rest of my evening.  Well I can honestly tell you that I have absolutely no recollection.  I don't think I stayed longer than maybe another drink, but I am not sure.  I know that I was concerned about missing a call from Mr. Rowley and word of my ship, and believe it or not that was uppermost in my mind at that time. [Oh ya? you say].

On Friday morning May 2nd. I received a call to come to Mr. Rowley's office.  He closed the door and motioned me to a chair at his desk and sat opposite me.  He couldn't speak to me over the phone, he said, as it was all very hush hush.  He leaned over and spoke quietly.  It was almost as though he thought his office was bugged, and that someone might be listening: 

"Get yourself ready to leave tomorrow," he said.  "Phone a taxi tonight and have him pick you up at 10 a.m. tomorrow.  Ask the driver to take you to Pier 'A'.   Make sure you reach the ship before 10:30 a.m. and don't lose these, you'll need them."  

He handed me some papers. He didn't even tell me the name of the ship.  It sure didn't seem like much information to me, but I knew he had done this sort of thing before with chaps who had preceded me, so I was confident everything would be okay.

I spent that evening writing a long letter to mom and dad, bringing them up to date on what had  transpired since my last letter from Detroit.   It was more or less a review up of my last few days in Detroit and Montreal.   TO BE CONTINUED

Old Wallet Sparks Memories

Rummaging through drawers looking for something, I often encounter my old, no-longer-used wallet. I hold it,feeling the soft leather.  I explore each compartment.  Perhaps I am going to find something overlooked; maybe a ten-spot. But, mainly, I just reminisce.  Where once so many little things were stored waiting to be a part of my life, there is nothing but a dusky odour and a crinkled emptiness.

I have much the same feeling of being in a large arena where after the crowd has gone and the noise and excitement of the big game is history.  It occurs to me now that when in use, I never gave Wallet a second thought, unless I had misplaced it.  Only then would I realize my dependency on this taken-for-granted-item;  something like a flicking-the switch-and-the-light-doesn't-come-on-sensation.

Wallet and I first met in October, 1945.  Just discharged from the airforce I was anticipating my return to civilian life.  It was easier to purchase some of the niceties of life in the United States immediately after the wars end.  I had a wartime pen-pal to meet in Everett, Washington.  So it was a case of two-birds-with-one-stone-caper and I found myself in an Everett department store.

I bought a new suit, shirt, tie, shoes and the best wallet I could find.  Of soft Russian calf, it snuggled in its neat little box in company with a $12 price tag - a lot for a wallet in those days.  "What the hell," I said to myself.  I was free from the service and living it up.  I not only bought it, I I had my initials embossed in gold on the inside: KHS.

One of Wallet's first occupants was an Unemployment Insurance Commission I.D. card, #A508567, and for a brief period I carried my old National Registration Regulations 1940, Registration Certificate, dated August 19, 1940.  This was a wartime measure and everyone had to register.  My own identity card was another early occupant along with the few remaining dollars I had at the time.  I slipped Wallet into my pocket and together we set out on our post-war life.

Back in Victoria I met a girl named Lynette and on our first date Wallet shared the experience when i withdrew the bills to pay the cashier at the old Dominion Theatre on Yates Street.

Later, Wallet accepted Lynette's photograph and, when we looked at rings in Francis' Jewelers, Wallet was again present.  Wallet went with us when we walked down the aisle of the old, long-gone St. Aidan's Church, once at Richmond and Cedar Hill Cross Road.

When Lynette and I left on our honeymoon, Wallet was fat and bulging with money and tickets, but thin and much lighter on our return.

Wallet shared with me my employment at the post office and held secure within its folds my record of documentation.  

As my life progressed how well I remember the visits to the hospital Wallet and I made when Lynette and I added children to our family, and then the return trips to EMERGENCY with their sicknesses and broken bones, and later the death of my father and mother.  Wallet was always there, some little compartment ready to divulge information required by the admitting office.

While travelling and, on visits to the dentist, doctor, lawyer or grocer, Wallet has always been there when required.

