TERRY FOX, COURAGE, and A WONDERFUL STRANGER

                  Terry Fox, GREAT COURAGE  and A WONDERFUL STRANGER

It was about six am, August 31, 1980.I had flown my private plane into the small thunder Bay Airport, and had arrived last evening from Winnipeg. 

I was on my way from Vancouver to the Air Traffic Control College in Cornwall Ontario to take a Computer course for supervisors.  

Sitting in the back seat of the taxi taking me to the airport. I strained my ears to hear the news from the driver’s radio in the front seat. I really couldn’t hear it well, but the word Terry Fox came in loud and clear. Being from British Columbia I had been following Terry’s run with admiration and amazement.

“Could you turn the radio up a bit please?” I asked the driver. There was no response from the driver, in fact as I asked he had changed the station. I was a little disappointed, as I wanted to hear where Terry had finished the day before. I knew he was getting close to Thunder Bay, and there was a rumour going around, he was having some health problems.

The Taxi driver, breaking a few rules I’m sure, dropped me off right at my airplane. After getting my bags, and giving him a rather big tip( for a cheapskate like me) I inhaled a large breath of the sweet morning air, and threw all my stuff in the back seat of the aircraft.

.

 I did the preflight walk-around on my 1950 Beechcraft Bonanza aircraft. It was a very easily identified low wing aircraft. This was due primarily by the V- tail configuration. It was the only private aircraft with this type of tail assembly. The BE35 has a cruising speed of180mph, and a range with tip tanks of about 1000 miles.

Terry Fox kept popping into my mind.  The admiration I felt for this young man was really beyond words.

After getting airborne  as I passed over Isle Royale, just off the end of the runway, I made a right turn and picked up a heading of 100 degrees, which I figured would be direct to Toronto. Larry Olsson would meet there and put me up for the night.

There was a solid overcast at about four thousand feet and as I leveled off at thirty-five hundred it suddenly dawned on me there was an awful lot of water ahead. Now remember I was from Delta BC, right on the shore of the huge Pacific Ocean. I should have been used to flying over the ocean, and indeed I was, well at least what I thought of as the Pacific Ocean, the Strait of Georgia. This piece of water was only about eight nautical miles across in the area I normally crossed from Delta to Vancouver Island. As I looked ahead at the seemingly endless expanse of water and down at my map, I realized Lake Superior really was an inland ocean. So being a devout coward, I decided to veer more to the right and more or less follow the USA shoreline.

After refueling at Sault Ste Marie, I was flying at one thousand feet AGL (above ground level) on a typical summer day in southern Ontario, that is, hot, muggy, poor visibility and a bit of light turbulence. Being rather low I couldn’t help but notice the attractive small towns and villages as I flew over, reminded me of England. 

I was planning on landing at the small Toronto Island Airport, situated on a small island, in downtown Toronto. However, I had forgot the CNE airshow was on that afternoon.  I was forced to land way out at Pearson International.

I called Pearson.

“Pearson Terminal, Bonanza, Xray, Delta, Victor.” 

“XDV, terminal, go ahead.”

“Yes Terminal, I’m about 22 miles northeast, squawking 1200, at 1500 feet, heading 100, requesting landing information.

“Roger XDV, Runway 26 right, wind 280, at 12 knots. Visibility 4 miles in haze. Call downwind north side, for a right-hand approach. Squawk ident.  Radar identified 20 miles northeast.”

Call tower on 118.7 now.

Oh, and Terminal, is Helmut Wiens working today?”

“No, he just went home, should I tell him who asked?”

“Yes, if you would, Larry, from Vancouver terminal.”

Helmut was an old friend I worked with for several years in CYVR, who transferred to CYYZ.

So, as I peered through the haze I was wondering If Larry still had his car and would mind coming out to pick me up.

“Pearson Tower XDV with you 1500ft 19 out.”

“XDV tower, identified call downwind, presently number 5 behind an Air Canada DC 8, about 12 back on final.”

Eventually as I was downwind right hand, I made out the DC8 about two miles back on final. This was very good as I was worrying a bit about wake turbulence behind him, but this was good distance.

“XDV Tower cleared to land, runway 26 Right. Check the gear. Will you be going to parking on the north side?”

“Check, cleared to land, that’s affirmative, Tower.”

After touching down. “XDV tower, turn right next taxi, contact ground on 129.1

“Ground XDV, with you.”

“XDV Ground, Straight ahead, right at next.”

“Roger Ground.”

“XDV ground, you have flames streaming back from the cowling.”

“Check your remarks ground, thanks.”

I pulled over to the first parking space I could find in the ‘Private Aircraft Parking’ area, and immediately Shut down the engine, turned off all electricals, and master switch. I leaped out to see what was going on! The cowling on the starboard side was crackling, and hissing. Using my smarts, I opened it first. It was obvious instantly that about 25% of the exhaust manifold had burned right off, and the rest didn’t look to healthy either.

