‘WE’ AND THE RACE AGAINST THE SLOW SWIMMERS: A Short Story

Non nobis solum nati sumus.

(Not for ourselves are we born)

Marcus Tullius Cicero

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 2021

The grim looking group of scientists sitting around the table listened to renowned Doctor Derrick Smith, a leading authority in his field. “And so, to summarize, the news is not good, ladies and gentlemen. Humanity is in trouble. All the factors I mentioned, along with the increasing numbers of slow swimmers, could jeopardize humankind. And dogs.” The meeting adjourned and the small, assembled group of scientists went back to their respective countries to report to their governments.

………………….

In another part of the hospital, it was not humankind that was in jeopardy. But the life of one man. A dying Jason Parry, just turned thirty-five, lay in his bed trying desperately to breath and focus. A renowned neurosurgeon at the University of Alberta Hospital, Parry, through strained breaths, was having trouble believing what he was hearing.

The masked doctor looked at Parry, marked sorrow in both his eyes and voice. “I’m sorry Dr. Parry, there’s nothing more we can do. This strain of Covid is lethal. C-9.9.9 kills over eighty-five percent of those infected. Of all ages.”

Parry’s wife, Susan, burst into tears. His two young twin sons were running around in stockinged feet, trying to give one another electric shocks. The doctor, shaking his head, left the grieving family alone.

Parry, trying to keep calm, considered his options. Death, it seemed, lurked at the doorstep. Threatening to end his life and eventually over one-quarter of the world’s population. If the Covid virus didn’t render humans extinct, the slow swimmers might.

After considering, Parry finally made his choice.

“O.K., let’s do it. Say goodbye to Jake for me.” At his words, his wife cried more, now joined by his bewildered sons.

Parry had to have faith in the new, highly controversial cryonics technology. His last thoughts were that Jake’s kind might be in trouble too.

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, 2200

Parry woke, to a dimly lit room, aware of the burning sensation in his body. The anti-freezing fluids were being flushed out of his system, returning it to its normal temperature.

Suddenly, a face, immersed in some sort of bluish halo, loomed over him shining a tiny light into his one eye. “Can you talk, Dr. Parry? Just easy now. Don’t raise your voice. Everything kind of needs to warm up first.”

“Where am I,” croaked Parry. “Am I alive? Who are you? Is this a dream?”

“Easy now, Dr. Parry. All in good time. First we must assess your condition. After all, you’ve been out for a while.”

Parry, confused by this remark, asked, “Haven’t you frozen me yet, Doctor? I thought we were going ahead with the cryonics?”

“Oh, Dr. Parry, you were out for a while – 179 years to be exact. But you’re back now.”

“Oh, God. It must have worked…”

Doctor Goodwin interrupted. “Now, Dr. Parry, just relax. You have a lot to catch up on.” Earlier Goodwin, after consulting with his team of experts, while worried about bringing Parry back to life, worried more about his mental condition. He touched Jason’s left arm with a blunt metal object, and the increasingly anxious Parry immediately was out again.

………………….

Parry felt much better when he woke up the next time. Goodwin was standing nearby.

“How are you feeling, Dr. Parry? Any pain anywhere? Your vitals look good. No problems that we can see.” Goodwin suddenly looked up as if viewing something in the distance. Occasionally nodding his head as if in agreement.

“We’ll start with some basic information.” Goodwin seemed to be looking off into the distance again as if he were examining data on a computer screen.

Parry saw a radiating metal band around Goodwin’s head. Technology to allow him to connect with his computer? Where’s the computer?, wondered Parry. Suddenly a transparent, virtual bluish screen appeared, and Parry saw data on the screen floating in the air. His vitals, he presumed. Parry relaxed, thinking to himself, Take it easy, Jason. This won’t be your first surprise.

“First things first, Dr. Parry. In the next few days, we’ll put you on an exercise program to rejuvenate those muscles. You’ve been rather lazy lately, laying around for 180 years.” Goodwin chuckled at his own joke resulting in a line of little bluish laughing heads appearing on the virtual image.  

Goodwin continued. “First though, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

“Where am I? In Edmonton?” Goodwin only nodded and said nothing, thinking. Close enough. An Edmonton of sorts, Jason Parry.

“Why did you ‘revitalize’ me now?”

“Two reasons, Dr. Parry. First, the advance in cryonics five years ago. In your time it was considered a long shot at best. Dangerous at worst. There was a breakthrough in reconstituting the brain’s neural net.”

“And the other reason, Doctor?”

“Before you were frozen, Dr. Parry, you had the C-9.9.9 variant. It killed millions, before we finally managed to eradicate it.”

“And the problem, Doctor?”

“Your variant mutated while you were under. We didn’t know how to treat it. No one wanted to let the genie out of the bottle. And infect the world with a new strain of Covid. But with recently approved nanotechnology in medicine, we sent in nanobots to kill the variant, before resuscitating you. You’re cured. And, so far there aren’t any runaway bots taking over the world.”

Before Parry could ask any more questions, Goodwin jumped in. “I think, Dr. Parry you need to rest now.

“I agree, Doctor. Perhaps you could arrange some reading for me to start catching up.”

Goodwin chuckled. “Reading, Doctor? You’d be dead by the time you caught up. No, we’ve arranged something better.” He seemed to be looking into space again and suddenly an image of two middle-aged men and one woman appeared in the room. Parry squinted. First amazed at the imagery and technology. Then at the vaguely familiar faces, reminding him of his wife and two boys.

“Dr. Parry, meet some of your direct descendants. I’ll let them tell you how we’re going get you set for your new world.” Goodwin speculated, Well, if this doesn’t put him over the top, nothing will.

Parry stared at them, then broke down crying. Sarah, Graham, and Dallas came closer trying to virtually console him.

…………………

Introduction To A Changing World, 2100

Parry opened his eyes to what seemed more like a dream than reality. Beside him stood his three descendants. Shimmering, not looking quite right either. Sarah talked first. “Hi Gramps. Can I call you Gramps or Jason. Great, Great, Great…. Grandfather seems rather long.”

“I kind of like Gramps. Has an old ring to it. Where are we? Am I sleeping? This doesn’t feel right.”

Dallas answered. “Gramps, this is something called virtual history. You can interact with it and ask anything you like about the year 2100. Eventually, we’ll take you forward to the present.”

“But how am I seeing this? I have no goggles or headgear on.” Then Parry felt the thin band on his head.

“We don’t need those anymore, Gramps. With that headband, this info-site is directly connected to your brain. You will take a virtual tour back to 2100 and we’ll explore some key things that changed in the world since 2021.”

Suddenly there standing before him were now much older versions of his two sons, Eric and Neil.

“This is so extraordinary. I have so many things to ask you.” His sons greeted him warmly as if alive.

“Well, let’s skip the family stuff until later. Let’s first check out the world.” Graham watched carefully. Too much emotion from Parry and he was instructed to end the session immediately.

Eric asked, “Dad, before you left us, what major problem did our world face?”

A confused Parry blurted out, “Climate, energy, disease, pollution, overpopulation, obesity, racial and religious issues, human inequality. It’s a long list, Eric.”

“Think again, Dad. Back then we had the means to fix most of those things but couldn’t because one of them trumped all.” Eric watched the thinking Parry.

“Well, the world’s geopolitical systems were the major thing holding us back. They were broken, unwieldy, corrupt, or misguided by ideological and religious dogma.”

A major map of the world appeared in front of Parry. Over the world floated a large logo, with two green letters, WE. In the background a voice droned on, describing the new world political order. Parry stared, barely able to comprehend what he was watching.

Neil began. “You’re right, Dad. Our politics, whether domestic, international, democratic, dictatorial, and everything in-between, were destroying us. We couldn’t cooperate on anything globally. Leaving our poor world in shambles and continual threats of war. That had to change. In a way, a declining world’s population, helped by the Covid pandemic, unraveled the old system. And so did the slow swimmers, although they could still do us in. World economies were destroyed, and along with them those with the power to manipulate the political system to their own ends. There was rioting, civil war, and totally anarchy the world over. And more died.”

The world map contained only six names. New America; Ant-America; Europa; Africa; Asia; and Oceania. Eric pointed out, “These, Dad, are the new political entities or super-countries if you will. Canada is no longer a sovereign nation but now part of a larger continental entity, New America, under one government. Former countries of these new entities had to unify because of the economic turmoil and population decline. We’re not quite done but making progress. Both New America and Asia is still attempting to revert to older power systems. But the people are forcing change on a scale never seen before.”

“But how does this even work?,” blurted a confused Parry.

Neil chimed in, “First, governments of these Nation continents are formed by the people…”

Parry, now totally fired up, cut in. “Yes, and then corruption sets in and our political leaders are manipulated by capitalist or ideological agendas. Or, someone just downright becomes greedy and takes sole power, passing it down to their children and bleeding off all the wealth, leaving most people powerless with nothing.”

Eric interjected. “You can imagine, Dad, there was major unrest and the most corrupt world leaders were held accountable. They lost the power they once had as the world’s population crashed. Disease deniers were murdered. A new order emerged.”

Neil continued. “The new political order realized that religion and the state must be separated – a former rule that had become more and more blurred in many countries. But also, capitalism and the state needed to be separated. We still have a capitalist system, but it can’t influence or buy the governing body. No more candidates who will get corporations more money and power if elected, with large donations. No more political lobbying and bribery with perks, or threats. No more inserting candidates into political positions because of certain religious beliefs.”

“But, where do the politicians get their money to campaign?”

“The state gives eligible candidates a certain amount of money to run for political positions.”

“What, eligible? Qualify to be a politician? Wouldn’t that disqualify many people from even running? And, what qualifications would you need?” Parry thought he hadn’t heard right.

A list appeared in front of Parry. “There they are, Dad. At least three years of civic political experience, being elected democratically. To really understand humanity and its history, requires courses in anthropology, history and sociology. And, if you wish to go on to the world governing level, courses in international relations. By the time you go through all these steps, it eliminates most of the shysters who went into politics for power and self-aggrandizement.”

“Those types can’t use their wealth to influence the political system. They have to play by the rules. We now have more informed politicians who represent New America, based on region and/or population as before. Then, one is chosen from the elected to lead. For only a five year term. There are no political parties.”

Parry shook his head, wondering if such a system could even work? A politician, unhindered by donors, party agendas, working solely to carry out the wishes of the people and the laws and rules of the land, based on sound facts?

Something about world politics, from Eric’s former statement, prompted another question from Parry. “But, wouldn’t these new countries continue to bicker about world issues? Like climate?”

An image appeared, of a large council chamber, capable of seating thousands, similar to the United Nations. In its center sat twelve delegates, two people representing each continent.

“The United Nations was revamped into a new political system that over-arches the six continents. It has the power to deal with global matters and those possibly from outer space. Anything or anyone that threatens the earth, be it pollution, over-population, disease, or outsiders is handled at this political level.”

Eric pointed, “That’s its logo, WE, floating over the earth.”

“Meaning, WE the people, I assume? Instead of ME, as in MYSELF,” asked Parry.

“Partly, Dad. It represents the two cornerstones of new world order policies. WASTE and EFFICIENCY. Dad, your era wasted about 42% of all energy you made for transportation, heating, etc., and one-third of all food produced. We’ve reduced those figures to about 10% each. Eventually we’ll reach zero waste. That alone would make a big difference in harmful emissions and human inequality.”

“Then, I take it EFFICIENCY means better, cleaner energy for homes, manufacturing and transportation?”

“Yes, Dad. And a host of other things as well.”

“Solving our energy crisis, for example, for the benefit of all continents and while not affecting the earth’s environment is among one of the most monumental challenges we’ve ever faced. But, in your day it couldn’t happen. This governing body realizes that success can only come from cooperation. Globally.”

A fascinated Parry watched the session. Shouting broke out between the Australian and Asian delegates. The Australian was speaking loudly. “Your policies on energy are still inefficient. There’s a grey cloud of shit hanging over Asia, yet you’re still reluctant to accept cleaner energy solutions. That will just increase the slow swimmers.”

The Asian delegate, equally angry, shouted back. “We’re trying but are not technologically ready. If you would share more of that new energy information with us, perhaps we could resolve the problem faster. And remember Mr. Osborn from Australia, soon we will be neighbors, so try to be more civil.”

A perplexed looking Aussie, asked, “Neighbors? We’re neighbors already. Too close in fact. When the winds blow right, your big blob of suet covers our continent.”

The Asian delegate shot back, “That’s not what I meant Mr. Osborn. In about two-hundred million years, as the continent of Australia creeps toward us 2.2 inches a year, it will bump up against Asia and we will be very close neighbors.” This got a round of applause and laughter from the assembly.

Even the Australian delegate laughed.

Parry and his sons chuckled at the outbreak. Parry asked, “But how is a final decision enforced?”

“None of the continents has a standing army, Dad. Or major weapons of mass destruction. Only the world authority can amass an army to ensure compliance, if necessary. So far, it hasn’t been necessary. These diplomats and politicians know what a mess the world is in. They realize if they don’t work together for the interests of the planet, all on earth are doomed.”

Later as Parry and his sons sat watching the hockey game, catching up on family matters, Parry, still perplexed about a few other things, casually asked.

“What about race? When I left, racial tensions and intolerance throughout the world were off the charts.”

Neil answered. “Racial and gender equality have improved, and our leaders are better educated and more tolerant to racial issues. That has helped but maybe not be enough. So, as we speak, Dad, the borders between continents are opening. People will be allowed to choose where to live. Up to the point when it might no longer be safe, economical, or endanger cultural diversity.”

Parry couldn’t believe his ears. “What? You can’t do that. We’ll be flooded with humans wanting to live here.”

“And how did your borders work before, Dad? They only caused turmoil, inequality, fear and hate. Remember, this is no longer 2021. We desperately need people. Or, our economies will crash again. Eventually all economies will balance out and people won’t need to flee. If you had a choice and could live comfortably in Columbia, raise a family and make a living, or live in northern Alberta, which would you choose?”

Parry, in defense of northern Alberta, answered, “There’s nothing wrong with northern Alberta. But I see your point. There would be less incentive to move. People were moving before because of warfare, starvation, or suppression.”

“Right,” interjected Eric. That’s been solved for the most part. By opening the borders, we think there will be more inter-racial interactions, intermarriage, and economic equality, improving tolerance. It’s a big gamble. We don’t know what will happen. We may lose our cultural diversity. Or, it might be strengthened. When you go to 2200, you’ll probably have an answer. It could lead to total racial retrenching which might lead to more conflict.”