       Transferred from suit to suit, the comforting pressure of Wallet's presence next to my body has always been a silent message of reassurance; each of its compartments a link with the world and some segment of society.  

Thousands of times I have put in or taken out something that has been a part of my life.  Wallet has accepted new occupants; birth certificates - driver's licence - credit cards - library card - club memberships - spare key for the car - pictures of grandchildren and the many ever-present notes and phone numbers reminding me to do this or that.

For short periods of time Wallet contained Sweepstake and later Lotto tickets,  a promise of hope that one day my 'ship' would come in - and the very short-term occupants those transient dollar bills.  When I count back it staggers me to realize Wallet has been the guardian of tens of thousands of dollars folded and warm within the soft Russian calf.

Seven decades later Wallet and I have become a little worn and wrinkled.  Wallet is no longer in use, but I can't part with this link with my past.  Now resting in the back of a drawer Wallet [now retired], would appear to be empty should a stranger encounter it, and I must admit I too had always looked at it in that way, but no, like the empty arena after the big game, the feeling is there, the sensation that something has happened here.  It is an emotional feeling because it represents a large slice of my life.  

The next time I encounter Wallet while rummaging, I won't see it as being empty.  It will be full - full of memories. 

WHEN I WAS SEVENTEEN.

 I remember a very happy and memorable experience when I was halfway through my seventeenth year.  It was a sunny August morning in 1938 and the temperature was pushing 70 degrees.  If you were in downtown Victoria on such a day you might have fancied an ice cream cone in Terry's at Fort and Douglas, for five cents.  

Back then two pounds of seedless grapes were 17 cents, the same price as a pound of coffee.  Butter was three pounds for 85 cents.  A leg of lamb was 25 cents a pound, and for just 65 cents you could buy 10 pounds of white sugar.

Movies in town were SON OF THE SHEIK with Rudolph Valentino; FAST COMPANY starred Melvyn Douglas.  James Stewart was in SHOPWORN ANGEL.  I liked Westerns in those days, as most kids did.  Bill Boyd was in PRIDE OF THE WEST.  Before 1 p.m. you could see any of them for a dime.

The news bulletins stuck on the TIMES windows on Broad Street, told of unrest in Europe.  Come September Neville Chamberlain and his umbrella would be returning to London from Munich with "peace in our time." [see 1938 newspapers]

None of those things caused me any concern back in 1938, for I was only 17 and for the price of a cord of millwood, $2.50, I had bought a ticket to Seattle. 

  My priorities were to change dramatically in the next year or so, but on this warm summer day in my youth I was obsessed with an idea. Two friends, Tom Ellis and Bill Court, were sharing it with me and the three of us wheeled our bikes on to the Princess Joan tied at the wharf in Victoria's beautiful Inner Harbor.  The three of us were going to ride south on Highway 99 as far as two weeks and our young legs would allow.  Bill was a bike racer in Victoria and had the most riding experience.  I had pedalled many miles on my TIMES paper route, and with all of my sports activities considered myself physically fit.  Tom rode more for pleasure.

After our bikes had been stowed below decks we came up and leaned on the ship's sun-warmed rail and stared across the water at the Empress Hotel.  The #3 streetcar was rattling its way across the causeway into town from Beacon Hill Park.

Through my dad, I knew the sports writer of the Victoria Daily Times, at that time, Pete Sallaway.  He had bet us we couldn't ride to San Francisco and back in two weeks.  Foolishly, we thought we could.  About that time Victoria's world-famous six-day bike racer, Torchy  Peden was in town to see Pete.  Pete told him of our planned trip.  His advice to us was to drink at least a quart of milk a day, with  some starchy foods from a bakery.  And to eat a substantial evening meal.  We wouldn't lose weight but we would burn off all of those calories.

The Princess Joan's deep blast heralding the 11 a.m. departure resounded across the harbor startling many seagulls from nearby perches.  They followed the ship's wake, soaring gracefully, always the melancholy screech, but ever-watching, and suddenly diving for morsels tossed from a porthole.