As it happened I always carried a rather large tool kit with me. So, I took stock of the situation and decided I had the proper tools to take off the manifold. Of course, the chance of getting it off without stripping or breaking a stud was about zero! Since I had arrived early I phoned Larry from the flying club, and told him I would take the bus later, and I wouldn’t be there till around six, or in five hours. The manager of the club told me there was an Aircraft welding service about a 2km down the road, if I did manage to get the manifold off.

Arriving back at the aircraft I realized it was getting very hot out. In fact, it was 28C, no wind, and a clear sky, and of course, this was Southern Ontario, so the humidity was high! Coming from Vancouver this felt stifling. After getting all my tools laid out, I gingerly approached the hot engine, but to my surprise it had cooled and was just warm to the touch. I started to work with great trepidation as I took my ratchet to the first nut. It didn’t want to move. I went to another, it also seemed determined to not let go. After about three more like this, and one skinned knuckle I remembered I had put my two foot breaker bar in the baggage area. Starting over with the bar, eventually the first nut slowly started to turn. By this time, I had my shirt off, sweat was pouring down my face, and an hour had passed.

I was becoming just a tad annoyed. A little sunburned. Stupid airplane! Stupid mechanic at home – his job – not mine.

About two hours later, against all odds, I had managed to get all the nuts off, after some very serious wrestling with the manifold, and skinning another knuckle, I finally had it off, and on the ground. I was now getting real sunburn, running out of sweat, very hot, thirsty, oh and did I mention no breakfast. 

My mood had not improved since the first skinned knuckle!

An exhaust Manifold from a 225hp Continental Aircraft engine is not extra heavy, only about forty pounds. This part of an aircraft is though very awkward to carry. Many sharp edges. Rusty.

“Just walk the two blocks to the gate, turn right, straight ahead, on the left, can’t miss it” That’s what the manager said.  I begin trudging to the gate with the manifold over my shoulder. Several pilots tinkering with planes that actually flew, gave me some strange, quizzical looks as I with naked shoulders glowing, passed them. I finally got to the road, turned right and started the long walk to the welders. By now I was very tired, hot, and depressed, head down now shuffling along on the grass beside the road.

  After about fifteen minutes of this, a newer Volvo pulled off the road and parked ahead of me.

“Like a lift to Bill and Joes Welding shop”?

“Boy would I ever”. I said as I fought to fit the manifold and me into the front seat of his lovely new car.

“So how did you know I was going to the welding shop?”

“Well it was just a wild guess, when I see this bedraggled guy carrying half an aircraft engine over his shoulder along the road”. He said.

“Oh” I said

“That’s a manifold in need of some very serious welding, Oh and by the way my name is George”.

“Yeah, the tower thought I was on fire, and I’m Larry Bennett.

“So here we are Larry, tell you what, I’m a good friend of the owner, I can take you around the back and maybe sneak you in front of that crowd inside”

“No, no, George you don’t have to do that, you have done more than enough already.”

By this time George had got out of his side and was opening my door to help me out with my load.

“Ok I’ve got it larry, just follow me”.  As he started to the rear of the shop, carrying the manifold!

It was like old home week for George and his friend Henry. Before I knew what was happening my exhaust manifold was being worked upon by an older gentleman that looked like he knew what he was doing. Soon henry gave me a work order form with the job being done and the price.

“Ok larry, now take this form around to the front of the building, and take it up to the counter, tell them Henry is working on it in the back, and it will be up soon” Said Henry.

George quickly grabbed the order from Henry’s hand and said, “ follow me larry.” As he started out the door.

Well I did follow George, and before I knew it. he had moved to the front of the line, been served, paid the bill, and with me following along behind started for the car.

 ”Oh, do you want to carry your airplane?” he said, as he handed me the now, new looking, manifold.

So, with me in the front seat, holding my precious manifold, we arrived back at the airport. George drove right up to the Bonanza, parked the car and came around to my side and helped me out.

“Just put it down here for a few minutes and jump into the car I want to show you something.”

I did as I was told; I believe maybe I was in some form of shock. We drove about a block to the aircraft owners parking, where he parked the car in the closest space available.

“See this older clunker two spaces over?”

“I leave this old car at the airport, just for little things like happened today.”

“I put the keys under the drivers’ seat.”

“The car is locked, but see this little window vent, it looks like it is locked, but if you push it real hard, it will open.”

He got it open, and with considerable effort, managed to get his arm in position to be able to pull up on the door lock.

“Now larry, that’s how to do it, you may use the car all you want anytime you are at this airport.” As he handed me his card.

“I really must be going Larry; it was nice meeting you.” As he  jumped into his Volvo, started, it and was gone in about one minute.

I stood there in shock for a few moments, then started back to the airplane. I think I thanked him several times and a few “no I couldn’t do that’s” But it was hard to get a word in!

I would worry about putting everything back together tomorrow. I phoned larry and he came and picked me up.