“Another question. Are we too late in reversing some of the things we’ve done to world climate?”

“Don’t know, Dad. The most efficient energy policies currently available are now fully implemented. Waste of and polluting energy continues to drop. CO2 emissions are down to manageable levels. But is it too late? Our sea levels continue to rise. But, the world hasn’t sunk under the oceans, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’d hoped there would be flying cars by now. Or teleporting,” grumbled Parry.

Eric paused the game and brought up an image of cars traveling down streets. “Not there yet, Dad, but way better than in your day.”

Parry watched the traffic but heard no noise. “What are they running on?”

“Right now, mostly electricity. But the real big breakthrough are the tires.”

“The tires?,” asked Parry.

Nanotires, Dad. Vehicle travel causes friction on the roads which is converted into electricity. Those tires are recovering about 35% of the energy used in fuel. Someday that technology may be efficient enough to recover enough electricity to power that car.”

Suddenly the game was interrupted by a news flash. There on the streets, what looked like a pack of robotic dogs were chasing someone frantically trying to escape in a vehicle. Eric moaned. “Oh, God. The health hounds again.”

An incredulous Parry looked on. “Health hounds?”

An embarrassed looking Eric simply said. “An experiment, Dad, intended to deal with health issues, gone terribly, terribly wrong.” His son filled a concerned Parry in on the details.

The game resumed. “But our biggest concern Dad, are the increasing slow swimmers.” The sons then told their father about this dilemma as they watched the rest of the game. As usual the Canadians won.

 Back To 2200

Goodwin, standing near Parry, looked off into his own space and data, to see how his patient was doing.

“Welcome back, Dr. Parry. How are you feeling?”

“Surprised, shocked, puzzled, but well enough. So much changed in less than 100 years. Is there more to come?

“Yes, Doctor. Hopefully that session lessens the shock of the present. I have a surprise for you.” Then Dr. Goodwin looked off into his head and checked Parry’s vitals, making sure he was stable.

The door opened and in walked Dallas, Sarah and Graham, in the flesh. An emotional, befuddled Parry, still adjusting to jumping ahead of his children and grandchildren into this future world, gave them a big hug.

Parry finally regained his composure and spoke. “You all look so great. I’m anxious to see this new world and get to know you. I hope I’m ready.”

“We’ll take it slow, Gramps. Brace yourself. Edmonton is different from when you left. First we’ll show you some of the City and then try to put it all into perspective.”

They left Parry’s room and entered a large atrium teeming with plants. It almost looked like they were outside. Sarah caught Parry staring. “We incorporate as much plant life into our public buildings as possible. It’s not just decorative but practical. All building interiors produce oxygen and absorb CO2. The entire building is designed to produce electricity and geothermal heating, give off zero emissions and generates more energy than it uses.”

Parry marveled at the vastly improved energy efficiency as they passed out the building doors. He stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the streets. They were covered with a mixture of grass and some black glassy-looking material. Wheeled vehicles drove on the latter while other vehicles floated over the former. “Gramps, those glassy-looking surfaces are solar arrays embedded into the road, to produce electricity, for the wheeled vehicles. The nanogenerators in the tires on wheeled vehicles now recover 85% of the car’s expended energy by producing electricity from friction. The cars gliding over the grass, based on electromagnetics or maglev, are fueled by electricity. Our entire rapid transit systems are now all maglev – quieter, faster and more efficient. You can travel from one side of the continent to the other at the speed of sound on the maglev trains.”

Parry, barely paying attention was down on his knees examining the intricate solar arrays embedded in the road. “But the maglev cars don’t produce any friction on the ground, so no electrical recovery?”

“We’re producing electricity from friction caused when a car, train, or plane moves through the air. Our new generation of nanogenerators convert mechanical energy, caused by air friction over their bodies to generate power. We’ll show you more examples of this in a bit.” Sarah towed a reluctant Parry toward a row of vehicles.

Once inside their vehicle, Graham punched in some numbers on the computer console and off they went. No one was driving. As they neared the residential parts of the City, Parry noticed that the structures were barely visible, looking like mounds buried under sod and grass. Only the south-facing facades showed, flowing out into yards. They also looked longer as if several houses were connected.

Parry asked, “Are these residences?”

“They are, Gramps. Mostly buried, with very low profiles to provide insulation and conserve heat in our very frigid winters.”

Parry was impressed. “So, these are just cold climate residences? What about the rest of the more temperate and tropical world? Are houses still usually above ground?”

 “The same principle holds even in the tropics but is reversed. Instead of keeping the cold out you keep the heat out. And conserve electricity required for air-conditioning.”

Their ride finally stopped beside one of the units. “Is this all yours? I thought by now we would have scaled back a little on residential space,” asked a puzzled Parry.

“Welcome home, Gramps.”

“I’ll be living with you? I don’t want to intrude.”

“That’s why this unit is so big, Gramps. It contains our entire extended families. Children, parents, grandparents all live together. It’s divided into private units, but we all interact. We care for our elders at home with help. When we’re away, the elders care for the children. Even if we’re not away, the social interaction is important for both. Many societies of the past used these same organizational principles, but western society mistakenly decided the nuclear family was the way to go.”

 Parry entered the cement encased house, well lit with light tubes, despite being mostly underground. His new family greeted him warmly in anticipation in seeing someone from the past. Stan, an elderly man met him and shook his hand. “Welcome, Gramps, I can’t beat your 214 years even though I’m a spry 130.” They both laughed at the joke.

The next day, before his daily stroll, Parry listened to the news casts on his virtual communications device, powered by the electricity generated by the friction from his shoes and cloths he made when walking. It sounded like the new world political system was still holding up. Then the news turned to the national stage where reports of rising sea levels were causing concerns in coastal communities.

Parry noticed that many fences and other hard surfaces had a strange coating of material on them. “Sarah, what’s that stuff on the fences? I even saw it in the toilet bowl.”

“Those are water motion active transducers. Tiny flexible, transparent electrodes that coat windows, roofs and even toilet bowls, to generate electricity from friction produced by raindrops and any water flow. All the water piping in our homes is coated with it, producing electricity. We even coat our new storm sewers with them to generate electricity for the City.”

“Then our energy and emissions problems are solved, with these technologies?”

“Yes, mostly, but we are still developing more efficient, less intrusive technologies. See that pole with what look like tiny filaments hanging by that house there. Those are tiny protein microwires made from geobacteria, capable of generating electricity from water vapour in the air. They work anywhere, including the driest parts of the world.”

A stunned Parry shook his head. “Do you still make beer, Sarah? I need a few right now to better absorb all this.”

Sarah laughed. “Some things, Gramps, can’t be improved upon. Just like our hockey.” They walked into the nearby neighborhood pub and Parry looked around. He noticed there were no obese people. No health hounds either. He would have to ask Sarah about that.

There were more colored and fewer white people than he was accustomed to. Something he’d noticed in his extended family.

“In the year 2100 orientation, my sons told me that the continental borders had been opened but at the time didn’t how it would affect interracial relations. What happened?”

“It’s ongoing Gramps. Improved but still an issue. There was a great deal more intermarriage when the borders opened. But, parts of the population wanted to maintain racial and cultural diversity. Purely White pods have dwindled significantly, but still exist. The debate continues and governments are reluctant to step in as it impinges too much on individual human rights. Supposed race, mostly defined by skin color, is being redefined. As the lines are blurred, we hope, there is less emphasis on this aspect of our humanity. We’ll see.”

“But aren’t you diluting cultural diversity?”

“Gramps, it’s easier now with a more uniform economic system. Cultures can remain distinctive without prejudice, warfare, ostracization.”

“What about religion?”

Sarah replied. “You can worship whatever God you wish. But, God can’t interfere with politics. And, there are stiff penalties if you attempt to convert others. Our educational system teaches religious and cultural diversity along with science. But, at the end of the day, it’s the individual’s choice which God, if any, they worship.”

As Parry took a sip of his beer, thinking about all the hate and bloodshed race, religion, or simply being different, had created, he turned to the large screen that was streaming the latest news. Sea levels around the world were still rising and affecting coastal populations. He shook his head.

“I take it, Sarah, that we didn’t deal with our CO2 emissions fast enough.”

Sarah shook her head. “No, Gramps. At this rate we figure sea levels will continue to rise for another hundred years before things level out. Your generation may have prevented the next ice age though, even if it’s a long way off.”

A now guilty looking Parry asked, “But you can stop rising sea levels? Surely by now there are technologies to deal with this?”

“Like what, Gramps? How do you stop something so powerful, so enormous? By trying, we may do more damage than good. Like those health hounds.”

Parry had no answer for that. Sarah paused before continuing. “We have covered the remaining global ice packs with protective insulation, slowing down melting. We are desalinizing sea water and pumping it into world’s dried up lakes and aquifers. We could refill them and perhaps even develop more fresh water in some of our driest areas on earth to rejuvenate the land. Some day the Sahara Desert might be green again. That might reduce rising sea levels by half.” Sarah sighed and took a drink, watching the image of water lap up against some of the most beautiful cities in the world.

That evening Parry had dinner with his extended family. He saw no plastic or metal food containers only some sort of, presumably biodegradable, strange material. There was little leftover food. All leftover vegetable matter went into some sort of grinder and came out as a greenish-looking paste. He recalled that 8.8% of greenhouse gases were created by food waste and that rotting organic matter in landfills released deadly methane – twenty-eight times worse than CO2 emissions.

As Parry went to bed that night thinking, despite some of the still looming problems, this was a better world by far than the one he’d left. And finally, WE was defeating the problem of those slow swimmers. It had been a close race. The air pollution, lethal chemicals in plastics and the Covid pandemic, which all contributed to slow swimming human and dog sperm, were contained. For humans, and man’s best friend who shared his toxic environment, fertility levels had begun to rise.

Just before dozing off, Parry mumbled the words of a famous man, that reflected well this new world order and where it was trending.

“Our ability to reach unity in diversity will be the beauty and test of our civilization.”

Mahatma Gandhi

EndNote

Whether you like it, hate it, or fear it, it’s coming. Whether you think it will save the world. Or destroy us all, nanotechnology is upon us. And developing fast.

While this is a story of fiction, a lot of the technologies I write about here are almost a reality. In terms of becoming economically and practically feasible. Imagine a world where your very movements, or your car’s, which creates friction used to make enough electricity to supply our needs. Those nanotires in the story are a reality.

And those slow swimmers? Also a reality and a real concern among countries. Imagine the world’s populations plummeting. That would destroy entire economies. And perhaps even threaten the very survival of our species.

I entered this story in Fix. And so did 1,100 other writers. If you like science fiction and imagining a better world, here’s the link to the top 12 stories. https://grist.org/fix/series/imagine-2200-climate-fiction/

COFFEE ROW IN A SMALL CANADIAN TOWN

Where do you go if you want to get to the heart of any small Canadian prairie town? Coffee Row is where it’s at.

A Small Town In Trouble

You can take the pulse of a town by the number and vintage of vehicles parked in front of the local restaurant. If coffee row is healthy, then so is the town.

They gathered at Frank’s restaurant across the street from the local Co-op grocery store. There was no set time. Just a steady stream of people all day long. Some even came twice a day, if gossip was brisk. Some came so often they had preassigned seats. No one sat in Jim’s place.

Coffee row was where people discussed and sorted out things. Exchanged information. Solved the world’s problems. Well, at least in the minds of those sitting there.

Frank, owner of the small prairie restaurant, slowly glided around serving coffee, saying little. What was there to say? No one ever asked him what he thought.

Stan, Erna, Jim, Mary, Sarah and Bill were already there. Slowly drinking their coffee, as if they had all the time in the world. But this morning they had troubled looks on their faces, gazing at the scene across the street.

Erna finally spoke up. “Well, I’ll be darned. Shame that Jackson’s hardware is shutting down. That was a good business once. Bought all my stuff there. I don’t know what ever happened to the place.”

Bill thought he knew. “Old man Jackson was a good businessman. His kid ran it into the ground. Everyone supported the store. Where did the money go?”

Mary, sitting beside Bill, knew better. “I don’t buy that, Bill. The kid parties a little. A lot less than your kid.” This got a rise out of Bill. And a snicker or two from coffee row.

She went on. “But he’s not showy, spending all his money on toys. Fact of the matter is people are shopping more in the big cities. And slowly leaving our town, Bill. Nothing to do. No work here.”

Bill, now a little huffy after Mary’s comment, shot back. “We should do something about it, instead of just sitting here drinking our coffee.”

“And what are we going to do, Bill? Strike a committee? Maybe order people not to leave town, or go to the city to shop? You got a plan, buddy? Let’s hear it.”

Bill was silent. He had no plan. No one did. Instead, he turned and watched intently as the Jackson kid cleaned out the store and boarded up the front windows. Was this a sign of rot and gloom setting into their small town?

Sarah was beginning to tear up. “Fifty years and suddenly it’s all gone. Who’s next? When’s the bleeding going to stop?” Everyone looked on in silence as the kid continued to board up a lifetime of work and memories. Usually coffee row could solve the hardest problems. But this was a tough one.

Frank glided down coffee row behind a now solemn looking bunch on coffee row. “More coffee anyone. Made fresh pot just a few minutes ago. Maybe some fresh apple pie?”

Everyone absently nodded for a refill. As if Frank didn’t exist. Some ordered pie. Heck, no sense leaving now. There was still the weather and politics to sort out. And then the Thornton girl’s unwanted pregnancy, the local hockey team’s recent poor play, and Harry’s drinking problem. The list was long this morning.

Then Harry came in. Looking slightly tired and smelling of gin. Well, stroke Harry off today’s agenda. There was still lots to talk about though.

Talking about these matters could take time. A person might even have to stay for lunch if Frank offered one of his specials. Often coffee row turned into lunch row.

Across the street the young boy watched his father board up their store. He was crying, not letting his mother console him. Young Everett loved the store. The town. His friends. He didn’t want to leave. So, he screamed even louder. Hoping to convince mom and dad to stay. It didn’t help.

A Big Gamble

They were older now. And professing to be wiser. They sat in silence on coffee row. Slowly stirring their coffee. Hoping that with enough stirring, things would improve. Staring out the window at the boarded up Jackson’s store. Over the years a few other businesses had joined Jackson’s fate. Jim noticed a few weeds growing out of the town pavement.