We arrived in Seattle about 4 p.m. It took an hour and a half going through Customs.  It seemed to us that just because we were youths with bikes, we could wait. We kept trying to get some attention, when one of the uniformed men said, "What's your rush, boys, you've got all summer."  With his slow, dry wit Tom Ellis replied: "Yes, but we don't intend to spend it on the Seattle docks."

We stayed the night with Tom's aunt.  The next morning in a drizzle of rain, we rode our bikes out of the quiet Seattle suburb in search of Highway 99 and the beginning of our adventure. 

As time passed the sun came out and the start of our journey looked much brighter.  It was Sunday and traffic was quite heavy.  We rode single file and very close to the edge of the road.  We passed the Boeing Airport [Seattle/Tacoma],on our way out.  Big trucks almost sucked us into their sides when they swished by.

In 1938 the old 99 was quite rural [just a single road], compared with today's very fast and "get there" No. 5 [or I-5 as they call it]. 

It was a very common sight in those days to see dead on the highway:  cats, rats, skunk, pheasant, rabbit and many unrecognizable blobs that had lost the race with the dreaded automobile; some quite fresh and some like dried parchment.

Two hours and 33 miles later we arrived in Tacoma a city of about 103,000 in those days.  Our first lap was completed and we were hungry.  We found a local bakery and bought some fresh buns and remembering what Torchy Peden had said we each had a quart of milk.  

We seemed to be a novelty and everyone asked us where we were going.  Strangely enough Torchy Peden was also on the highway at this time pushing his bike through the State of Washington.  

The Daily Colonist of August 26, 1938, reported with an Olympia, Washington, dateline:

"Torchy Peden, champion six-day bike rider from Victoria, who is making a cycling tour of the Olympic Peninsula arrived here at 3:30 p.m. today exactly on schedule.  Making the trip primarily as training for coming races in the east, Peden said he would continue to Tacoma tomorrow and to Seattle Saturday."

We spent our first night sleeping under the stars in a free camping ground.  We were travelling very light with one blanket each.  

No sleeping bags for us in those days.  

We three lay together on one blanket, with two blankets over us.  We had covered 76 miles the first day and slept well.  In the morning we washed at a tap by the side of the road and then went into Tenino for breakfast.

On the next leg of our journey we left behind us small towns like Chehalis, Castle Rock and Kelso.  Just after leaving Kelso we read in the paper that three bandits had robbed a bank while we were there and had escaped going south.  We hoped they, too, weren't riding bicycles.

On the outskirts of Kalama we decided to spend our second night amongst a dense grove of trees about 100 feet from the highway.  From a tree branch we hung our flashlight, sat cross- legged under its five-cell beam and wrote our first postcards home. Later, with the light doused, we lay under the trees, the black night about us and dozed off to sleep watching the big trucks and buses whiz by, pretty red and amber side-lights fading in the distance.  Suddenly we were startled awake, the earth shook beneath us, and not 20 feet away a great long train consisting of 63 freight cars [after we started counting], rumbled and rattled out of the forest.  Unknowingly we had camped next to the railway tracks. The disappearing train left a great silence, broken only by the distant barking of a disturbed dog, and periodic hum of highway traffic. There was a one-pump gas station and house about 100 yards away and the owner's unsettled cats with their mating songs succeeded in breaking our fitful sleep throughout the rest of the night.

By noon of our third day we crossed the Interstate Bridge at Vancouver, Washington, the popular Jantzen Beach Resort playground, and into Portland, Oregon.  We didn't realize when we passed Jantzen Beach what lay in store for us there on our homeward journey.

Soon Oregon City, New Era, Cranby, Aurora and Woodburn were behind us.  Driving a car today you would never remember little towns like that.  The best outdoor accommodation we could find on our third night happened to be a cemetery.  At least the grass was nice and clean and the ground soft and even.  However, there are always disadvantages to the best of accommodation, and at one point in the evening a family of rats out foraging decided to look us over.  I don't know how many times they had crossed over us and through our blankets before we finally awakened. When we did jump up with a start, blankets flying, it was to stay awake for the rest of the night. 