Sept 1st

The next morning, I decided to take the bus out to the airport. As luck would have it, I sat next to an attractive young lady. We were chatting away and I found out she was a Doctor in downtown Toronto. I mentioned I was from Vancouver and was interested in the progress of my hero Terry Fox. She said that he seemed to be having great problems the day before. She also gave me her name, it sounded like Fox, but I was not sure, I let it go, quite a coincidence.

After arriving at the airport  and taking a taxi over to the private aircraft area, I was finally able to start putting the manifold back on the Bonanza. It was amazing, everything went very smooth. In my bitter experience of working on cars, or Aircraft, nothing went according to plan.

Sept 2

Terry Fox had stopped his run just outside Thunder Bay the evening before, evidently having serious problems breathing, and new pain in his leg.

The aircraft work was completed, had a test flight and ready to go.

It was looking like I may be able to depart for Cornwall in a few hours.

But it dawned on me I was starving and decided to take George’s old car down the road, past the welding shop, to a small snack bar for a bite.

I had only been on the road for a few minutes when the announcer on the radio cut-in on the program to announce a special live report. 

It turned out it was Terry Fox giving an interview. He sounded so tired, and as he spoke, through tears, suddenly my eyes filled, and I had to pull over and stop the car.

As the interview continued, Terry became very choked up, and had a very hard time speaking.

As I sat there in the wonderful old car listening, I noticed a steady stream of my tears, literally pouring  off my chin.

When the interview was over, I decided to forget eating, turned the car around and drove back to the airport.

I was off the ground within the hour, on my way to Cornwall.

I just had to do some thing to get my mind off the interview with Terry.

Intelligence - An Interesting Subject

I have been giving the subject of intelligence considerable thought over the past several years. I haven't done any in-depth research into it yet, so what I am about to write (and I'm not sure what that will be) will be only my personal thoughts and opinions.

It seems one does't give the subject of memory, or intelligence much thought, if one has a modicum of both. Throughout my life I have been blessed with a very good memory, and from various tests and life events, have been led to believe I was moderately intelligent.

So just what is intelligence?  Is it being quick to see a problem? Is it the ability to multi-task?  Is it having a brain that fires faster than the average, thus in effect slowing time, giving a person more time to analyze a situation?  There are other avenues I'm sure to address but for now I will leave it at these few obvious (to me) to examine.

                                            Or it it just a matter of memory?

As one ages most humans eventually begin to notice originally just tiny bit of memory problems. These usually are minor things like "where did I leave my purse, keys, glasses,"  etc.  A bit annoying but of no real concern, if fact, often the subject of self directed jokes. This can, and often will, go on for many years.

Then one day, you may notice while in a conversation/argument with someone, an important point (that you know intimately) just refuses to let your little brain have it. This life changing event hits different people at at various ages, but I'm quite convinced it eventually will affect us all if we live long enough.

A personal example of what appears to be intelligence, or is it just a good memory?  The subject of the Vietnam War came up the other evening. Having lived through the time of this terrible time in world history as an Air traffic Controller I had a deep personal interest in the "war".

 An aside - right now I cannot remember if the USA actually declared war on that small country, I believe they did not.

As a Controller in Vancouver in the nineteen sixties and seventies we handled thousands of military flights back and forth from Washington State to Alaska. It became a bit personal as we talked to the pilots going both ways. Always very little banter on the south bound trip, with casualties.

To get back to my point about memory and intelligence. For several years I was a self professed expert on all aspects of that War. Then suddenly when being challenged on this subject I had extremely strong feelings about, I just could not quote the many facts and examples that not that long ago were at my fingertips. If no one present knew me, or any of my background, or my age, I assume they would assume I was a bit of a dolt!
Now does that mean I am not as intelligent now than I was twenty years ago, or am I just as intelligent, but with a rotten memory? Does it mean I cannot learn new subjects now, if I do not have a good long term memory, or short, for that matter? I have decided to take an on-line programming course from MIT, so we will see!

Now lets look at the quick firing brain. I know I used to have a quick brain. It is hard to explain, but you just know. I used to wonder why people used to stop and think about what I considered obvious answers to questions.  There many examples from my past, but I will not bore people.
I would say the speed of my comprehension now is at about 60% (at best) from what it was in my twenties. Does this mean I cannot think clearly and make intelligent decisions, probably in most cases I would come to the same conclusion, but in a split second situation, quite possibly not.

I'm going to publish this as an ongoing piece right now - I will be adding more very  soon

AN INTERESTING ASIDE - I JUST PUBLISHED THIS IN THE WRONG BLOG - JUST SAYING!

Army Stint - Richmond Ditch - fate?

                                                       A RICHMOND DITCH

I never really gave the folowing incident any though for years, but as the years passed I have from time to time wondered how my friend in the ditch made out. A few years ago I did spend a few days at the Richmond Library to get the man from the cars name, with very little success. About all I could find was the monthly summary of  the Fire Dept. for April 1962 -"Four cars pulled from Richmond ditches - one survivor."  Little other information was available. It would be nice, if possible after all this time, to meet any of the young ( now in their late seventies or early eighties)  firefighters that ultimately save both of our lives. I would like to apologize to them for my language, and thank them for being a huge part of my little story. I'm going to make another effort soon to find if any are still around - could maybe have a beer, and a few laughs together. March 18,2016.