Jim spoke first. As he looked over at the Jackson building, he slowly shook his head. “Jeez, Jackson’s closing was bad enough. But this? This is a hopeless disaster. What’s the town going to do now?”

“You mean what are WE going to do, Jim? It’s OUR bloody town.” Mary felt a slight headache coming on. Sometimes it was hard to listen to this pain in the ass sitting across from her.

“Don’t get me involved in this. I don’t live in town. I farm.”

“Farm. Ha!,” snorted Sarah. “You call that farming? You’re in town more often than on the farm, Jim. I don’t know who farms out there. But it’s sure not you.”

Jim said nothing. They had no idea how hard it was to farm. Occasionally he needed a break. To get away from it all.

Frank, a fresh white apron wrapped around him, jumped in. “More coffee anyone? Trying out new brand. Nice aroma, very tasty.” Hopefully more coffee would stop a fight from breaking out. Coffee row occasionally became a testy place. Tempers flared. Solving other peoples’ problems did that to a person.

Just about everybody ignored him. The tension grew. Frank worried. He tried his last and best gambit. “Today’s lunch special, everyone. My specialty, Chop Suey. All fresh. Very tasty. Only five-ninety-five, with dessert.” This usually calmed them down. Today it had no effect whatsoever. Frank worried even more.

“I heard the town invested over a hundred grand in infrastructure, hoping the Company workers would live here. But they didn’t come. Everyone from the new mill settled up the road in Morton instead. Kind of stupid. A much further commute to work than if they lived here.”

“I didn’t know the town had a hundred grand.”

“Well, where do you think our taxes go, Sarah? Of course the town has a hundred grand. We’re not dead yet.” Then they all looked out across the street at the boarded up store-fronts. Wondering about the truth of those words.

“But, how could our town council be so naive? To even think that was a good idea? Morton’s bigger. It even has a Tim Horton’s. Hard to compete with that.” Jim, now sounded as if he were living in town again. This gained him a few haughty looks.

And a chewing-out. Sarah had enough. “First of all, Jim. It’s not your town council. You live on the farm. You really got no say in this matter. This is town peoples’ business. Don’t you have some cattle to feed? Crops to harvest? That sort of stuff.”

Jim stood up in a huff and flung his quarters onto the table. And left quickly. Swearing never to return. He would. They always did. Frank glided by and deftly picked up the coins. Dropping them safely into his big brass cash register till behind the counter. Smiling at everyone. As if nothing had happened.

“Well, I’ll tell you why the town got bamboozled and took that gamble. It’s our mayor and council. They don’t tell anyone what they’re up to. There’s no oversight. They’re desperate. The town’s hurting. Anything that comes along that sounds half good, they jump at it. That’s what happened.” Stan usually said little on coffee row. But, when he did, people listened. That’s what eight sections of farmland and money in the bank could buy you on coffee row. Respect. Lots of it.

And Stan, unlike Jim, now lived in town.

Just then, Randy, their mayor stepped through the restaurant door. He badly needed a pack of cigarettes to get him through the day. As he nervously looked around, he realized everyone on coffee row was staring at him. ‘Probably not the best time to stop at Frank’s,’ realized Randy a little too late.

“Morning everyone. How are we all this morning?” Silence greeted him. Randy put on his best smile as he looked down coffee row. What he saw wasn’t good. Randy didn’t take official polls in town. He just needed to stop at coffee row occasionally to see how his political future fared. This morning it looked very bleak. Hopeless in fact.

Frank got Randy his cigarettes and looked on. “Randy, maybe you stay for lunch. Nice special today. Chop Suey. And I think maybe a side of fried rice with it.” Randy paid for his cigarettes, mumbled something about not feeling that hungry, and quickly left.

The others on coffee row continued arguing about one of the biggest screw-ups the town had ever seen. Frank worried about Randy. He was trying to save the little town. Frank had watched the careers of many mayors over the years. Through the eyes and ears of coffee row. Coffee row was a finely tuned machine in predicting their political futures. It wasn’t just Frank’s rice that was frying. Randy’s political future was also taking a little heat.

Salvation

Virtually the same people sat on coffee row. But now, more stooped, older and white-haired. Canes rested by chairs. A wheel chair stood in the corner. A few regulars were missing. Maybe watching over coffee row from above. Or below. There were some new faces. That was promising.

They all stared across the street where a young man was working diligently taking the boards off the windows of the old Jackson Hardware Store. There was hammering and sawing and a bunch of other stuff going on inside. But no one knew what. And that wore on coffee row. Not knowing what was going on in town was the worst thing that could happen to a person on coffee row.

Sarah was itching to find out. If she could break this story there would be free coffee for her. She was first to arrive, so she got in the first question. “I heard he’s setting up some kind of video and gambling center. Is this another one of town council’s lame brain schemes at revitalizing our town?”

Sarah was an expert at getting people talking. Just ask a simple, even a dumb question that people could react to. She’d learned that from watching certain reporters on TV.

“Don’t know. But that guy looks familiar. Isn’t that the Jackson boy’s oldest son? Sure looks like it from here.” They all squinted harder through watery eyes and thick glasses.

“Well, he’s sure busy and it looks like he’s throwing a lot of money into that building. You must have made some money with that sale, Stan, after buying it years ago.”

“Yeh, that’s Jackson’s oldest. Don’t know what he’s doing back here. I made a bit of money off that sale. Enough to buy everyone coffee this morning.” They all thought this very good of Stan. Some were hoping Frank would have a lunch special today. Maybe Stan would spring for lunch too.

They all looked back out the window across the street. A sign was going up on the store front. In big bold letters it read: MUSTANG ENTERPRISES.

“What? He gonna sell horses? I don’t think that will get him very far.” Jim knew. He’d tried horses years ago on his farm. Fancy ones. Not mustangs. That didn’t work out too well. Jim never seemed to have enough time to properly train and work them.

The young man across the street stepped back and looked at his handiwork. Then he put down his hammer, took his son by the hand, and walked across the street to Frank’s restaurant.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed him across the street and through the restaurant door. Jackson’s father would never have come to coffee row. And, according to experts on coffee row, that was one of the problems. Maybe even why the business failed. You had to talk to people in the community. Get to know them. Especially those on coffee row.

As he stepped through the door, Everett looked around. Some things never changed. He still recognized a few faces. Now older with whiter hair, if they had any. But the alert, inquisitive eyes told him everything. They wanted to know what he was doing here. They could barely contain themselves.

“Morning everyone. Mind if I join you. Could use a little more caffeine this morning.” Without waiting for an answer Everett plunked himself down on a chair at the end of the table. His son sat down beside him.

His greetings were returned by a few polite, cautious responses. Couldn’t trust these outsiders anymore. Especially after that last town debacle. Frank glided up, coffee pot in hand. A little more stooped and not walking quite as smoothly as years ago.

“Coffee, Everett? And for the young guy? A coke maybe?”

“That’d be great, Fan. How’s your family, your wife, Feng?”

“Oh, everyone good, Everett. Children move away. Nothing here for them. Feng cook, still put up with me.”

There was shock and silence up and down coffee row. Fan? They all thought he was just Frank. Few bothered to find out his real name. And how did Fan know Jackson so well? It would be hard finding the answers on coffee row. Without Fan listening in. Well, maybe they could just ask him.

“Nice sign, Mr. Jackson. You now sell Mustang cars, right? You get me a bright yellow one. With big motor. I pay cash.” Everyone wondered how Fan could afford a fancy new car running a restaurant. The fact that he worked sixteen – eighteen hours a day hadn’t crossed their minds.

“No, Fan. I don’t sell real mustangs, or cars.” Jim the horse expert, and Bert, who owned a small car dealership, were relieved to hear that.

Mary couldn’t hold back any longer. She just had to know. “Well, if not cars or horses, what do you sell, or do, Mr. Jackson? What does that sign mean anyway?”

“You know what mustangs are, Mary. Wild, free and a bit of an independent bunch. They do as they please and make their own way in the world. That’s us.”

Everett was just about to continue when the mayor walked in. He quickly gazed around taking the pulse of the town down coffee row. Looked safe enough. So he sat down beside Everett.

“Morning everyone. Dad, how you keeping?” Stan just nodded and waved.

“So, how’s it going over there, Everett? Lot of banging and sawing. Where did you learn how to do that?”

Some of the members of coffee row looked concerned. Everett and the mayor knew one another? The newcomer seemed to know everyone. If he joined coffee row it could upset the delicate balance established over many years. He could be a real threat in the gossip department.

“Going well, Jason. Learned a little carpentry by renovating my house in the city. Only way to learn anything.”

Everyone on coffee row thought those words exceedingly wise. A few wished they’d learned that lesson long ago.

Everett idly scratched the back of his neck, as if something was irritating him. “That refit’s not my biggest problem, Jason. I need to hire three or four really good computer tech people and two secretaries. Seems to be a shortage of those around here.”

Stan, or Fan, overheard Jason. “Seriously, Everett? First son, Fook, looking around for different job. Want to get out of city. Too big, too expensive.”

“Actually, Fan, that might work. I remember Fook. What’s he do? I need one person specializing in computer machine and assembly languages. Another one in algorithmic languages. FORTRAN. ALGOL. C. I could use someone who knows BASIC, Pascal, Logo, or Hypertalk. Or someone with a background in C++ C# Ada, Java, Visual Basic or Python.”

Fan casually took in Everett’s words. The rest of coffee row only gaped. As if Fan and Everett had just invented some sort of new language? “I text him immediately and see what he specialize in.” Fan left in a hurry, forgetting the coffee pot on the table.

Everett looked around. There was silence on coffee row. No one knew what to say. Even Mary was afraid to ask again what Everett did.

“Well, time to go. Nothing ever got done sitting around here. Let me know if there are any town folks that might need jobs.” That was an understatement thought Mary. She’d help if only she knew what the jobs were for.

Everett was about to get up and leave when he thought of something else. “Oh, and we’re going to need houses. I saw a few boarded up driving around town. Anyone know who owns them?”

All eyes turned towards Stan. Some of them now not in a too friendly manner. Fully knowing that Stan bought those places almost for nothing years back. Another great real estate opportunity squandered.

Stan gave a nervous cough. “I could probably help you out, Mr. Jackson. Heard prices for housing were going up though in these little towns. Seems a lot of people are moving out of the city and need homes.”

“Now dad. Everett needs some houses for his people at a fair price. To get his business going.” Everyone on coffee row fully supported their mayor on this point, and gave Stan a withering look to show it.

“Well, got to get back to my coffee row.” Everett stood and poured his unfinished coffee into his thermos.

“But, this is coffee row, Mr. Jackson. You know of another one around here? You opening up a restaurant or something? Maybe one of those fancy internet cafes?” Fan, who rarely ever showed any emotion, now had a worried look on his face.

Everett only grinned. “I collect information. Just like you folks. My coffee row sits on six big computer screens, connected to the rest of the world. Last time I looked there were 22.5 million of us, sipping coffee, collecting and exchanging information. But the information we collect is valuable to the right people. We repackage and sell it.” Only stunned silence greeted his words. Had they known, they could have made millions off coffee row over the years. Even Jim would have fared better, than farming.

As Everett walked across the street he looked around the small town. There were fewer ‘For Sale’ signs and more ‘Sold’ signs on homes and businesses than when he first had checked it out. Always a good omen.

Even coffee row was recruiting, it seemed. And with a healthy coffee row there was always hope for a small town in Canada.

…………………………

EndNote

I grew up around or in small towns on the Canadian prairies. As a grocery boy working part-time at the Co-op store through high school, right across from the local restaurant, I watched the proceedings at coffee row quite often. This is where people gathered to casually socialize, exchange information, or barbs, and just generally be part of the community. It was an important institution. And, not just in my home town. It was common across the Canadian prairies. And elsewhere too, I’m sure.

I also saw first-hand how small towns struggled to stay afloat. And how hard people worked to keep them going. But eventually over the years, ever so slowly, they dwindled away as more people left, businesses closed and infrastructure couldn’t keep up. One author in a recent magazine called this the Slow Burn.

In a recent article in Maclean’s Magazine (https://www.macleans.ca/killing-rural-canada/), that same author, journalist, Aaron Hutchins asked the big question: What’s Killing Rural Canada? There were multiple reasons. I touched on a few in this story. But there were few solutions on how to fix the problem.

I’m an optimist. Perhaps a bit of a dreamer. I don’t know if all small Canadian towns can be saved. Do we need one every eight or ten miles along a stretch of highway in rural Saskatchewan? Perhaps long ago we did. Even in the 1950s, when I first arrived in Canada, some of those towns were already struggling. But I think some might be saved. Computers and the internet are changing where many Canadians work or run a business. The pandemic has also helped the process along, as more people work from home.

Of course, this method doesn’t work for all businesses or industry. Virtual baking can’t replace the real thing.

“It’s not just families seeing the appeal either. Businesses, both startups and large organizations, are making the move (think Amazon considering Kitchener-Waterloo over Toronto’s downtown) for the same reason the average Joe is. Lower cost of operation, more room to grow.” https://www.empirecommunities.com/blog/rural-renaissance-how-a-new-generation-is-embracing-small-town-living/

In Alberta, the shift to smaller towns outside the large urban centers is underway. The recent Covid pandemic is partly responsible, as people try to isolate in the less densely populated rural communities. But there are other reasons as well:

“Another driving factor is that people can work from home since remote working is still being encouraged by many employers. Some businesses are offering more flexible working environments such as work from home at least a few days a week, with a requirement of going to the office occasionally. This allows home buyers considerably more flexibility when looking for a new home, no longer bound by the requirement of being in close proximity to the office. This explains the surge of families exploring quieter, more remote areas that traditionally only attracted retirees.” https://blog.remax.ca/canadian-real-estate-alberta-an-ideal-buyers-market/

On British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast, where I live part-time, the local real estate market in the community of Powell River is going bonkers. For many of the reasons listed above. Plus, a lot of baby boomers in the large urban centers are cashing in on their multi-million dollar properties in the city and moving where living is slower and cheaper.

“Grand totals show 40 units, valued at $13,572,800, sold in December 2020, compared to 25 units, valued at $8,872,700, in December 2019.” https://www.prpeak.com/real-estate-news/strong-real-estate-sales-continue-in-powell-river-3418406

No one currently knows where this will all end. But the signs are encouraging. So, maybe there’s still hope for that small town and coffee row in Canada. Or, perhaps I’m just dreaming and being overly optimistic. But, that’s usually what writing fiction is all about.