I have always remembered Oregon's capital city Salem, as a nice little town I could live in one day, with its beautiful tree-lined streets.  The immaculate green boulevards and white picket-fenced suburbia coming right out of an Andy Hardy movie. 

I could visualize Andy Hardy [Mickey Rooney] vaulting the white pickets to greet Polly Benedict [Anne Rutherford].

In Salem we washed the night's sand from our eyes in the washroom of a Signal Gas Station.  A Salem policeman showed us the Chamber of Commerce, gave us some good road maps, and wished us well as we left for Jefferson and finally Albany, Oregon for lunch.

I remember Albany, Oregon, for two very good reasons. First, for its straight and level 26- mile stretch of highway, like an airport runway, from Jefferson to Albany.  What a treat for our weary bodies.  I think we even had the wind at our backs.  The second reason; it was here I met my Uncle Bill. [Remember Uncle Bill, early in this story?]  He was driving from Los Angeles to Victoria to meet my dad [his brother], whom he hadn't seen for 20 years.  He and his wife Francis knew of our trip south and were on the lookout for us.  My uncle had a special sign on the front of his car which could be seen a long ways off, so we kept our eyes peeled.  He in turn knew he was looking for three young chaps on bicycles.  We stopped in Albany at the Linger Longer Lunch [only in America] and left our bikes leaning against the front of the cafe.  The lady who ran this family cafe was very nice to us.  We had pie for 5 cents instead of 10 cents; milk for half price, and she gave us some cake without charge.  "It'll give you boys some energy," she said.  I recall this lady had a nice green lawn out back of her store and we sat out there enjoying our lunch in the shade of some fruit trees. Tom and Bill had finished eating and had gone to sit in the sun in front of the store. [I have always been a slow eater].  Suddenly Bill came running in calling: "Your uncle's here.  Your uncle's here!"  I can still see my uncle as I did then for the first time.  He was a tall, slim, handsome guy in a leather jacket and smoking a pipe.  He looked like a movie star.  It was my aunt who had spotted our bikes and had called out, "Billie, I think it's  the boys!"  Highway 99 in those days went right past the cafe.  It was a wonderful experience to meet them and record the meeting  in front of the Linger Longer Lunch before they left to meet my mom and dad in Port Angeles, Washington.

After Albany, Oregon, we passed through Tangent, Shedd, Halsey, and Folk, but not without mishap.  

Usually we rode line astern.   We must have been talking or something, making plans, as we were bunched up pretty tight and suddenly a front wheel of one bike somehow hooked into the back wheel of another and Bill Court lost six spokes from the front wheel of his racing bike.  

The tension of the spokes, now uneven, caused the wheel to buckle. This meant a long lay-over to straighten the buckled wheel and put in new spokes.  Our trip ended just as we were to cross the border to California.  We had been doing well to this point.  There was nothing we could do about it. Once the bike was fixed we looked at all of our options and because Bill was interested in some bike races that were to take place out of Portland, we decided to turnaround and head back.  

On our way home we passed through Salem again about the same time as the Gilmore Circus. Their huge trucks were lined up on the side of the highway outside a Gilmore Gas Station, while the drivers had a lunch break. They contained open-sided cages and I still recall the sight of my first live lion, four years old, 600 pounds, and not six feet from me. There used to be a slogan in those days connected with Gilmore Gas  [something on the order of put a Tiger in your tank], only it was, "Roar With Gilmore."  At a restaurant here we had a lesson in mathematics. 

 A large sign read: "Doughnuts - two for a nickel, three for a dime."  We wondered how many customers had been caught.  There were three of us and we almost fell for it.