                                                                            STORY

I had just got off afternoon shift at midnight from the Air Traffic Control Centre on Sea Island in Richmond BC. It was early spring, and the temperature was just above the freezing level. A light drizzle had just begun to fall. As I was about to turn on to the cut- off leading to the freeway, I suddenly got this great idea; I would pick up Chinese food and surprise Beth.

I quickly turned on to number 3 road, and drove down to the Bamboo Grove restaurant, across from the City hall. I had finished ordering and started to drink the free coffee they gave you while you were waiting for the take-out food. Suddenly the door slammed open and a lady screamed that a car had just gone in the ditch at the dead end corner of Granville and Number Three Road.

In most cities in the world, this may not have sounded like such a big deal. Richmond in the 1960s had real ditches. On #3 road they were about 20ft wide, and at least 10ft deep. Not only were they wide and deep, but they were used as an overflow drain from the septic systems In effect, they were part of a weird sewer system.

As we hurried out of the restaurant, I noticed the drizzle had turned to freezing rain. The road was covered with a thin layer of ice, and we could hardly stand up as we ran. For some reason I was wearing my good suit, (I guess it was because it was my first day back as a Controller, after several weeks in the Canadian army). I was getting wet and cold as we arrived at the spot where the lady said the car had gone into the ditch. There were four of five of us and no one could see any sign of a car.
“There’s no car here, you must have been mistaken.” One of the men said.
“Well I could swear I saw a car go in here, but I guess you’re right.” Said the lady. “It was going straight west on Granville, it didn’t appear to turn, it’s tail lights just disappeared.”
The rest went back to the Restaurant, but I stayed for a few minutes to have another look.

Why I stayed I really cannot say - fate??

Peering into the black frigid water, I suddenly noticed a faint red glow beneath the surface. I realized the woman was right, and this was the taillight of some unfortunate soul's car. It was then that I heard it; a sort of gurgling followed by a whistling sound, regularly about every six seconds. I definitely thought it was somebody having a terrible time breathing. It was obvious that if somebody was in the car, they wouldn't last long unless we got them out quickly. There was a problem, the sides of the ditch were vertical and slimy mud, getting into the ditch would be easy. Getting out, with, or without, an injured person, would be impossible.

So using my smarts I jumped into the water.

This was during the Diefenbaker Era in 1962 I believe. I was only about 25 years old, a SCUBA diver, hockey player, and had just finished a stint with the New West Regiment in their civil defense brigade. What I’m trying to say is this; I was in very good shape. The idea of going into the ditch really didn't seem like such a big deal. When I hit the water, I instantly went completely under. I don't know why, but this caught me by surprise. I surfaced and two things hit me simultaneously, number one it was very cold, and number two, there was absolutely nothing to grab on to, or stand on. There I was, treading water, in my best suit, in this pitch-black smelly ditch. It appeared that everyone else had left, in any event I couldn't hear or see anyone from my rather limited perspective. I started to slosh around. Suddenly, I stepped on what I believed to be a wheel of a car. I deduced this since it turned, and I fell off. Using my great intellect, I instantly realized if this was a wheel, the car must be upside down. It then struck me; the strange whistling sound must be someone breathing against the floorboards, at least that was the instant picture in my Mind.

I decided to dive under the water and see if I could find the door. On my first try the shock of the dirty frigid water in my eyes and ears, (yes I remember I kept my eyes open for some unknown reason) affected me so much that I only stayed down a few seconds. On my second try I got much deeper and found the door handle. Unfortunately by the time I found the handle, I was running out of air. After a quick try at opening it my lungs were burning. I just had to take a breath. I started to the surface.
It was then I realized that my coat was caught on something. I couldn't’t surface. Fighting panic, I struggled for a few moments to get loose.

I was not happy.

Suddenly I was free. I popped to the surface just as my lungs were about to burst.

After taking several deep breaths I dived down again, this time, I got right to the door. Bracing my foot I pulled with all my might, the door burst open and the car filled totally with water. At the same instant I felt a person and grabbed him (it was a him) and attempted to pull him into the water with all my strength. I knew there would only be one chance, because I had ruined his small pocket of air when I opened the door. If I didn't get him out now, I would have to surface and come back down. In the mean time he would have taken in water and be unconscious (providing of course I could find him). I was rapidly running out of air and pulling him frantically. He appeared to be stuck behind the steering wheel.

Somehow, to this day I don’t know how, I got him out and managed to get to the surface with this madly struggling man. When we surfaced of course there was nothing to hold on to and this elderly gentleman could not swim. He was crying, praising God and thanking me all at the same time. Unfortunately, it appeared he was also trying to drown the both of us; and he was doing a good job of it.