……………………….

The Puck Stops Here: A Canadian Hockey Story

Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life, and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive.
Stephen Leacock

Pregame: The Dressing Room

Harry Reed finally arrived at the rink. A little late. It was a dark, chilly, -25C Alberta night. As he stepped into the dressing room, he was greeted with loud cheers, jeers, and hellos. And the strong smell of sweaty equipment seldomly laundered.

The boys cheered loudest when they had a full dressing room. Didn’t have to work so hard in the game. ‘Things sure change,’ thought Harry. ‘Years ago we hoped three or four guys wouldn’t show up. So we could get more ice-time.’

Harry looked for a spot to park his gear in the aged rink’s crowded dressing room. Judging by its size it was built for a team of twelve-year olds, not fully grown men. Finally squeezing himself in between two players, he looked around as his white-haired teammates (at least those with hair) dressed for the game. He saw knee braces, thick black plastic Hanson-like glasses, and other protective gear in sight. A set of crutches stood in one corner. Harry wondered about that. A necessary precaution?

Unlike younger teams preparing for the game, talk focused on who did the stupidest thing the last time out. There were always plenty of fodder for that topic. Tonight discussion focused around Frank’s defense of the team’s name, arguing that he tried to stay sweat-free when playing. This got a round of applause and some cheers from his teammates, the NeverSweats.

Finally, donning their jerseys with the team logo, NEVERSWEATS etched on them in big blue letters, their goalie, Howie, led the team onto the ice. Ready to do battle. Some, more with their own physical shortcomings than with the opposition.

First Period: A Slow Start

Harry and his line mates sat on the bench looking despondently on as the other team rushed down the ice, into their end, and put another puck past their goalie. Four goals in five shots. Looked like Howie was ‘fighting it’ again tonight. Whatever ‘it’ was. Right now Howie couldn’t stop a beach ball.

Someone on the bench mumbled the S***e-word, a good hundred feet from where Howie stood in net. A word you never said in the presence of a goalie. Howie suddenly looked at his bench, yelling. “I heard that, dammit. One of you jokers want to play in net?”

Of course none of the jokers on the bench responded. Why would anyone want to throw themselves in front of a hard, fast-moving missile that could hurt you? That just seemed counterintuitive to survival.

Everyone wondered though how a goalie, supposedly hard of hearing, picked up certain words about his goal-tending prowess, at that distance. Theories abounded. The man could read lips. He had the bench wired and was listening in. He wasn’t really deaf at all.

“Come on, boys, pick it up,” shouted Coach Larry. “They’re beating us to the puck.”

‘Pick it up, boys. Pick it up,’ thought Harry. He looked over at his center man, Big Dale. They both shared that knowing look. ‘Pick it up boys, pick it up.’ Their coach, whom they lovingly had dubbed, ‘Captain Obvious’ was living up to his name. If there was anything left to pick up they would have done so. Even at this age, losing wasn’t fun.

The half-dozen fans in the rink were also shouting, ‘Pick it up, boys.’ Obviously Larry’s relatives were in attendance.

As the first period ended, the score was four-nothing for the visitors. Harry wished Roger Neilson was coaching. By now he would have put a white towel on the end of a hockey stick, raised it, and waved in surrender. Harry looked around and noticed those towels neatly stacked behind Coach Larry, who it seemed, recalled a similar incident a half-dozen games ago. Well, that’s what coaches were for – to keep the troops in line and fighting.

https://theprovince.com/sports/hockey/nhl/vancouver-canucks/its-the-35th-anniversary-of-roger-neilson-waving-his-white-towel

First Intermission – And Relief

The players sat in the dressing room, backs slouched up against the wall, half listening to Coach Larry. Some of the players were already eyeing the beer cooler. But Coach would have none of it, deliberately sitting on it.

“Now, boys, I saw a bit of sloppy play out there. Clean it up and a little more back-checking and we’re right back in it.” Coach suddenly stopped talking and looked around. A squabble in the corner had broken out where a beach ball mysteriously appeared and was being thrown at Howie.

The rest of the team were politely nodding at Coach Larry’s sage advice, trying to avoid Howie’s glares, knowing full well that wasn’t going to happen. But Coach meant well. He became coach not because of his great insights into the game of hockey. As his last comment had just demonstrated. He often bought the team a round of beer after the game. Coaches like that were hard to find.

Plus, the boys felt bad for Coach Larry, perhaps also thinking about their own rather fragile invincibility. After blowing his knee out Coach couldn’t play anymore. He missed the boys, the camaraderie, and needed to be around the rink to stay happy.

Coach Larry, now standing but still keeping one foot firmly planted on the beer cooler, exclaimed. “And another thing boys. Stop Malone. He’s killing us. Slow him down, get in his way. Dan, whisper in his ear how you’re going to get him. You’re good at that sort of thing.

Harry looked at Dan and rolled his eyes. Dan was good at that sort of thing. Like a loose cannon out there running into everything that moved. Including his teammates. It didn’t matter.

“But coach, I can’t whisper in his ear. I can’t get near him. He’s too bloody fast. I could maybe yell at him to slow down. Or bribe him with a beer. I mean the guy had a tryout with the Oilers.”

The rest of the team nodded. Malone was hopeless. And with Howie in net. Well, the score could get really ugly.

The whistle finally blew to start of the second period. Everyone put away their smelling salts, re-taped their wobbly knees, and rubbed ointment on their already aching bodies. Thankfully now the smell of ointment, instead of smelly equipment, pervaded the room. Time to stop Malone. At least yell at him to slow down.

Coach left the room last to make sure nobody got into the beer on the way out.

Second Period: Overcoming Adversity

As Harry stepped onto the ice for his warm-up skate, there was a roar of laughter behind him. He looked back to see his defenceman, Tim, lying on the ice. Most of his teammates were bent over the boards howling with laughter. The four remaining fans were also having a good laugh.

Coach Larry looked on with feigned concern. The boys weren’t taking the game too seriously. Always a bad sign. Meanwhile, Tim was still on the ice, struggling to get up until someone suggested he take his skate guards off first.

The other team now watching, all slapped their sticks on the ice in appreciation as Tim finally stood. The sportsmanship displayed at these games was often inspiring. Especially when the other team’s foolishness threatened the integrity of the game.

The second period started much like the first. Malone was tearing the ice up. And Howie was still having trouble seeing the puck. Mumbling and complaining bitterly about the lights and shadows. No one said anything. If Howie saw shadows, so be it.

“Jeez, it’s f*****g cold in this rink. What’s the temperature do you think, Harry?”

“Well, Gerry, if it’s -25C outside, then I figure it’s about -27C inside. I don’t know their secret but they seem to be able to keep it colder inside than outside.” Right above the team bench hung a line of gas heaters. But these were never turned on for Beer League hockey.

The boys laughed at that one. This started stories about playing in cold weather. Harry remembered one time in Swift Current. “We were about ten years old and playing on an outdoor rink in January. It was hellish cold. There was a stiff breeze making little snowdrifts on the ice. Occasionally we had to stop play to remove them. Our feet were froze solid by the end of the first period. After the game the moms and dads of eleven screaming kids were carefully trying to pry their skates off.”

“Are you guys going to play hockey or jabber?,” barked Larry. “Keep it up and you’ll miss your shift.”

“Personally, I’d like to just sit and jabber the way this game’s going,” whispered Harry to Big Dale.

“I heard that,” yelled Larry. Pick it up, boys, pick it up.” Larry’s hearing seemed as acute as Howie’s.

Then the NeverSweats got their first break of the game. Dan managed to somehow bump into Malone as he was careening down the ice. It really was an accident of sorts. Trying desperately to stick-check the speedster, Dan did a toe pick, followed by a rather awkward pirouette, crashing into Malone, sending him flying into the boards. Dan was ejected from the game. Malone never returned.

With Malone gone the momentum of the game changed. The NeverSweats picked it up. And Howie suddenly regained his vision. The puck now looked as big as a beach ball. He stopped everything. That little training session during the last intermission had kicked in.

Near the end of the period, Don had a breakaway. He rushed toward the opposition goalie, head down all the way, and let fly. Never once looking at the net, or where he was shooting. He focused only on not losing the puck off his stick. That would have brought a hail of laughter from the bench.

The puck hit the motionless goalie square in the logo. Don cursed, but ever the sportsman, slapped the goalie on the pads after, what seemed to him, a great save. Laughter burst out from both benches.

The referee blew his whistle to end the second period. The NeverSweats had closed the gap to within one goal.

No Second Intermission: The Beer is Safe

There was no regular second intermission. Just a short break. The remaining fans had seen enough and had gone home. The ice was still pretty clean and didn’t require a flood. As fatigue set in sudden stops and starts diminished. Instead, the players used long gliding turns to change direction. Creating little snow on the ice.

During the break the referee disappeared into his small dressing room.

“What the hell does he do in there every break? Weak bladder, or what?” The team had their suspicions, but no one said anything. It seemed though, as the game progressed, the referee’s vision was becoming a lot like Howie’s. But, getting a regular referee was almost harder than finding a goalie. Even one who couldn’t always see well.

Big Dale, Harry’s center, was leaning over the boards urging the boys on. Now mouthing Coach’s words,”Come on guys, if we pick it up a bit, we can beat these guys.”

Everyone went through the motions of buying in. Even though most minds were already on the ice-cold beer in the dressing room.

Then John, standing beside Big Dale, bent over and closely examined his gloves. “Heh, big guy, where did you get those gems? Museum? Are they hockey gloves or jousting gauntlets? They nearly cover your elbows. I mean, who even sells those things anymore? They look like they’re right out of the fifties or sixties.” The others now looked on, chuckling.

“I get them where I buy all my equipment. At the local Sally Ann thrift store. Fifteen bucks. You can’t beat that.”

“Well, Dale, they certainly blend in nicely with that trendy Jofa helmet and that straight-lasted wood stick. Do you get your sticks custom-made? Who still sells wood straight-lasted sticks?”

More chuckling. Dale was forever stuck in the 60’s. He would remain there until the day he died. Once they quit making straight-lasted sticks, Dale would retire from hockey.

Finally the referee appeared, a big smile on his face, and blew his whistle to start the third period.

Before starting, Coach Larry had a few parting words for his troops. “Let’s see if we can break out of our own end a little cleaner, boys. One time we couldn’t get out for two shifts.

Martin, the team wise-ass (at least for this game), put Coach’s mind at ease. “That’s a set play, Coach. It’s a trap of sorts. Lots of teams we play fall into it. We trap them in our end, and don’t let them out, until their arms and legs get weary. Then we break out. Or when they score. Whichever comes first.” The others thought this an exceedingly clever cover-up for having no plan whatsoever on how to get out of their end.

Third Period: The Comeback?

The referee dropped the puck and surprisingly play picked up. A sort of Old-timer urgency had set into the game. There were actually some stops and starts again. Plumes of frozen breath shot into the air as players battled for the puck. And low and behold! Sweat broke out among the ranks of the NeverSweats. This rarely happened, especially on a cold winter night in the Ice Palace.

The other team was feeling it too. During the brief intermission some players went to their dressing room to don more clothing. Or so it appeared.

Harry and his line mates looked on as the Rusty Nuts looked rustier by the minute. “Remember that time, boys, when we played at the Mall rink. It was -35C outside so we put on extra layers of underwear for the game.”

“Ya, I remember that one,” said Big Dale. “Nearly died of heat exhaustion by the second period. That was a real weapon that team had. Nothing like this Ice Palace.”

“More like a Sweat Palace. And the worst ice in the City. And the costliest from what I heard. It was like skating in putty. And the space behind the net was narrower than in other rinks. I remember when I first played there, watching the beauty of my pass one time, and running into the back boards cracking three ribs.”

Coach Larry shouted, “Next line. Come on boys, get out there and score.” As if anyone on this team could score at will.

“His memory is sure short,” whispered Dale. “Is that what happens when you quit playing and start coaching? You get a memory transplant. They replace the ‘player’ chip with a ‘coaching’ chip?” Dale stopped talking when he saw Coach giving him a steely stare.

Big Dale won the face-off in their end. Back to his defenceman and then over to Harry. Harry deftly chipped it up the boards to an already breaking Dale. Dale, now one-on-one with the D-man, made his custom power swoop beating him cleanly. As he moved towards the goalie he did some little thing with his stick and wrists, putting the puck over the goalie’s shoulder into the net. Harry vaguely remembered having to do something similar with his straight-lasted stick years ago to raise the puck. He didn’t remember exactly what it was anymore. Dale could score with that stick.

4-4. The only cheering Dale heard was from the players on his bench. The rest of the rink was silent except for the Zamboni getting ready to flood the ice. Two minutes left. Could the NeverSweats hang on? Maybe even win?

Sitting on the bench, Harry overheard his second line talking strategy. There seemed to be some disagreement on how to generate more offense in the other team’s end. Eric, their center man was explaining attacking tactics to his teammates, “I said dump-and-chase, guys. Not dump-and-watch. We need to pressure them in their end more.”

His winger, Trevor, responded, “Well, we’re kinda playing the neutral zone trap by staying high. Don’t want to get caught too deep in their end.” A now exasperated Eric said nothing. There was no use.

The boys were tiring. “Hurry, get up, Al. Get in the box. We’ve got too many men on the ice.” A tired Al had fallen near the team bench and was desperately trying to get off the ice. Just as he got up, a line mate bumped him and down he went again. As he tried the second time, he stepped on his stick and went down once more. Finally, a now exhausted, desperate Al gave up and just crawled the rest of the way into the team bench. There were howls of laughter from both sides. The referee looked the other way, letting the play go on.

Now with only thirty seconds left in the game, Len, their best D-man decided take matters into his own hands to get out of his end. His forwards had the offensive trap play firmly working in their end. He was making another move around an opponent, between his blue line and the center line, when a Rusty Nut stripped him off the puck and went in on Howie for a breakaway.

Players on both benches stood up and watched, holding their breaths. After a few deft moves, cleanly beating Howie, the player shot the puck at an open-looking net. Howie, however, had lost his balance and now went into to his last-effort Dominique Hashik move. Falling backwards into the net, his glove hand shot out, somehow catching the puck.

The referee blew his whistle. The game was over.