When we arrived in Portland the sun was setting and we thought it time to treat ourselves to a good night's rest and so stayed in a motel or auto court as they were called back then.  It wasn't too lavish, but it had a shower and a wood stove.  Bill rode into town and got a quart of ice cream for 29 cents.  By the time he returned on this hot August day it was like thick milk.   Our next problem was what to put the ice cream in and what to eat it with.  We took some kindling from the woodbox and carved little spoons.  The three of us huddled around the now soggy container and slurped our dripping delight.  

Bill told us he had heard more about the bike race to be held at Jantzen Beach the next morning at 10:30.  In 1938 Jantzen Beach was a million-dollar playground.  A sort of Disneyland of its time.  A young person's delight.

Saturday morning we entered the park and saw a fifth of a mile of gravel midget auto track on which the bike races were to be held.  

The race Bill had heard about was an annual affair sponsored by the Portland News Telegram who supplied some handsome prizes for those days.  The winner of the 30-lap six-mile race would receive a brand new Worlds bicycle.   There were many entries and so they ran several two-lap heats.  In the final there were 48 entrants.  Bill looked so good in his heat that the officials claimed he must be a professional.  He would have to take a five-lap handicap and should he win would not be eligible for the grand prize.  They said instead they would make a special presentation.  We had just finished riding nearly 500 miles in six days, so Bill was tired.  However, with us cheering him on, he overcame the handicap and won by a clear margin.  We were ecstatic and more so after the officials gave all three of us free passes for everything in the park. We felt like celebrities.  Everywhere we went we could overhear people say, "There's those guys from Canada." [seems corny today]

Bill's special presentation was mailed to his home weeks later.  It was a handsome shield- shaped medal bearing the crest of the League of American Wheelmen.  He was lauded in the Portland papers, noting:

"He demonstrated Canadians are real sports by riding in the final after being told he couldn't claim any of the prizes if he won."

Home again we rode from the steamer over the old wooden wharf on to Belleville Street and past Queen Victoria's monument.  We had 750 miles on our wheels, holes in the seats of our pants and a diary full of memories. We had each taken $30 with us and pooled our resources and I still came home with $2 in my pocket.  But that was a sunny August in 1938, when I was seventeen.

MEMORIES OF MT. TOLMIE [the mountain]

All of my young life, from an age when I could really enjoy it, [10 to 17], was spent on and around Mt. Tolmie. There was an old sandpit on the southwest side. Today this whole area is covered with houses and the Mt. Tolmie Ridge apartments. Looking at that suburban scene now, one could never conceive the pleasure and danger of the now hidden sandy slopes.

At the base of the sandy cliffs was located an old unused rock crusher as we used to call it.  We spent hours climbing through this old structure, pretending all sorts of weird and wonderful things.  It was a great hide-away, a wonderful "set" for our cowboys and Indians sagas.  It was also very dangerous.  It was old and not as sturdy as we unsuspecting youngsters might have thought.  It was high, and from it, brave, but careless "cowboys" could fall to serious injury.  When we weren't in and around the rock crusher we were usually looking for "precious minerals" in the sand banks, or better still, sliding down the steep sandy slope on a piece of corrugated metal roofing.  Occasionally large slices of sand bank would fall away at the cliff edge and rush down upon us burying our legs sometimes to our knees.  There was danger in our fun as I do believe at one time some kids from another district were actually buried by such an incident.

One of the things I remember quite vividly when growing up around Mt. Tolmie was the famous Easter Sunrise Service.    A large wooden cross was erected on a high point on the mountain.  I was too young to know at the time of course, but on April 1, 1923, the first Easter Sunrise Service on the mountain took place.  The Daily Times of April 2nd reported:  Initiation of open air religious gatherings.  Victoria's first Easter Service, proved successful beyond the sanguine hopes of its promoters.  Undeterred by cloudy weather and a mist, nearly 4,000 people, representing every walk of life in the community, journeyed by auto, streetcar, bicycle, or on foot to Mt. Tolmie in the early hours.  Services were conducted by a Dr. Clem Davies, then 32, who had come to Victoria from England via California.  His dramatic and powerful voice drew ever-increasing audiences to the Pantages Theatre on Government Street, until he became pastor of the Centennial Methodist Church, about 1922.