At about this moment, the Richmond Fire Dept. arrived. They had on life jackets, and were trying to reach us but they couldn't reach far enough into the ditch. I was rapidly going numb from the cold. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hold on to the elderly gentleman much longer. Since I was breathing a mixture of about 50% air, and dirty water, I wasn't going to last long either.

They yelled at me to hang on. They were going to get ladders or something. I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, but I totally lost my cool and swore at them (between gasps for air) and called them cowards and other appropriate names. They still didn’t get into the water, even in their life jackets. So, I called them a few more nasty names and finally two of them jumped in to the water. They helped us keep afloat until those on the shore somehow dragged us out.

As they were taking the man to the hospital he asked me my name and where I worked; I do not remember if I gave him my name, but for some strange reason I told him I was in The New West Regiment. Since I had just finished a six week stint in the army (which is a story unto itself) the day before. I guess it just popped into my head.

Anyway, I forgot about my Chinese food. I went straight to my car and drove home. I was so cold I could hardly hold onto the steering wheel, and I smelt like the monster from the lost lagoon. When I got in, I went straight to the bathroom, and into a hot shower, wearing all my clothes, including my shoes.

My wife thought I had lost my mind.


Written by Larry W. Bennett

A BEAUTIFUL GIRL

                                         A BEAUTIFUL GIRL

It was shortly after the end of the Second World War. I lived in Saskatoon, a small city of about 40,000 in central Saskatchewan. It was a time of optimism almost bordering on euphoria. Shops were filling with new and wondrous delights such as fresh fruit and five-cent chocolate bars. No more ration cards, no more wars, and freedom from dictators forever more. A time you didn’t worry about your children talking to neighbors, or to strangers, for that matter. The papers were not full of child abuse cases. Headlines screaming the latest revelation of a Priest or schoolteacher abusing their charges were for a future time. (This is not, of course, to intimate such things did not happen).

The perfect time to be a child.

We, that is, my Mother, Father and I, lived in a new, very small, two-bedroom house overlooking Victoria Park and the South Saskatchewan River. As you can see, I was an only child. Knowing the connotations this fact stirs in certain people, I feel compelled to tell you a little secret. My Mother received a signed letter from my grade seven teacher stating I was the least spoilt child she had ever taught. I had many friends, and was very active in school activities and sports. I often represented our school in inter-city and provincial athletic events. As far as scholarly endeavors went, I did OK, but definitely never represented our school.

Fate, a paper route, a loving Grandfather, and a cherished Granddaughter, all colluded to profoundly affect my young life.

I was twelve, when after a long wait; I finally got my own Star route. The Saskatoon Star Phoenix was the evening newspaper in Saskatoon. I didn’t get one of the more lucrative or central routes. I received a small, spread out route. It was situated on the edge of town, in a poorer neighborhood.

I started out with about 60 papers but after a lot of high pressure selling, I brought this number up to about 120.

I won several ashtrays.

The papers were thrown from a little blue truck onto the ground in front of Fords Drug store on avenue “H”. They were in two bundles. We would break the string, place them side by side and start inserting the inside section into the main front section. There would be several of us boys all chattering like a flock of crows, busily working away putting the papers together. After getting them all together in the right order, we would carefully pack them in our canvas Star bags. These Star bags were quite a status symbol. With a flare, we would fling them over the back fender of our bikes and zip off to make the deliveries. There was always a sort of unspoken race going on, although no one ever mentioned it. Nevertheless, I always felt proud as I peddled off while some other boys were still working away.

Of course, if I had a detention at school (which unfortunately I often did), I wouldn’t get started until the other boys had left. It definitely took all the fun (and it was fun) out of inserting if you were all alone. As the weather began to get colder, we would first wear gloves, and then change over to mittens at about minus ten degrees. When it got really cold (minus thirty or lower) Mr. Ford would let us do our inserting inside the store.

I have always remembered him for this kindness.

Many of the boy’s routes started only a block or 2 away so they would be finished in short order. I on the other hand had to go about a mile before I even got started. It took me much longer because my route was very scattered with many vacant lots. This wasn’t so bad when I could take my bike. However when the snow was deep or it was extremely cold I had to carry the papers on my back. It used to take two or three hours to complete my route; most of the time in the dark. I would start on Avenue “K,” and end on Avenue “P”, not too far from the Intercontinental Meat-Packing Plant. On hot summer days, the smell from the slaughterhouse was enough to make me almost throw up. Strange I never noticed it in the winter.

I used a variety of methods delivering the papers. My favorite though was throwing them. I had a very good arm, so if the house had a porch I always threw the paper onto (or at least close to) it, from the street. I had a special method of folding the paper up small and compact to make it easy to throw. Much more difficult to read I guess, but definitely better for throwing. Most of my customers preferred me to either place (i.e. throw) the paper on the porch, or place it in the mailbox. Many wanted me to open the storm door and place the paper quickly between the two doors than slam the outer door before the paper fell out. This accomplished three things; first and foremost, it kept the paper dry. Secondly, it ensured the customer wouldn’t have to open both doors thus keeping the cold/hot air, in/out, depending on the season.