Howie was mobbed by his teammates, congratulating him on the incredible save. With time it would become the best save ever made in the minds of the guys watching. Soon to join Old Timers hockey lore.

As the teams were shaking hands, a few of the Rusty Nuts mumbled something about ‘fluky goalie’ just as Howie was about to step off the ice. “I heard that. Nothing fluky about it.”

Harry bent towards one of the Rusty Nut players. “How’s your goalie’s hearing….”

The ‘After-Flow’

There was lots of shouting and backslapping in the dressing room. You’d thought the boys actually won the game. Or the Stanley Cup. The beer was flowing freely and and stories began, breaking down the game. Trying to recreate and suck out every enjoyable minute from it. The bad parts were already forgotten.

It usually took longer to get out of the dressing room than to play the game. This became somewhat problematic if you played at seven AM on a Sunday morning. And started drinking beer at eight-thirty. Fortunately the NeverSweats had an evening ice-time. But it still needed to be carefully explained to wives and girlfriends that the post-game decompression ritual was an absolute necessity in hockey. It took hours to re-hydrate and return to normal after a strenuous workout like that.

Harry was sitting in the corner, Big Dale beside him, listening to the stories. And watching the new player, Norm, sitting off in the other corner, by himself. “Has he ‘thawed out’ yet?,” asked Harry, nodding towards Norm.

“Don’t know, Harry. Was he frozen?”

“Don’t be so thick, Dale. You know what I mean.”

“There’s hope. He’s still in a bit of shock. Leaving his former younger team, and walking into a dressing room looking more like an old folks home. I was. He’s not fighting it like some guys who think they can still make the NHL. It takes time.”

Suddenly one of the players got up, raising his beer towards Norm in the corner. “Here’s to Norm, guys. Saved at least one goal tonight on that two-on-one.” Norm, now jolted out of wherever his mind was, beamed with delight.

‘Ya, he’ll be alright,’ thought Harry. ‘All the guy really wants is to be part of the team, no matter what age or level he’s playing.’

Then Harry remembered a very blurry image of the Cabri Bulldogs crest and joining the local senior men’s team in Cabri, Saskatchewan at the age of sixteen. He was young and scared. And just wanted to fit in too with the older guys.

Harry rummaged around in his hockey bag and pulled out the now nearly 50-year old Bulldog jersey. He just didn’t have the heart to toss it. Too many memories in that sweater reminding him not only of the game but his teammates. Maybe that’s why Dale kept that ancient equipment.

He looked at his sweater, then at Dale’s gloves, helmet, and stick. “Dale, I think my old team sweater goes nicely with your equipment. Same vintage.” They both had a chuckle and talked more about their early days playing hockey.

Finally Harry stood and raised his can of beer to the his teammates . “Here’s to the best game in the world, boys. I guess the puck stops here.

…………………………..

EndNote

An increasing number of older men are playing hockey in Canada. And I’m that with time, more senior women will continue to play. Accurate statistics for Old Timer Hockey for the entire Country are hard to come by. But judging from the local Edmonton scene, Old Timer’s hockey is on the rise. To the point where it is getting increasingly harder to accommodate everyone. Fort example, the Vintage Hockey League which I had played in had three levels, based on a combination of both age and skill. The third tier contains some players in their eighties.

I used two team names, the Rusty Nuts and the NeverSweats, in this story. They nicely reflect both the age and the nature of Old Timer hockey teams. These were/are still actual team names. The Rusty Nuts were an Edmonton-based team in the 1990s (and they may still be around). The NeverSweats are an Old Timers Lloydminster team. They never seemed to sweat when they played us.

Many of us have gathered numerous great hockey stories over the years. While this story is mostly a work of fiction, some of the incidents happened during my time in Old Timer’s hockey. There are many more stories out there, as you can imagine; some are best not to repeat. I’m sure that if I interviewed those of you who played the game over the decades, I could fill a book of some pretty good Canadian hockey memories. It’s been a project on my mind for a while now. Perhaps some day it will come to fruition.

………………………

I’ve Been Working On The Railroad: The Deconstruction of the National Dream

“Now of course, the great thing about the solar system as a frontier is that there are no Indians, so you can have all the glory of the myth of the American [Canadian] westward expansion without any of the guilt. (Sarah Zettel, brackets mine)

https://www.railpictures.net/images/d1/1/5/6/1156.1191207600.jpg

The Meeting, Ottawa, Canada, 1868

A small group of very powerful men sat in the room, on chairs pulled closely together, bent over talking quietly. Almost in whispers as if not wanting to be overheard. On seeing this meeting one would wonder. Why? Why are they whispering? There’s no one else in the room.

One of the more prominent members of the group was speaking. “We must act soon if we are to join the Territories to the rest of Canada. The Americans just bought Alaska and are beginning to look north at our North-WestTerritories, now mostly run by the Company. Soon their greed will overcome them and they will find an excuse to move north. First, we have to buy Rupert’s Land from the Hudson’s Bay Company. We must acquire those territories at all costs.” Everyone nodded in agreement.

“And, I think if we promise British Columbia a railway, linking them to the east, they may join the Confederation.

The speaker sighed as he mentally went through the long list of things that needed doing. “We can’t build it until the Indians are removed from those territories. We need to deal with that issue as well.” He looked over at the others. Again, they nodded their heads in agreement.

“Then our course of action is clear, gentlemen. If we are to unite this Country we must face these, shall we say, somewhat distasteful realities.” At those words, the speaker’s mouth twisted into a shape suggesting he had just sucked on a lemon.

He wasn’t finished. “First we buy Rupert’s Land from the Company. Then we remove the Indians and Metis from the territories and settle for treaties and reserves. Next, we search for capital to build this blasted thing. It won’t be cheap.” He hesitated, scratching his head, as if there was something he had missed. The others looked on expectantly waiting for him to continue.

Finally, after some pause, he spoke. “Oh yes, there is one more small problem. We need cheap labour to build the railroad. Many hands will be needed which will increase costs. The work will be dangerous and there may be fatalities.”

Those present waited for him to continue. As if expecting a solution. “At this moment I don’t have a solution, but will start looking into the matter.” Again, heads bobbed in unison all around. As if this last statement was merely another one of many obstacles to overcome in their eventual quest. Nothing, it seemed, could get in the way of the national dream.

Kisikawasan (Flash in the Sky), 1882

Kisikawasan/Piapot, Cree Chief. Courtesy Glenbow Archives.

The Cree leader and his band, the Young Dogs, were tired from their long ride. His one name was Piapot or Payipwat (One Who Knows the Secrets of the Sioux). The other Kisikawasan. In his hands he held his Winchester repeating rifle. He sat on his horse, looking out onto the rippling prairie grasses at the territory he had chosen for his people, just north of the Cypress Hills. And smack in the way of the proposed new CPR mainline.

He turned to one of his men. “First the Blue Coats humiliate us, escorting us back like children to our lands. Now this man closes the fort of the Red Coats and stops feeding us unless we move to another territory. The buffalo are gone. Our people are starving. Gather them. We must move. Or many will die.”

Edgar Dewdney, recently appointed Lieutenant Governor of the North-West Territories as well as Indian Commissioner, which brought him an additional stipend of $2,000, looked on as the bands began to move north and east to other territories.

One of his subordinates, also looking on, turned his way. “Well, I guess your plan worked, Sir. You sure showed them. They go willingly enough when starving. And, finally we have removed them from the railway right-of-way. That defiant one, they call Piapot, would have put his tipi in the way of the proposed railway line if we hadn’t interfered.”

Dewdney only grunted and shook his head, in a noncommittal manner. He had just closed Fort Walsh to the Natives and stopped giving the Cree rations, unless they cooperated and moved off these lands. It was a grim business this railroad building but that was what Macdonald wanted. Even if it meant breaking the treaties, which they were already doing.

Some of the other men in Dewdney’s party overheard his assistant’s comments. And soon the rumors and stories spread. ‘The great lieutenant governor stood up to Piapot and his Young Dogs, and along with the NWMP, kicked them off their lands.’

Truth was soon twisted. And the new truth became myth.

………………….

Piapot, Saskatchewan today.

The Saskatchewan family were driving down the newly built Trans Canada Highway on the Canadian Prairies alongside the Canadian Pacific mainline. A young Harry Reed peered out the window in the back seat of his father’s car. As they passed the little village and the road sign bearing its name, Harry asked, “Piapot? What does that name mean, dad?”

“I don’t know, Harry. Makes no sense, this word, Piapot. Maybe something to do with a pot.” Harry shrugged. His parents didn’t know much about Canadian history. He would ask his teachers.

“Well, according to the stories I heard, Harry, that is the name of a prominent Cree Chief who at this very place put his tipi in the way of the new CPR line. He claimed these lands as his and was going to battle the Canadian Government for them. The NWMP came and kicked over his tipi and dragged him off the line. He was then moved to other lands.”

Harry thought about the teacher’s answer. He shook his head, imagining that past. Thinking to himself. ‘But, if he was so bad, why did they then name a village after him? To mock him?’

Myth is embedded in history. So, how can it not be true.

Put A Tax on Their Heads, 1884

“It is simply a question of alternatives: either you must have this labour or you can’t have the railway.” (John A. Macdonald, 1882, Canadian Parliament, speaking in defense of bringing in cheap Chinese labor, against the wishes of many Canadians, to build the Canadian Pacific Railroad)

Chinese workers on the Canadian Pacific Railway. Given poor food, no medical help, the lowest pay, the hardest, most dangerous work, and then abandoned to fend for themselves when the railway was completed. (Image D-07548 courtesy of the Royal BC Museum and Archives)

Williams, one of the CPR herders of the Chinese work crews, opened the door and entered the crowded Chinese living barracks beside the CPR track, deep in the Canadian Rockies. The crews were building the Canadian Pacific Railway through one of its toughest stretches. The Fraser Canyon, British Columbia.

A large plume of blue tobacco smoke, and the smell of sweat of fifty men, passed him on its way out. Williams looked at the scene. They were gambling again. Hands thrust in the air with money frantically trying to place their bets.

Williams leaned over to one the of Chinese workers who spoke broken, but decent English. And yelled at the top of his voice. “What are they doing, Li Qiang?”

Li Qiang only shook his head. “You must speak louder.”

“Are they placing bets?,” roared Williams almost losing his tonsils in the process.

“Yes, Mr. Williams. New game.” Winner makes lots of money.”

“What new game, Li Qiang? How do you fellas have enough energy for games considering how hard you work?”

“We bet on everything. Even how many railroad ties needed for certain section of track. Or, maybe how many spikes bent laying that track. You want play? Cost you your four dollars a day wages, not my one dollar a day wages.”

“That’s rather sad, Li Qiang! Why do you bet on such trivial things?”

“Why sad, Williams? Everyone count, then bet. Might as well gamble. It keeps our minds off the hard, dangerous work.”

“But why do you gamble away your hard-earned money? You should be saving to go home or bring your families to Canada.”

“We not save enough to go home. Or bring families. Only way is to gamble. This way at least some get rich.”

“Maybe we even gamble when you have accident herder, or that pig, Oderbunk.” With those words, Li Qiang spat on the floor as if trying to remove a bad taste from his mouth. Oderbunk was the Chinese contractor who brought the Chinese to work on the railway. The mere mention of his name raised the hackles of these men.

A now somewhat worried Williams noticed the room had gone silent, with the mention of Oderbunk’s name. Many of the workers were looking at him. And in a not too kindly way. He only shook his head and left, opening the door and taking more smoke and smell with him on the way out. Behind him he heard the shouting and betting start again.

‘That stupid, greedy Andrew Oderbunk is behind a lot of this madness. Treating them like animals. No wonder they almost killed him in that strike in 1881. Given their work and future, what have they got to lose? Besides their lives.’

…………………

Construction of tunnel 49, Canadian Pacific Railway, Fraser Canyon, British Columbia. https://yl.sd53.bc.ca/mod/book/view.php?id=4987&chapterid=2966

The railroad work crews were having lunch outside one on the many tunnels in the Fraser Canyon, below the majestic peaks of the Rockies. Suddenly the blast came, followed by the concussion of air knocking them off the rail cars and onto the shaking ground. Then silence as the large plume of dust enveloped them.

Eventually out of the silence and debris, a dust-covered Chinese worker staggered, barely coherent screaming in Cantonese. Most of his clothes had been torn off, his hair and eyebrows singed, still smoldering.

“The tunnel entrance. Cheap explosives go off too soon. Everything smashed, everyone gone…” His last words failed him as he collapsed in a heap on the ground, blood now coming out of his ears.

…………………..

Chinese barracks for construction crews along the Canadian Pacific Railway. Image I-30869, Accession Number: 198401-006, 1883, courtesy of Royal BC Museum, BC Archives.

At the end of the month Williams walked into the Chinese workers’ barracks again to the same commotion and racket that had greeted him before. On the bench beside the booky stood a rather forlorn looking young Chinese man. The booky had propped his hands in the air as if in victory.

Williams looked for Li Qiang, finally seeing him among the men. “Are they betting again, Li Qiang?”

“No. First announcing winner.”

“So, I take it that’s the winner standing on the bench. He guessed how many rail ties it took to build that stretch this month? Or, whether I would die? If he won, why is he looking so gloomy? He probably won a month’s wages, or more.”

“Won bet, but lost brother in explosion.”

“But why are you betting on these things ? Surely, without betting, you can save enough money to go back to China.”

Li Qiang cocked his head to one side considering Williams. “We save little. That swine, Oderbunk take much money. We hear head tax coming. Must pay head tax to bring our families from China.”

Then Li Qiang walked off getting ready to place another bet, leaving a gaping Williams only shaking his head. Head tax? So the rumors really were true.

Chinese men gambling in railway camp, British Columbia. Image B-09758, Accession Number: 193501-001, 1886, courtesy of Royal BC Museum, BC Archives.

…………………….

Victoria, British Columbia, 1884

Telegram from John Alexander Galt, High Commissioner, London to John A. Macdonald inquiring about all the Chinese deaths building the CPR railroad. Library and Archives Canada, MG26-A, Volume 220, Page 93790, From London to Sir John A. Macdonald, “Correspondence, June 11, 1883.”

“So just how many Chinese workers died, Oderbunk? I’m getting writing cramps trying to keep up with the Prime Minister’s telegrams.” The chief commissioner was not a happy man. And he sensed this man was not being forthright with him.