I will 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 the mountain just before sunrise.

About 1928, a new illuminated cross 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 manybirds filled the air, in those halcyon days, when one could barely step without crushing peacock, Easter lily or chocolate lily.

THE BEGINNING OR SUMMARY

Now I have turned  92, I feel  it is time I recorded all  that has occurred in my life since my birth on Friday, the 4th day of February, 1921.  Hopefully, one day my extended family and their descendants, may find this auto-biography of some interest, and possibly helpful.  {Even though not in chronological order}

In preparation I sat at my computer and sought to recall the many little episodes which have made up the past 92 years of my life.  I wanted to make sure that no incident, no matter how insignificant, was overlooked. I made a list of all of the events I could bring to mind, giving  each a caption.  Whenever the mood struck me, and to the best of my memory, I have built a story around each of these incidents. 

 ON BLOWING SELF UP

I quite honestly don't know where I ever got the idea to make gunpowder.  I think it must have come from a Science class at school.  My friend Bill McCoubrey and I, got the idea we would like to try making it at home. [This was in the 1930's]  I am not going to mention the ingredients for obvious reasons.  All I will say is that we used to mix it until it was a bluish-gray colour.   We were quite successful with our mix and when a match was put to the loose powder it would quickly flare up in a bright flash until burnt out.  If we put small pinches of the powder on an anvil or on the road and hit them with a hammer, they would make quite a bang like a cap gun. 

 We decided to wrap small amounts in silver paper from discarded cigarette packages.  They looked like peppermint patties.  We then went up to the #10 streetcar line, by the Normal School [still there, 2013], now Camosun College], Victoria, B.C. and on the slope of a hill we placed several of our "patties" on the track about ten feet apart.  We weren't afraid of damaging the street car as it weighed about ten tons.  When the streetcar came along and roared down the hill over the "patties", they went off:  BANG!, BANG! BANG!

Our next venture was to make something much, much bigger and this we did, by cutting short lengths of any type of pipe or tubing we could find, including parts of old bicycle frames.  These were to be used for the making of "pipe bombs".  They were quite powerful and we took them up to Mt. Tolmie, and looked for cracks in the rocks into which we wedged them.  Then with a long piece of string "fuse" we set them off.  We could actually blast the rock.

A pipe bomb was anywhere from four inches to 8 inches long, depending on its thickness.   The method was to kink over about a half inch of one end of the pipe and hammer it down flat.   Then we would jam in a small wad of paper or cloth.  Next we drilled a small 1/8th of an inch hole in the centre of the pipe.  While holding a finger over the drilled hole we would fill the pipe with our bluish-gray powder mixture, tamping it down ever so carefully and then placed another wad of paper on top of that.   We'd bend over the end and flatten it out, hammering on the end away from the powder itself and hitting more on the part that contained the wad of paper.  The bomb was now complete.   The method of exploding it was simple.  The pipe was placed in the desired location; a long piece of hairy string was strung from a safe distance, up to the pipe and over the drilled hole of the pipe and held in place with a small stone.  Then we liberally sprinkled some of the loose powder over the drilled hole and the string, and along the string back to our place of safety.  Once this was done we lit the end of the string.  It flared all the way up to the drilled hole.  The fire would naturally burn into the pipe hole.  The pipe was tightly sealed and the compressed contents could not flare.  IT HAD TO EXPLODE! AND EXPLODE IT DID! BOOOOMM!

    During our experiments my mom noticed what we were doing and forbade us to do it any more and kicked us out of the basement.  We were bad boys and not to be stopped.  Instead we went to make our bombs in the basement of Bill McCoubrey, at Palo Alto and Christmas.  The McCoubrey home is still there 2013.