Finally, the slamming of the door signaled them the paper had arrived.

Mr. Grey was one of my new customers. I was a very persistent little bother (a polite term for pest), but finally after about twenty calls to his door, Mr. Grey agreed to take the paper. Mr. Grey lived on avenue “P” in a very small house not too far from the meat packing plant. He was quite elderly. Of course to a young boy, anybody over thirty is old, but he was probably between fifty and sixty. Mr. Grey was a very soft-spoken Native Canadian of the Blackfoot Nation. He was very kind and considerate to me, and always paid on time, which for my route was a rarity. I first started to deliver to Mr. Grey in the summer, so I was a little surprised when he made a strange request.

“OK young fellow, you win, I'll start the paper, but on one condition."

"Hey that's great." I said, "No problem, what condition?"

"Well when you bring the paper I'd like you to please bring it into the kitchen here, and put it on the table.”

"OK." I said, "It’s a deal"

This extra service was no trouble. I would just pop into the kitchen; place the paper on the table, turn and leave. I did not look around or stop, even for a second, just in and out. About two months later as I was entering the kitchen Mr. Grey was waiting.

"Hi Larry, I came home a little early from work today. I would like you to meet my Granddaughter," He said, as he led me into a very small bedroom just off the kitchen.

I don’t remember much about the room except it was very neat with a single bed and a picture of Jesus above the foot of it. On the bed lay a very lovely native girl. She was about twelve years old, with long black hair, on a very white pillow. Her face, almost as pale as the white sheets, had a shy beautiful smile, and two very large dark eyes.

I had ever seen such a pretty girl in all my life.

"Maria, this is our paper boy Larry."

"Yes, I know Papa, I see him every day when he puts the paper on the kitchen table," she said in a weak voice.

This surprised me since I had never seen her. I had believed the house was empty and had just hurriedly put the paper down and left. I noticed that from her little bed she was looking straight at the table. I had never even noticed the door to her room.

“Larry this is my Granddaughter Maria." Mr. Grey said.

“Hi Maria." I said

"Hello." She said.

"Maria has been very sick Larry. She has been getting up to get the paper from the table where you place it; however Maria is too weak to get out of bed right now. We were wondering if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you bring the paper into her room until she is feeling better."

I glanced over at Maria.

She smiled at me.

I know it is a cliché, but I am absolutely positive, my heart skipped at least one beat

"I would be happy to bring it in to you Maria." I said, feeling my face flush.

“Thank you." Maria said.

"Thank You Larry. Maria will see you tomorrow then.” said Mr. Grey as he escorted me to the door.

"Bye Larry." Came softly from the bedroom.

"Bye Maria." I said.

As I walked away, I was sure I had seen an angel.

Although I was only twelve, I wondered why Maria was not in the hospital. Unfortunately this was just before Saskatchewan introduced Medicare to North America, and doctors and hospitals were very expensive.

From then on, I always looked forward to delivering the paper to Maria. It was about half way through my route so I usually didn’t have much time to stop. Maria was very shy, and as a twelve year old boy with no sisters so was I, (at least with girls).

A typical visit went something like this.

I would knock on the outside back door, then without waiting for an answer walk into the kitchen and turn left into Maria's small room.

"Hi Maria." I would say as I handed her the paper.

"Hi Larry, thank you." She would smile.

My heart would melt a little.

“I hope you are feeling better.” I would say.

“Oh yes, I'm much better, thank you.” She would say in almost a whisper.

"Well I've got to get going, see you tomorrow." I would say as I left her.

She would smile.

I didn't want to leave her. I wanted to sit with her, maybe tell her about my baseball game. Maybe I could read her a story, or just sit. But I didn't have much time to spend, and I was to shy to ask her if I could come back for a visit later.

As the weeks passed, I often thought about Maria. I never mentioned her to anyone, not even my parents, but to me she was one of my very best friends.

One day when I arrived Mr. Grey was in Maria's room. He had bought Maria a new toy and he wanted to show me how it worked. Maria was holding one of those acrobats on two sticks with string that goes all through the legs and arms. She couldn’t seem to make do anything, so Mr. Grey showed us how it worked. I had never seen one of these things before and was fascinated at what he could make the toy man do.

"There Larry see how it works, why don't you give it a try." said Mr. Grey.

He made it walk and move around more or less like a real person, so I gave it a try.

"OK here goes." I said, "Like this?"

And with that I made the little toy man kick himself in the eye.

"Whoops." I said

Marie was laughing at me so hard she was almost crying.

So I put a voice to the puppet, as I tried to make it walk up Maria's bed.

"That’s not nice to laugh at poor little puppet like me, I’m just learning to walk and kick myself in the eye." Said the toy man.

Maria laughed all the harder, but then she started coughing, and Mr. Grey and I left her room.

As I was leaving, Mr. Grey stopped me by the back door; there were tears in his eyes.