The nervous Oderbunk fidgeted in his chair, licking his lips. Beside him sat Williams, one of his chief foremen to help with the details. Finally Oderbunk answered. “Well. We’re not quite sure, Commissioner, how many we’ve lost.”

The now fuming Commissioner next asked like what seemed a series of very sensible questions. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Don’t you record the deaths? You’re responsible for compensation to their families and returning their remains back home, are you not?” You pay them. When they don’t show up, well, they must be dead?”

“Well, Sir. Often we can’t recover the bodies. They fall into the canyon or the river and are swept away. And, many of these men desert to find work elsewhere. So, when they don’t show up, we’re not always sure what happened.” Oderbunk hoped this answer might appease the Commissioner. And avoid that nasty little business about not recovering the bodies or compensating the families. It did not.

After the meeting a rather shaken Williams walked away thinking some nasty, nasty things about Oderbunk. Almost ready to return to the camps where the Chinese were betting. ‘No, no, I can’t do that. Put that thought out of your mind, Williams.’

Later Immigrants and the CPR

A friend of mine gave this galvanized spike to my father, made into a bottle opener, on his retirement from the CPR. Whenever I crack a beer with it I think back to both my father and the CPR extra gangs, summer 1973.

Harry Reed sat in the living room listening to his father and uncle talk about their days with the CPR. Occasionally the conversation became quite animated. In fact, almost hostile.

“Why don’t you agree, Walter. The Company was good to us. We made a living, fed our families. Yes, we had to work a little, but at least we had work.”

‘That’s an understatement,’ thought Harry. ‘Work a little?’ But then that’s what Uncle Bob thought because Harry, in his short years on earth, had never met a harder worker. While others grumbled, Uncle Bob thrived. He loved the work.

Walter did not. Unable to listen any longer, Walter got mad. “The CPR, Robert, was SCHEISSE! They treated us worse than animals. Vie Verschissende Hunde, Robert. “While Walter’s English was a little rough, his vocabulary in swear words seemed well rounded. In English. German. Even a few Polish and Ukrainian gems occasionally thrown in there.

Walter picked up the silver railroad spike opener from the table and cracked a few beer. Red-faced he needed a drink when talking about the CPR with Robert. He looked down at the silver opener.

“See this spike, Robert. This was given to me by my son’s friend. That’s more than that God………… CPR ever gave me. One-hundred and sixty dollars pension a month after thirty years of working for them. And a piece of paper thanking me. That’s all I got. You know what I’d like to do with this spike. Shove it up some big-shot CPR’s as….” Della, also listening cut Walter off before his words landed him in the abyss.

“Now Walter. I don’t think swearing at the CPR is going to help anything.”

Cripe-No-Mighty,” grumbled a still steaming Walter. He had designed a unique series of cuss words all his own.

Then he touched the permanent reddened part of his ear, which always itched, remembering what else he got while sitting on the little open railroad scooter inspecting the tracks on a breezy winter Saskatchewan day with windchill of minus forty degrees Fahrenheit.

But Robert, ever the optimist, continued. “Well, if you had joined the CPR extra gangs, you would have made more money and been promoted. And now your pension would be much better. Like mine.”

“Those were nothing but slave camps, Robert. What kind of life is that? Being months away from your family with little time off. How could you like that life? Nothing but a sweat house for dumb, uneducated immigrants like us. Who couldn’t find any other work.” Words that perhaps were a little over-exaggerated, but Walter didn’t care anymore. Finally he stopped and drained half his beer, hoping to drown the memories of the CPR and all it stood for.

Uncle Bob continued, but Walter had tuned out thinking about one of the many dark times he had on that cursed railroad.

Harry kept quiet and just listened. When Walter and Bob talked railroad, it was best to just stay of out of the way. Pretend he wasn’t even there.

Harry was suddenly jolted out of his referee, realizing that Uncle Bob was talking to him. “See Walter, even your son got along with the CPR extra gangs. He liked it. Even got promoted. Right, Harry?”

Harry, out of respect for his uncle, simply nodded and said nothing. ‘Wrong, Uncle Bob. I love and respect you. But on that count you are wrong. That was an awful job.’

Then Harry thought back to the CPR extra gangs. Glorious times indeed. He’d hoped those memories had disappeared into the past. But, some of them were hard to erase.

Myth, if repeated long enough, becomes the new reality.

These are the tracks that my dad and my uncle worked on, making sure the trains went through safely. Cabri, Saskatchewan, Canada on the horizon.

College Boy Meets the CPR Extra Gangs, Spring, 1973

CPR extra gang machinery on the move. When the railroad tracks finally reached a certain point of disrepair, these gangs were brought in to completely refurbish them. https://www.railpictures.net/images/d1/9/3/6/4936.1131861600.jpg

Harry had just been interviewed by Parks Canada for a summer job as an interpreter at the historic National Site, Fort Walsh, Saskatchewan. It would have been the perfect job. It was close to home, paid well, and was the kind of work he was studying at the University of Alberta. But it didn’t happen.

“I need a job, Uncle Bob. I have to pay my university tuition and board. There’s little work out there.”

“Well, maybe I can get you on the CPR extra gangs. It’s good, steady work and I think you can handle it.”

“When can I start, Uncle”, asked the somewhat forlorn looking Harry? Walter was standing by, shaking his head. He said little, thinking. Maybe this was a good thing. His son needed some harsh lessons in reality. He was treating university like a training ground for the fine art of partying.

“O.K. Harry, give me a few days, and then I’ll phone you. We’re working on the main line near Medicine Hat. Not too far from home with your one day off.”

Harry gulped. Did he hear right? ‘One day off.’ That of course meant working six days a week. But, the worst was yet to come.

……………………

It was still dark outside. Pitch black in fact. Suddenly someone was walking through the rail sleeping car, shouting. “Time to get up boys. Breakfast is on the table. The cook grumbles when you’re late.”

Harry and others groaned trying to wake up. Sleeping was tough on the mainline. When every two hours another freight train raced by them at fifty miles an hour, eight feet away.

That voice almost had a cheerful ring to it, which made it even harder to listen to at four AM in the morning. His friend Phil, bunking next to him finally sat up. “One of these mornings I’ll strangle that cheery bastard.”

“They’ll just replace him with another one. I think they get paid extra for that voice.”

Harry finally got up and dressed. Ready for the day. After three weeks working on the gangs, his muscles were no longer screaming in agony. The blisters on his university hands had finally healed and hardened up. “Well let’s get something to eat and see what cookie burned this morning.”

As they neared the rail cook car, the noise and hubbub grew louder. Suddenly one of the the windows of the cook car blew out, closely followed by what looked like a platter of cold meat.

Then there was a lot of yelling inside the cook car. Harry heard one of his other friends, Jim’s voice, screaming. “How can you put that shit on a plate and serve it to us? Look at it. It’s green. Meat isn’t supposed to be green. I’m going to kick your ass all the way to Medicine Hat…” Then Harry heard running as cookie, fearing for his life, quickly existed the cook car. Never to return.

Well, another day starts on the gangs. What will happen next? There was still twelve hours of back-breaking work ahead. The day was young. A lot could happen.

…………………….

The ballast crew was running beside the ballast cars, on the sloped, rocky rail track trying to open the bottom doors with their hand cranks. To pour out the crushed rock around and between the new ties and track. It was a smoldering hot prairie afternoon, the air was choked with dust from the ballast.

This was one of the toughest jobs on the gangs. But, you got a little extra time off at the end of day because of the hard work. And if you wanted to get promoted to a machine, this was one way of doing it.

The train had to go at just the right speed so that the ballast could be poured evenly onto the rail bed and tracks. Too slow and too much ballast came out, derailing the cars. Too fast, and there wasn’t enough ballast to fill the tracks.

As the train reached the slope heading into Medicine Hat, it sped up. Harry’s lungs were about to burst as he ran along his rail car, trying to keep up. Someone screamed. “We’re going too fast. Tell that engineer to slow down or this will be a disaster.” In the distance Harry heard foremen screaming into their radios.

But the engineer didn’t slow down. And soon Harry’s buddies started to abandon ship. He saw John, bent over puking up the ballast dust he ingested. Then out of the corner of his other eye, he saw Amos desperately trying to hang onto his crank, sent tumbling off the grade disappearing into the rail ditch. Finally the rest of crew, including Harry, had stopped cranking.

Another day, another dollar on the extra gangs. Well, not quite that bad. Thirty-nine dollars to be fair.

………………….

The work crews stood in line for their midday lunch beside the tracks. Which was brought out to them by the cooks. One half-hour to eat and then it was back to work.

The prairie sun was blazing down on the exposed track sending heat waves into the air. The shimmering railroad track looked like a mirage in the distance. It was exposed, lying naked on the rail bed with no ballast to keep it in place.

Someone in the lunch line started pushing. And the yelling and cursing started. “Out of the way, turban-head. We need to eat and get back to work.” One of the crew, who seemed to have a particular dislike for the East Indian workers, was trying to butt in line and get his lunch before disaster struck.

Then the fighting in the lunch line broke out in earnest. Pushing, shoving. Kicking and punches thrown before the foremen stepped in and broke it up.

“Stop it, Kenny. They don’t understand English very well and you’re not exactly Mr. articulate either. They think you’re butting in. Here, step aside and I’ll sort this out.”

Uncle Bob was patiently trying to explain Kenny’s rudeness to the East Indians. “These men have to eat first. There’s no ballast on the tracks…”

His words were cut off by a loud SNAP. Followed by another SNAP. And then it happened. The Canadian Pacific railway, which had lain on this track for nearly one-hundred years, decided to take a walk. Off the rail bed towards the ditch.

Men scrambled in every direction, fully knowing what was taking place. Karl, roadmaster of the extra gang, ran up, breathless. “Hurry up. Let’s get out there before it…”

Everyone stared as the entire mile of rail turned into a writhing steel snake and began moving toward the ditch, as the now hot steel rails expanded in the noonday heat.

“Or what Karl, before the tracks go in the ditch.”

The CPR mainline was shut down for many hours. Backing up freight trains in both directions. Because of one overzealous gang boss who was trying to repair too much track at once and not paying attention to the weather. Or the laws of physics.

Harry watched with fascination. How could a mile of steel rail suddenly look like a wet noodle? And then he realized what this meant. Overtime. The men wouldn’t leave here until eight or nine tonight. Maybe midnight. That mainline had to be opened or heads would roll.

And another day on the extra gangs was finished.

………………….

“See Walter. Your son could do it. He worked on the gangs and made some good money.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Hardly. He’d managed to get on one of the machines for three weeks and did make twice as much money as before. And then they all went on strike because of the poor working conditions and wages, and Harry went back to school.

“Those were good boys, Walter and Della. They worked hard and sometimes they got into a little trouble. Some were a little rough around the edges. Like the time they got into a fight in a bar and spent the night in the Calgary jai…”

Harry, having taken lessons from his mother, cut off his uncle’s words. “Uncle Bob, I’m sure mom and dad don’t want to hear that story.” Harry anxiously looked at his mother who now had that knowing look on her face.

“Come Harry, tell your mother the rest of that story. I like stories. I can hardly wait to hear it.

……………………

EndNote:

I am not a great fan of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Or other similar corporations. I’m not anti-capitalist. I just don’t like it when large corporations become greedy. Yes, a transcontinental railway was sorely needed to tie together an enormous country and its shareholders and owners had to pay off the $100,000,000 it cost to build it. But throughout its history the CPR made considerable profits off the backs of immigrant labourers, treating them poorly, or worse. There was a lot of labour unrest and discrimination against some minorities even in the 1970s when I worked there. And today the Company still makes tremendous profits. In 2016, the CPR had a $6.2 billion revenue and $1.6 billion dollars in profit and held assets valued at $19.2 billion dollars. Its top CEO made close to twenty million dollars a year, with perks and shares in the Company.

When I was a kid, we learned that the Cree Chief Piapot tried to stop the building of the CPR mainline by pitching his tent in the way. Presumably somewhere near today’s Piapot, Saskatchewan. The story goes that he was forcefully removed by the North West Mounted Police. Historians have pored through the documents and there is not a shred of evidence to support that story. But it somehow seems to resonate better among Canadians than: ‘First Nations people were starved to force them off the lands, so that the railway could be built.’

The story of the Chinese immigrants brought over by the CPR to help build the railroad is equally sad. Their struggle and sacrifice is finally being told and recognized. In this story, I mentioned the Head Tax put on Chinese immigrants to prevent them from coming to Canada. Many Chinese workers could not save enough to either return to China or pay it to bring over their families. In the story I have deliberately changed the name of the chief contractor, responsible for bringing in Chinese workers and the horrendous conditions they had to put up with. With a little research you can easily find out his real name. Because of the poor records kept, even to this day no one knows for certain how many Chinese workers died building the railway (everywhere from 600 – 2,000).

Although I try not to judge history, and instead document and research it, I can’t help but have some deep emotional feelings for the many many ethnic minorities who toiled to build the intercontinental railway and then maintain it. My parents, relatives and some of our friends were among them.

As was I for what seemed like one of the longest summers of my life. I saw firsthand the poor working conditions and continued racism even in the 1970s. The East Indian workers were now the new Chinese. After that summer of ’73’, my university career outlook became more focused as I realized that I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. I ended up shoveling dirt anyway, but had way more fun doing it.

…………………..

My Mom’s Old Blue Wooden Trunk

When my mother and I arrived in Canada, in the winter of 1954, she had to drag this wooden trunk full of her possessions, along with a two-and-one-half year old, through Canadian Customs, Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia. It’s old, in bad need of a paint job, and missing some hardware. But, I can’t seem to make myself part with it. Like losing a piece of my family history.

The Iron Curtain, East Germany, 1948

She ran for her life. Stumbling in the dark, splashing through the frigid water. Muzzle flashes all around her, and bullets flying everywhere. Some coming too close for comfort. Women, young children, running with her. Trying to escape. Screaming for help. Falling. Pleading and begging the guards to let them go.

‘Lying, rotten Russian bastard. I thought after I gave him those nylon stockings and the bottle of vodka everything would be OK.’ A rarity for a young twenty-three year old Adelgunde Kleister. To swear. Finally she stopped running. Exhausted, alone, frightened out of her wits, but now at least safe in West Germany. Then she began to cry. And the reality of what she had just done hit here like a ton of bricks.