One cold November night when Mr. & Mrs. McCoubrey were settled in their comfortable chairs reading, Bill and I were in the basement making a pipe bomb.  I was holding the bottom of the pipe in my left hand, down low, while Bill held the piece of tamping material that was in the top of the pipe, in his left hand with fingers around the top of the pipe, while tamping with his right hand.  We were facing a small basement window that looked out across their garden.  I don't know why I would say such a stupid thing,  but I distinctly remember starting to say, "Wouldn't it be funny if it went off."  I got as far as "Wouldn't it be..."  AND OFF IT WENT!  

 I didn't feel any pain, I can't speak for Bill, but a piece of the copper pipe [and thank God it was copper and not lead, I learned later], went into my abdomen.   I was cut in several places on my hands and wrist which required stitches.  I was wearing a heavy wool-knitted sweater my mom had made and it came unravelled where the piece of pipe entered.  Naturally I bled profusely and the wool was soaked in blood, and when I put my hand to my abdomen the hole felt very large and wet.  It is a wonder I did not faint.

Bill on the other hand lost the little finger off of his left hand and part of the next one and some of his palm.  The little basement window in front of us was blown out.

Upstairs the McCoubrey's reading session ended abruptly with the explosion and a picture falling from the wall.  Mr. McCoubrey rushed down to our aid.  He quickly hurried Bill out to the car in the garage through a side door.  I followed.  Then, without thinking Mr. McCoubrey drove his car right through the garage door.  It was one of those doors that slide sideways on a runner, so it was pushed up over the top of the car as though on a hinge.  We were two trembling and very scared young men.  I guess I was 16 or 17 at the time.  Not sure. Must look up the old newspapers as we "made the headlines".  I do recall though that a neighbour, Madge Cook,  was a nurse in the Emergency Room when we were brought in.  I can remember I had blood dripping all over the white sheets on the table they wanted me to lie on, and I was quite concerned about getting it all dirty.  Madge gave me that bit of news later.  I don't think I was aware of what I was saying at the time.

We spent about a week at most in hospital and of course were ashamed of the trouble and worry we had brought to our parents.  Not to mention the expense.  Just an aside -  when the war came along,  because of this injury, Bill was exempt from the services,  re holding a rifle etc., because of his lost fingers. A sort of blessing in disguise.

I WATCH A SMALL AIRPLANE CRASH. 

After we had moved back to Mt. Tolmie [Victoria, B.C.}, in the late 1920's, mom and dad were very excited because THIS TIME they were actually going to buy some property.  It would be ours!  We could stay put.   I was still just a kid and the full significance of this didn't "hit home" until years later.  

On the lot was an old unfinished barn of a place that had been given the name of Rabey's folly, left by a discouraged man who had no doubt given up on his dream and decided to sell.  

The property was on a street named Broadmead, not to be confused with the Broadmead development off of Royal Oak Avenue.  

We were located just behind the [still there 2013] St. Aidan's Hall.  Also on the property was a liveable three-room L-shaped shack and all I can visualize of that dwelling is that the bottom part of the "L" was the kitchen. The top part of the "L"  A living/dining area with a wall and then a bedroom.   I can picture only one bedroom.   Where did my brothers Eric, Reg and I sleep?

Our friends the Lewis family were visiting us one day and I was sitting on the steps with their daughter Jean, who was about the same age as myself.  We could hear an airplane flying about and coming quite close. Its engine had a strange sound.  It was spluttering...,  urrump, urrump, urrump, putt, putt, splutter, splutter, and then silence.  We looked up to see it gliding, slowly getting lower and closer to the ground.  

We watched as it was about to try and land in a field by Jimmy Miller's barn which was across the street from St. Luke's Church on Cedar Hill Road on the west side of Shelbourne.  Of course today [2013], that area is covered with modern houses and the new Highgate Condominiums. 