"I haven't seen Maria laugh like that for over a year." said Mr. Grey. “She sure liked the way you played with that Puppet. Larry I would sure appreciate it if you could visit for a few minutes longer when you come with the paper. Maybe you could play with the puppet for Maria, and make her laugh. Larry Maria is very lonely. She has no friends because she has been home sick ever since we moved to the city last year.”

"Sure, Mr. Grey." I said," I would love to do that."

I was trying to think of some way to ask Mr. Grey if I could come and visit Maria at another time as well, but I didn't say anything. This was Friday evening and I looked forward all weekend to delivering the paper to Maria the next week.

On Monday I couldn’t get through my route fast enough until I got to Maria’s house. As I opened the kitchen door and was about to walk into Maria’s room I noticed Mr. Grey sitting at the Kitchen table without a light on.

“Larry." He said "You don’t have to go in today, she isn’t there.” He paused for a moment, and then continued, with a voice overflowing with sadness.

“Maria has gone to Heaven.”

I couldn’t say anything. I felt my eyes filling with tears. My heart hurt.

"Here is the money we owe you Larry.” He said handing me an envelope with my name on it, "We won't be needing the paper anymore, I'm sorry."

He opened the door for me.

I still could not speak. All was a blur as I stepped off that small back porch for the last time.

It’s been almost 50 years since that day.

I still see the small, dark kitchen, with the little bedroom off, and the lovely pale little girl with the shy smile.


ALTHOUGH IT IS FIFTY YEARS LATER - I BELIEVE THIS IS THE GIRL'S HOME

.

AM I DEAD? - CONTINUED - PART TWO

 Am I  DEAD!!

 

It was a beautiful June day just past noon in Saskatoon Saskatchewan. I was in front of our house dressed in shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and running shoes with no socks. I had been tinkering with my Dad’s 1938 Indian Chief motorcycle for about half an hour. Now Dad did not ride motorcycles, but he liked them and had bought a few with the idea of fixing them up a bit and selling them (usually at a loss).   The 1952 Saskatoon Junior baseball season at Cairns field would be starting this evening and I wanted to get the bike purring to take it to the game.  This would be my first time playing under the lights at the big field. I would be the starting Shortstop for the Saskatoon Optimists, the present Provincial champions in the 22 years and under league. I was seventeen, in grade eleven at Bedford Road High School and would be writing my final exams in the next few weeks, so I was just thinking it was time to go inside and do some studying if I wanted to get into Grade Twelve next year.

 

Just then Larry Olsson, my best friend (who never had to write final exams) drove up with his new Triumph 350. He had only had it a few weeks, and of course like all teenage boys was always looking for a reason to go somewhere with his new bike. He had had no real accidents, (other than driving into the middle of a rose bush with me on the back) and was a very good and safe rider.

 

“So got that pile of junk running yet”

“What pile of junk?”

“That red, rusty oversized thing you call a motorcycle.”

“Yeah – well this rusty pile of junk can run your shinny little trike right off the road.” I said not believing a word of it.

“Well let’s see if you can follow me, smart guy.”

He was sitting on his machine alternately revving and idling, sort of a vroom vroom sound.

Larry’s bike was almost new and in great shape, mine was old (and weighed so much I couldn’t pick it up if it fell) and was not in good condition at all. However it had more than twice the horsepower and a challenge is a challenge.

 

I got on the old bike, no helmet, no jacket, no leather pants, no boots, in other words dressed pretty much the same a Larry on his bike. So Larry revved the motor and started to move away.

 

I was still jumping on the kick-starter.

 

 I only weighed about a hundred and thirty five pounds and I think the compression of the old bike took about 140 pounds to turn over. So after a few backfires (which almost threw me over the handlebars) I got it sputtering. The Indian would never idle so had to always keep the revs up.

In the meantime Larry had got to the end of the block and returned to see what the problem was.

“Ok Larry, she’s purring now lets go.” I yelled over the noise and through the chocking blue smoke that seemed to emanate from several holes in the exhaust.

He started off north on avenue  ‘G’ with me a few yards behind, I had no idea where we were going but I was going to stick to him like glue until my chance came and of course pass him – that was my plan. He turned left on 17^th street and speeded up to about 40 mph with me 20 feet or so in trail I was thinking probably he was going straight ahead to avenue “P” so I would speed up and pass him if I could in the next block or so. However just as we got to avenue “J” he slowed and turned left proceeding south. We were now doing 45- 50 mph and crossing streets in a blur, 16th, 15th I decided to make my move. I cranked the throttle full and started to overtake Larry.

Boy this is living.

 

My speed was increasing rapidly when suddenly I hit a bit of a pothole and the handle bars were ripped from my hands and the bike went into what I later learned was called a high-speed flutter. I had lost all control, there were cars parked on both sides if we hit them I knew I was dead. In an instant I decided to bale off and role into a ball. I had given this some thought before and had come to the conclusion this maneuver could save my life some day.