‘My family. Our farm in Poland. All gone. My father, my mother and brother. I’ll never see them again. Gone. I hope my sister made it across?’ She continued crying and sobbing as she walked slowly away from the treacherous Iron Curtain, dividing East from West. Away from a life she had known, a family she had loved. But dragging with her the heartbreak and memories that would cling to her for the rest of her life.

……………………

In West Germany, around the same time, Walter sat stunned listening to the Red Cross worker. “I’m sorry, Herr Pyszczyk. We’ve looked everywhere, checked every known record. They’ve disappeared, vanished.”

“But that’s impossible. They must be somewhere. My parents, my three sisters, gone? You just haven’t looked hard enough, damn it. You don’t care enough. I’ve lost my entire family, and you just calmly stand there and prattle on.”

The worker sighed. He had heard all of this too many times before in the last few years. “I’m so sorry, Herr Pyszczyk. But, you must understand. Millions of Germans from Poland went missing when the Russians moved west in 1944. They tried escaping, but the reports we’re getting are grim. If we find anything more about your family, we will contact you.”

The worker left Walter sitting there, now crying pitifully. Later he got very drunk. To forget. That didn’t work. Wishing the bullet that had gone through his leg in the war, had gone through his head instead. To end this nightmare. Walking aimlessly for miles through the city, looking for what? A miracle? He couldn’t go back and look for them. He had to move on.

Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1954

SS Arosa Kulm out of Bremerhaven, Germany, which brought us to Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Adelgunde pulled her large, heavy blue wooden trunk behind her toward the Canadian customs agent. Made by her friends in Stade, Germany before she departed for Canada. Heading for a new life, a new start. All her worldly possessions were in that big blue trunk. With her other hand she was holding tightly onto to her two-year old son, who was desperately trying to escape and go exploring.

Muti, Ich muss gehen. Lass mich gehen.” (Mom I want to go. Let me go.) The young Heinz was restless, after being cooped up on the SS Arosa Kulm for three weeks while crossing the Atlantic.

He started crying. Ich wollte auf dem Schiff schwimmen gehen. Aber, würden Sie mich nicht lassen.” (I wanted to go swimming on the ship. But, you wouldn’t let me.) Adelgunde, still looking a little pale, having suffered badly from sea sickness on the voyage, only sighed. On the ship they had to hang onto Heinz during the lifeboat drills because with his life vest on, he wanted to jump overboard and go swimming.

“Your passport and papers, please Ma’am.” The customs agent yawned as he unceremoniously dumped all the belongings in her trunk onto the counter. Then rummaged through them, caring little about keeping any order.

“Was sagt er Mama? Ich verstehe ihn nicht.” (What is he saying mom? I don’t understand him.)

Adelgunde looked worried. She didn’t either. Finally the custom agent took the papers out of her trembling hands and checked them.

After a somewhat lengthy appraisal, he nodded, pointed toward the doors, and strode away, leaving her pack her belongings back into the trunk.

‘Entlich. In Kanada.‘ (Finally. In Canada). And the start of her new life out west, in Saskatchewan, where Walter was already waiting.

Stade, West Germany, c.1953. Picture of my parents and myself taken just before my father left for Canada. Mom and I followed in 1954.

RCMP Security Services Headquarters, Ottawa, 1956

Police Constable, 1st Class, Frank Bettner, Royal Canadian Mounted Police Security Services, walked stiffly into Chief Superintendent Samuel Rolson’s office, saluted, then spoke.

“You wanted to see me sir? On a matter of some urgency, I understand.” Bettner calmly waited for Rolson to respond. The man seemed to be too busy writing to pay full attention to his special agent. Showing off his self-importance to Bettner, after his new promotion to Chief ‘Super’.

Rolson finally looked up. “Ah, yes Bettner. Take a seat. It’s the bloody Germans, Bettner. Out west in the Swift Current – Leader area, in Saskatchewan. More have arrived recently. They might be up to no good, Bettner. All crowded together like that out there. This could be a national security issue. Of vast importance. We can’t let those people organize. They could be a menace to Canadian society.”

Bettner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘All crowded together like that?’ There were more jackrabbits than Germans in that part of Saskatchewan. He had heard rumors about Rolson. Fresh out of a smaller center from eastern Canada. Hardly an authority on the West. Newly promoted to the RCMP’s Security Service Division and ambitious as hell. Always ’tilting at windmills.’ The worst kind.

“Sir, I hardly think a few farmers, just soundly beaten and bruised in the war, want to cause more trouble in their new country.”

Rolson, now staring at something on the ceiling, replied. “Bettner, Bettner, where have you been? I have all the reports right here. When that first wave of Germans settled in the area before the First World War, they tried to turn it into a little Germany. And it would have happened if we hadn’t stopped them. Did you know they initially called the town of Leader, ‘Berlin’ and gave all the streets German names. We put a stop to that of course, before they took over the whole province. No, I think we should go have a look and see what they’re up to.”

Bettner already knew where this was heading. ‘We’ meant Bettner was going into the area, and then report back to Rolson. So, he took the initiative. “Where do you want me to go Sir? And when?”

“I’m glad you asked Bettner. Leave as soon as possible. Go out into the Portreeve – Leader area. Take on some form of disguise and fit in, Bettner. I hear there are quite a few newly arrived Germans out that way. Some of them might even be Folksdeutsche.”

Bettner, looking a little bewildered, “Folksdeutsche, Sir? What are those?”

“The worst kind I’m told. Germans from other countries, like Poland for example. Some of them Nazi sympathizers. Some were even German soldiers. They’re here now. They have to be carefully watched. Who knows what they’re up to.” Rolson, by now, had driven himself into a bit of a frenzy, fueled by his endorphins, produced by his paranoia.

“Alright Sir. I’ll leave in a few days. And see what those ‘Gerries’ are up to. I’ll report back in a couple of months.”

“Good Bettner. Take as long as you need. And don’t let me down. These people must be put in their place. They could be troublemakers.”

‘And you want trouble. Hoping for it. Maybe so you can get another promotion, you ambitious, pompous ass. So, you need a little dirt on these people. Well, I’ll find something for you alright.’

…………………….

A Farm, North of Portreeve, Saskatchewan

Claud Vigar, owner of about six sections of land, and renting even more, north of Portreeve, Saskatchewan waved Walter and Adelgunde to come over. “Della,” as he liked to call Adelgunde, “Come and meet the new hired hand, Frank Bettner. Frank, this is Walter and Della, my farm hands. They’ll show you what needs doing. You can sleep in the bunkhouse, and join them for meals.”

Frank shook hands with the couple. “Gutten Tag, Herr Pyszczyk, Frau Pyszczyk.”

Walter, a little surprised at Bettner’s German, shook hands with the tall, blond man. So was Claud. But then he realized, this was a good thing. The couple’s English was still a little shaky. Frank could help them with it.

” Bist auch ein Deutsher? Wie lange sind Sie shon in Kanada?” Walter was curious.

“I’m third generation Canadian, Walter. Born and raised here. But, I can still speak a little German. And my German laughter is excellent.” Walter nodded and smiled. Bettner calmly looked around the little house. Taking it all in at one glance. Poorly constructed, but ‘German’ neat and clean. A big blue wooden trunk sat in the corner, used to put kitchen stuff on and for storage in the small kitchen. He wondered what was in it. Maybe secret plans for the invasion of Saskatchewan.

When Claud left, Walter took a closer look at Bettner, thinking: ‘About thirty-two years old, a good six foot four inches tall, all muscle. Well over two-hundred and twenty pounds. I bet he can throw bales up on the hay wagon all day long, without breaking a sweat. And take a forty-five gallon barrel of fuel and lift it onto the truck box. He’ll do fine.’

“Come, I show you where you sleep. Bring your stuff. In one hour come for supper and we talk about work.” Walter showed Bettner the bunk house and then went back to his own house to get cleaned up for supper. The cows were milked. Chickens, ducks, geese and pigs fed. It was almost time to wrap up the day.

My mother and me, c.1955 – 1956. With all the ducks. On the farm, north of Portreeve, Saskatchewan.

…………………………

The weeks flew quickly by. There was a lot to do on the farm in August and September. It was harvest time. Bettner fit right in. And worked like a horse. Ate like one too, according to Adelgunde. He seemed to know a lot about farming and Walter was impressed. The two men got along well. About the same age. There was an endless amount of talking and the conversation occasionally turned to politics and the ‘old country.’ Whenever the conversation took this path, Adelgunde grew nervous.

“So, Walter, you were in the German army, yah?”

“Yah, air force first. When I puke all over the cockpit, they put me on the ground. Army supply transport truck driver. Until I was captured by Canadians in 1944 on western front.” Walter smiled at that. It could have been worse. He could have been captured by the Russians. He would now probably be quite dead.

“And your family, all still back in Germany I presume?”

At Bettner’s words, Walter’s mood changed. “No more family. All gone.” After that Bettner couldn’t get another word out of him about family.

“It must have been hard for both of you to pack up and leave? Everything. Everyone.” Bettner was gently probing.

“Not so hard for me. Families gone. Germany ‘kaput,’ broken. Nothing left. No work. No food. No hope. No future.”

“But your sympathies must still lie a little with the ‘Vaterland‘ and the loss of the war. That must have been hard?”

“We went through hell and back. Never knowing whether we would live or die, from day to day. I was a soldier. Did as I was told, and hoped I would see the sun rise next day.”

Adelgunde was getting more agitated by the minute. “Walter, I think that’s enough…”

“But not all soldiers were Nazi sympathizers. Not all of us believed or agreed with what Hitler was doing. In this country, they treat us like we are all Nazis.”

“Walter enough.” By now Adelaide’s voice had reached another octave. “Enough politics. That’s what we left behind. Don’t bring it into my house.” Walter shrugged and fell silent. Frank took one look at Adelgunde’s face, and didn’t prod any more.

After supper, when Frank had left and Heinz was sleeping, Adelgunde looked at Walter. “You shouldn’t talk about stuff like that. You don’t know Frank very well. Who knows what he could be telling others, the authorities.” She looked worried.

“‘Gunde, this isn’t Nazi Germany where everyone is an informant and a spy for the government. This country is different. You worry too much.”

“Maybe you’re right Walter. But, please try to be a little more careful. With our neighbors, the Schneiders and the Hecks, we can be a little more open. But you don’t know this man. Just be careful what you say.”

A few hours later, lying in bed, listening to her husband’s steady breathing, Adelgunde worried some more. Even out here in this desolate place, inhabited by few people, most of them Germans, she still could not rid herself of the repressive antics of the Third Reich that she left behind. That ghost was still following her.

And then there was Bettner. ‘Er ist zu wissbegierig und schlau.’ (He’s too inquisitive and sly.) ‘He seems to look around and take in everything at once, noting every detail. Watching us carefully. When we’re not paying attention. He reminds me too much of those German Gestapo fellows. Always on the prowl. Turning over every rock.’ But then she considered Bettner’s eyes. Those deep, deep blue eyes.

Seine Augen sind freundlich und vertrauenswürdig. (His eyes are kind and trustworthy.) I think he’s a good man, but there’s something about him that still makes me uncomfortable. I guess I can’t keep acting like this though. We’re in a new country and it certainly can’t be as bad as home. Can it?’

………………………

A few months later, when Bettner walked into Rolson’s office, the man was sitting behind his desk and seemed to be studying the same spot on the ceiling since the last time Bettner was here.

Bettner waited. And finally said: “Special Agent Bettner reporting back, Sir.” And then waited some more.

Rolson had seemingly solved the problem on the ceiling and looked his way. “Ah, yes, Bettner. You look tanned and fit. Farm life has treated you well? Report what you’ve found, special agent.”

Bettner merely shrugged. Then put a worried, concerned look on his face before answering.

Rolson wasn’t used to being kept waiting. “Well, Bettner, you did find something, right? All that time out there, you should have uncovered something. What are those ‘Gerries’ up to?”

“I don’t know where to start, Sir. You were right though. There are certainly some strange things happening out there. But, I’ll just describe them and let you draw your own conclusions.”

“Yes, Bettner, go on. Get it out.” Rolson was getting excited, now fully engaged. At last, maybe something he could take to his superiors.

Bettner shrugged again, taking his time. Rolson grew increasingly agitated. Finally Bettner began. “First of all they produce enough food to feed a small army, Sir. In the fall they work twelve to sixteen hours a day, harvesting the fields, gardens, canning, butchering. And there’s still more to come. I don’t know why they need all that food. My boss, Walter, put on at least ten pounds this summer.”

Rolson considered this. Food. Army. Yes, of course. Fishy-sounding alright. “Go on Bettner.”

“Most of the farm families have built these bunkers out of earth and timbers. With no windows and thick, thick, doors. I’ve watched them haul all this food in there. And store it. As if getting ready for something big, Sir.”

Rolson nodded. Maybe an invasion? Of course. Army. “Maybe we should do some aerial photography over those farms, Bettner, and see how common this really is.”

“Good idea, Sir. I never would have thought of that.”

But Rolson wasn’t listening, instead furiously writing. Already compiling his report to his superiors. As he wrote, he mumbled, “Any more Bettner? What else did you notice.”

“Perhaps the strangest behavior I noticed though is their soap making.” Before continuing, Bettner waited since Rolson was still madly writing.

Finally Rolson looked up, “Soap making? What’s so strange about that?”

“It’s how they make it and what they call it, Sir. That’s the interesting part. First they fill a large barrel full of ash from their cooking and heating fires in their stoves. The barrel has a small spigot at the bottom for drainage. When it rains the barrel fills with water. They drain off the liquid and then mix it with lard to make the soap.’

“That sound interesting Bettner, but I don’t get it. It’s just soap, right?”

Bettner, now looking grave, leaned over the desk of his superior, almost nose to nose with him. And almost in a whisper said, “It’s what they call the soap Sir. That’s what’s a little strange. They call it Lie soap, Sir.” Bettner looked conspiratorially into Rolson’s eyes, before backing off.

Rolson looked perplexed for only a moment. And then slyly smiled. “Lie soap, Bettner? How do they spell that?”

“Don’t know, Sir. They can’t write English very well, so I never asked.” Bettner did notice Rolson madly writing in his journal: ‘LIE SOAP’.

“Did they say how they used it Bettner? This lie soap.”

“Rumor has it Sir, if you wash your hands with it, you’ll come clean, if you’ll excuse my pun, Sir.”

Rolson looked flustered. “Pun? Never mind. Did you try it Bettner?”