We shouted into the house, to our parents, what was happening, and then we ran as fast as we could, down the grassy hill at the west end of Broadmead Street, across Shelbourne, and into the fields. We could see the plane had hit the ground very hard and nosed over.  When we arrived on the scene  my memory now tells me there were two men, one still inside the plane [alive or dead I know not], and one outside the plane.  He was conscious but in pain.  We could see why.  I can still see the broken bone protruding from his ankle, all the marrow of it and everything.  Ugh!  I won't forget that.  My brother Eric must have arrived there quite quickly too, because he obtained a small piece of the fabric of the wing or fuselage and kept it for years.  He actually wrote the aircraft registration, G-KAKA and date of the crash, March 10th, 1929, on it.  In the years to follow his treasure somehow vanished from among his valued possessions. 

A  'bump' in my life

When I was about four years old, [1925[, we moved from this farm-like setting, to a small brown shingled house on the west side of Shelbourne Street, at 3152, occupied today, 2013,  by the ever-expanding Sears Mall.   It was one of those no-actual-basement houses, but rather a high-built shingle-sided house, with the lower portion being the basement, containing the furnace etc.  Those houses always smelled mouldy.  

Mom [especially] and Dad were Christian Scientists and attended the big white church still at the top of Pandora Green in Victoria.  We were returning from church on this particular Sunday and I was in a hurry to get in the house.  I dashed from our friend's car, across Shelbourne in front of an oncoming car.  I think I saw the car as the driver saw me.  He slammed on the brakes.  It was probably a combination of my quick move to get out of the way, and the driver's fast braking that resulted in a slight bump causing me to stumble and fall.  I wasn't really hurt; just very frightened, and of course it scared the hell out of everyone, especially my mom.  The driver was petrified. 

Because I was scared and crying.  I was picked up and carried into the house, which worried the driver even more.  But I was okay.  

The following day the driver knocked on our door, which I happened to answer, and was he ever pleased to see me standing there with a smile on my face.  It was a lesson learned for both of us.

My Very Early Life

Mom and Dad were living in a rented cottage at Foul Bay, Victoria, B.C.,  high up from the beach and on the bank. I believe the house is still there and is on the town end of the beach. I was just over a year old at the time. (1922)  Dad used to saw up the logs on the beach for fire-wood.  He made a track-like ramp up the slope of the bank on which he would drag wood to the house for use in the kitchen stove.   

Dad used to go out fishing in a row boat.  I don't know if he caught anything but he must have felt it was worthwhile, as it was another way to supplement his small income and feed the family, during those rough early years.  Mom told me that when dad went fishing he took me [a baby] with him and I used to have my afternoon nap lying in the stern of the rocking boat, lulled to sleep by the water lapping against its side. 

I wasn't much older when I had another experience that was connected with the sea.  If mom hadn't told me about it [and I'm glad she did],  I wouldn't be any the wiser today. 

It was a day that Victorians had a real treat when in 1923 Great Britain sent out on a tour of the world [to show the flag], a mighty armada of ships.  The two main ships were battle cruisers, the H.M.S. Hood and H.M.S. Repulse.  They were too big to be together at the navy yard, so were berthed side by side, at Ogden Point.  It is very near there where the cruise ships dock today [2013]. 

The battle cruisers were open to the public.  My mom and dad, who had navy friends, thought they would like to tour the ships.  I suppose because babysitters were not in vogue at the time, or more likely not affordable,  I was taken along in mom's arms to  both of these magnificent naval vessels.

Apparently it was the practice for ships' crews in those days, while visiting various exotic countries, to pick up birds of one sort or another, mostly parrots, and teach them to talk.  The parrots therefore learned most of the naughty language spoken by the salty sailors.  Because of this the parrots were kept below deck while visitors were aboard.  

Quite often, in later years as World War Two approached, mom would repeat the story of my visit to the Hood and the Repulse.  When the war did come and I joined the Royal Air Force, and was serving in the Far East,  it was of great interest for me to hear of the Hood and the Repulse still in action.  During World War Two the Hood was sunk by the German pocket battleship Bismark, and later the Repulse was sunk by Japanese torpedo planes in the Malaya Sea. 

 Along with HMS Prince of Wales, [Dec.10], three days after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbour on Dec. 7, 1941.