Bettner thought this question rather foolish. But, then he looked solemnly at Rolson. “Sir, if I did that, well, my cover might have been blown. Anyway, I brought you back a few bars. Try it on some prisoners you are interrogating and see how it works.” With that Bettner plunked two large bars of white soap on Rolson’s desk.

Rolson, now looking more pleased than ever, asked, hopefully: “Anything else Bettner, that you noticed? I can’t help but think we’re onto something big here.”

Bettner only nodded even more solemnly, then went on. “Hockey, Sir. There’s going to be trouble there.”

“Hockey, Bettner? What does hockey have to do with new German Canadians?”

Two things, Sir. First, the Leader Hockey team calls themselves the ‘Flyers’. Leader Flyers. Could be nothing more than a name, but you never know. We’ve had troubles with those people before, as you pointed out in our last meeting.”

Rolson, was now rapidly connecting the dots as soon as Bettner opened his mouth. ‘Flyers, yes, maybe a secret German air force of some sort.’

Then he looked up at Bettner. “And the second thing, Bettner?”

“I noticed the young Heinz already has skates and a hockey stick. His father told me he is making great strides learning how to skate and play.” Bettner waited for Rolson to take the bait.

“What’s so important, or threatening, about that, Bettner?”

“Sir, think about it. Germans playing hockey! Where would that end? Strategic breakout plays, defensive zone coverage. Endless drills and practices. They would put skill and strategy into the game, and take all the fun out of it.” Rolson nodded again. Yes, he could see where that could ruin the game.

“And the worst of all, Sir. The father, Walter, is making a helmet for Heinz, so he wouldn’t smack his head on the ice. Can you imagine Sir, helmets in hockey? Those ‘Gerries’ with their helmets…”

“I see Bettner. That kind of thinking could ruin the league. Who ever heard of such an absurd thing? We can’t let them get started.”

Before Bettner could continue, Rolson interjected. “OK, Bettner, that will be all for now. I have more than enough information here to get me started. I have another meeting to attend in the next few minutes. What’s your next move then?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I have to go back for a few more months. This is the best time of year to gather the really good intel. You see, they all gather in the late fall, early winter, eat and celebrate. They’re having a huge gathering and fresh ‘SchweinGebratenes‘ (pig fry) this weekend. I can’t miss that.” Bettner was almost drooling with anticipation as he said these last words.

Rolson looked a little worriedly at his special agent. ‘Why do I get the feeling he’s really enjoying himself out there.’ He shrugged, stood, getting ready to leave for the meeting.

Before he could get around his desk, Bettner blurted out.

“A few more things, Sir. Of utmost importance. You need to hear this, Sir. Before you leave. It could really affect your career.”

Rolson hesitated. Thinking, ‘Well, so I’m a little late for a budget meeting. I hate those damn meetings anyway. And besides. What could be more important than the safety of our country.’ He looked expectantly at Bettner.

“Sir, I hear rumors about a gathering, and the words ‘sauerkraut’ keeps popping up when I’m among them. It could be code, Sir, for something. Remember, we always call them ‘Krauts’ during the war. Well, Säure’ means sour. They might be putting together a crack fighting unit. The Säurer Krauts. A bunch of nasty young German mens with a chip on their shoulder. That would explain why all that food is necessary.”

“Good point Bettner. Anything else? Do they have weapons?”

“None that I’ve seen, Sir. But, sometimes when the German men get together, and have too much to drink, they start talking about, ‘Die Grosse Berta.’ (The ‘Big Bertha’). And they roar with laughter. As soon as the women approach, they shut up as if keeping some big secret.”

“Big Bertha.” I don’t understand Bettner?”

“As you recall, Sir, that was the name of the long-range artillery gun they developed in the Firsts World War. Could shoot your eye out, lobbing a shell half the size of this office all the way from Swift Current to Regina.” Rolson visibly shuddered at the thought.

“And when they get together they sing in German, and read Der Courier, a German newspaper out of Winnipeg. And occasionally I hear some sort of chanting. Something like, Sind Heil. Sind Heil. Not sure what to make of that yet, Sir. But, this next trip might tell me.”

“At their last party, one of the neighbors got so drunk, he hitched the horses backwards to the sleigh, to take his family home. They’re a rowdy bunch, Sir. That I can vouch for.” Rolson, nodded, now desperately trying to get away from Bettner, to attend his meeting. But, before he could escape, Bettner was at it again.

“But of all the things I’ve seen, what worries me most is that blue wooden trunk of Adelgunde’s. It’s always locked, and not one can look in for some reason.”

Rolson was thinking, ‘Maybe holding secret plans of some sort. What else could it be for.’

“And one last thing Sir before you go. Also, of utmost importance.” Again, Bettner leaned over conspiratorially toward Rolson, almost whispering in his ear. “I’d take this right to the top, Sir. Don’t go through the normal channels. Why, you may wonder? Well, think about it. What’s your superior’s last name?”

“Shultz,” blurted out Rolson. ‘Yes, of course, Schultz.’

“Can’t be too careful now can we, Sir? Your never know. They probably already have spies everywhere….”

Bettner winked at his superior and finally left the room. Rolson, a little shaken by these last words, just stood there, motionless. ‘That Bettner is right. Who can I trust these days?’ Then he turned and managed to catch the end of his budget meeting.

Those partying Germans, c.1956-1957. For many of you their names don’t mean much. For those of you reading this who are from the Portreeve – Shackleton area, you may recognize a few names. From the top left: the late Adelgunde Pyszczyk; the late Gustov Gotzman; the late Ida Berg; the late Walter Pyszczyk; the late Olga Gotzman. Bottom row: the late Ralph Berg; Erica Berg (Minor, Undseth), and Heinz Pyszczyk.

…………………….

Ottawa, Three Months Later

Special agent Bettner strode into the Chief Superintendent’s office, back after two more months of undercover work. Still a little hung over, and a little fatter. Gosh those Germans could cook. He looked around. ‘Strange, something’s not right here. The office is reorganized, a new secretary.’

He looked at the secretary. “Yes, I’m here to report back to Chief Superintendent Rolson.”

The secretary looked at him a little quizzically before answering. “I’m sorry Sir. Bettner is it? Chief Superintendent Rolson is no longer here. He’s been reassigned.”

Bettner put on a surprised look on his face. “Reassigned? But he just got here. Where did he go?”

The secretary shook her head. “It’s best if the new Chief Superintendent briefed you, Sir. He’s expecting you, so go right in.”

“Special agent, Frank Bettner, reporting, Sir.” Bettner eyed the new superintendent. Who was eyeing him as well. More like sizing him up. Boring into him, as if wanting to extract something.

“Sit down Bettner. How was the field work?”

“Tough, Sir. Hard keeping up with those Germans in the fall. They work their tails off to get ready for winter. And then eat and celebrate even harder.”

Superintendent Kirkland was in the process of closing a huge, fat file, with the bright red letters across its cover: CONFIDENTIAL. He continued to stare at Bettner.

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Superintendent Rolson?”

Kirkland appraised Bettner further, as if deciding how much to reveal and whether to trust him. After what he had just read in the file, this one was a sly buggar.

“Yes, well, ‘Corporal’ Rolson was reassigned after what happened with this German investigation.” He waited for Bettner to speak.

“Reassigned, Sir? He’s a corporal now? Where too?”

“He’ll be working out of Cambridge Bay, and points north. All the way to Alert Bay in the territories.”

Bettner gasped in disbelief. ‘Holy shit, that’s almost in Russia.’ “May I ask why, Sir?”

“You may Bettner. But I’m sure you already know the answer. Since our now ‘Corporal’ Rolson has such a keen imagination for potential enemies of the state, we sent him north to deal with the next expected menace.”

“I didn’t know we had any menaces up there, Sir. Just ice and snow and hardly any people.”

“Oh, Rolson will find something. Real or not. He’ll conjure some up. You can appreciate that can’t you Bettner?”

Bettner gulped. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading.

“You see Bettner, his mandate up there is to warn us if the ‘commies’ prepare to invade Canada across the arctic. And the ice. He has to watch the ice.”

“Watch the ice, Sir? I don’t understand. It’s all ice up there. Nothing but ice.”

“That’s his job Bettner. To watch the ice doesn’t become a threat. And report back bi-annually, if he sees anything suspicious. Last time I talked with him, he asked specifically about you. Whether it would be possible to transfer you up there to help him out. You seemed to work so well together on this last assignment. Thought we might send you along with him.”

Bettner gulped again. A small trickle of sweat began running down his spine. ‘No. Anywhere but there. No.’ “I’m hardly suited for the arctic, Sir. I’m too tall. I would freeze instantly, and intimidate those shorter Inuit.”

Kirkland smiled. ‘Fast thinker, aren’t you Bettner. Now that your shorts are in a bit of a knot.’

“Agreed Bettner. You’ll continue to work here. For me. But, let’s get one thing straight. No more bullshit, like what I’m reading here in Rolson’s report to the Commissioner. The Commissioner. Can you believe that? Why would he do such a thing? Bypass the chain of command?” He looked suspiciously at Bettner, who now was studying that same spot on the ceiling as Rolson had before.

Gradually Bettner looked down, at Kirkland. “Yes, Sir. But, it wasn’t quite like that. I told him things and he probably used his slightly over-creative imagination I guess. Thought the information I gave him was really important to move right to the top.”

“Bettner, we’re starting off on the wrong foot here. Is there are real German threat out west? Or not?”

“No Sir. They’re a hard working bunch of people who just want some peace and stability in their lives. Good food. And, a little fun. They get together, mainly because there is no one else up there, and they understand one another.”

“The shit really hit the fan Bettner, when Rolson accused the land owner Claud Vigar of being a German sympathizer. Word got out and Claud got pissed off and went to the politicians. And reamed the crap out of them. Then they in turn reamed the crap out of us. And so on. Vigar contributes to all the strong political parties. He’s always got friends in government no matter who’s in power. Pretty stupid of Rolson to single him out. I wonder where he got that idea Bettner?” Kirkland was staring rather icily at him again. Waiting.

“Well, he might have misunderstood what I said, Sir. All I said was that Mr. Vigar seemed very friendly with his German hired hands, and his name didn’t really sound too English. That’s all I said, Sir.”

“Is that so Bettner. Maybe he should have checked his history. Vigars arrived in England, from Normandy, with the Norman Conquest of 1066. They lived in Cornwall.”

Bettner, now feeling extremely uncomfortable, just wanted to get out of Kirkland’s office. “Will that be all, Sir? I’m sure you’re busy with other more important things.”

Kirkland looked at him one final time. Again, as if sizing him up, as if fitting him for a winter parka for the Canadian arctic. “One last thing Bettner. The only good thing that came out of this pile of shit in front of me was the hockey helmet idea. The commissioner really liked that. He’s going to meet with NHL officials to discuss it. Right now we have Canadians’ brains being spattered all over the ice. That has to stop. It may take years though.”

Kirkland was already eying another file in his in-basket. Without so much as even glancing at Bettner, he just pointed towards the door. “Close the door on your way out.”

“Yes Sir. Nothing more important than national security and hockey.”

“Get out Bettner, before I change my mind and send you to Cambridge Bay. I’m sure Rolson will have a welcoming party ready for you. I hear you’ve been playing hockey with the Leader Flyers. Maybe in Cambridge Bay you could play all year ’round.”

Bettner left in a hurry. Wondering where his next assignment might be. Hopefully not in Cambridge Bay. Oh, Please God. Wondering too, ‘I never did find out what was in that wooden blue trunk of Adelgunde’s. Well, it sure wasn’t blueprints for a new weapon to take over Saskatchewan.’ He nodded to himself. Now that was solid intel.

A Few Final Notes:

I struggled writing this story. And when it was finished, whether to even post it. As I wrote it, I got a little choked up. Thinking about my parents and what they went through, as new Canadians. And, looking through those old photographs brought back a flood of memories.

I guess what finally convinced me to post it is our attitude towards newly landed Canadian immigrants. There is still a belief among some Canadians that immigrants just suck our tax money away. And somehow are a threat to our Canadian way of life.

We sometimes forget that many Canadian immigrants went through hell just to get here. Just happy to be alive. For many there were two choices: Leave, or die. I heard that a lot when growing up over the dinner table, from my parents. For my father, the loss of his family after World War II was so emotional that he didn’t want to talk much about them.

In 1999, my mother finally hooked up with what was left of her family in what was formerly East Germany. Over fifty years after escaping across the Iron Curtain, into the West. It was a very special time for her. For all of us.

As first generation Canadians, we struggled, but adapted quickly enough. Yes, we were discriminated against. The emotions of war were still raw among many Canadians. It wasn’t that long ago, we were the enemy. I was called a ‘Nazis’ at school. Some of the other kids had a great time with my last name. But we fit in a lot more smoothly than many other immigrants who come to this country. And most Canadians were considerate, sympathetic, and very kind.

How to tell this story? It runs the gamut of emotions and mood. In short story writing 101, you’re supposed to set a mood and then stick with it throughout the narrative. I had a hard time with that. The first part of this story is dark, filled with fear, hopelessness, grief and despair. The second part with the RCMP is mostly political satire and humor. Usually these emotions in one story don’t mix very well.

But, some of the things I hear about immigrants, and how they supposedly threaten our Canadian way of life, while dark, are almost humerus and hard to believe. Almost. But, scary as well. Because behind all that paranoia and xenophobia, are good people that I worked with, play hockey with, or go have a few drinks with.

I have the utmost respect for Canadian law enforcement and what our police are faced with trying to figure out who is ‘naughty’ and who is ‘nice’. There is a Rolson or two in every profession. Clearly, from the little literature I read, before and during the first world War and during the Second World War, our Canadian police were watching out for German and Japanese sympathizers. Even going so far as to inter entire families. As they did with many Japanese Canadians.

It is less clear how much RCMP surveillance there was after the Second World War, as another wave of German immigrants arrived in Canada. Many settling in western Canada. Including the Swift Current – Leader corridor. Was there an RCMP dossier on German Canadians? Perhaps on the Berg’s and the Pyszczyk’s? If those documents exist, they are probably so deeply buried in the Canadian archives it will take more than a century before they ever see the light of day.

Now that I look back on those early years, our families didn’t much ‘rock the Canadian boat’. Not even in hockey. Fancy breakout plays were not foremost on my mind when I played. I, like my Canadian teammates, was just trying to survive.