I dived off the left side into the middle of the road curling into a ball and began to role head over heals down the road. At first it was painful but I was in the ball and rolling. But with each rotation (and I have no idea how many I made) I became more stunned and loosened my tuck, eventually I lost it all and began to slide and flop end for end. Each time I came around my head would strike the road with a crack – the pain was unbelievable. I sort of remember sliding to a stop; I vaguely remember a pain in my arm that was under me as I slid. I couldn’t move or talk it appeared – I do remember Larry’s dog Peppy licking me.

 

I have a fleeting memory of being in the ambulance.

The next thing I remember is.

“Where do you want us to put this?”

I could hear this very clear. I could not see, but I could hear perfectly.

Some time passed.

“ Oh no, I know this boy, his name is Larry from Bedford Road.”

“Out of my way nurse what do we have here.”?

“ A motorcycle accident – the ambulance men just put him on the floor.”

“ Um, um I guess they were right he is dead.”

“He can’t be dead – he isn’t dead – he can’t be”

“Look here nurse he has no life signs, his skull is smashed – look.”

With those words I guess the so-called doctor squeezed my head. The pain was unbearable and I guess I flinched.

“ He is alive – he is alive.”

The next thing I remember was about 36 hours later in a bed waking from a horrible dream about falling backwards from a ladder onto cement – but not like most dreams when I got to the bottom I did not wake until I hit the cement and experienced the same pain I had from the crash.  This continued for about a month – I was afraid to go to sleep.

This is a continuation of this story - written about five years later.

Many people over the years have asked me about my stay in St. Paul's Hospital, but I have been reluctant to talk about it. It was a time of very conflicting emotions for a young man, and a life event, until now has never been mentioned to anyone.

All went quite well in the hospital. After several days I was transferred out of the main building to a smaller one, it seemed to house several older patients that were no trouble, but near death. There were only two or three nurses, all very young, and they appeared to welcome my arrival to their little world. By this time I was up and around and in pretty good shape, other than one arm and elbow that had the skin and a bit of bone ground off. It had a bit of infection so I was getting hot compresses several times a day to prepare the arm for some sort of operation. Other than the odd headache I was as good as new (I believed) and became the nurses little helper. I would take the temperatures and blood pressure of all the other patients.

It happened that at this time Tim, a friend of mine’s twenty year old brother was a patient in the main building. Although he was a few years older than me, he was a little shorter, a bit overweight, and looked younger than his years.  Tim was awaiting an operation on his brain. I started visiting him at least once or twice a day. This would be his second operation within the past year for the same problem.  He was very worried, he was sure if he had another operation he would die. He begged me to not let them operate.

One beautiful June evening, about ten pm, I went to visit Tim.

“Hi Larry, what are you doing up here at this time of night?”

“It’s still bright daylight out, I don’t think the sun will be setting for another  half hour or so.”

“Oh yeah, it’s hard to tell in this dingy place with all the blinds drawn. I always loved watching the sunset from our front porch, I guess I’ll never see a sunset again.”

“What makes you say that Tim?”

“They just told me I will be getting the operation the day after tomorrow.” Tim said, as his eyes filled with tears.

“Wow, so soon, O yeah, that was what I came up to tell you, They will operating on my arm first thing tomorrow morning. But it’s no big deal, if all goes well they say I can go home within a week.”

“Boy are you lucky Larry,  I wish I could get out of this place.”

“Tell you what Tim, let’s get you into your wheelchair and we can go to the front entrance and watch the sunset.”

“I don’t know Larry, it’s pretty late, what will the nurse say?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just tell her we are going to look at the sunset and I will bring you back.”

So within a few minutes Tim was out of bed and in the wheelchair, although he really didn’t need it, the doctors insisted he use it in the hospital. As we quietly approached the nurses station (excpt for his sqeeky wheel) I noticed she wasn’t at her desk.

“Well Larry I guess we will have to wait for her, to let her know we are leaving.”

“If we wait we will miss the sunset, we will probably be back before she even notices you are gone.” I said, as I pushed Tim down the hall.

We arrived on the main floor and as I tried to get the door open to the raised porch area it dawned on me that it was locked for the evening – after all visiting hours had ended some time ago.

“I’ve an idea Larry, let’s go to the top floor and see if we can find a window looking west.”

“That’s a great idea Tim, lets grab the elevator and have a go.”

We arrived on the top floor and were squeaking along the hallway when Tim noticed a narrow stairway going up toward what looked like a skylight, or small door on the roof.

“I’ll bet if we could get onto the roof it would be a perfect view, what do you think Larry?”

“Sounds good to me, but it’s probably locked, I’ll go up and check it out.”  

As it turned out it was unlocked, and with Tim ahead and me encouraging and shoving, we managed to emerge onto a sight and feeling I have never forgotten my entire life. The air was soft and warm, with a slight breeze, the sky crystal clear above and to the northwest a dark orange glow was reflecting off a line of dark clouds as the light faded into blackness. Two young men, both from this small town, who had seen nothing of the world, lay there on that roof, side by side.

Tim took in a big breath “This is so perfect, we just got the last of the sun’s rays, it is so warm, the breeze is soft, the stars are so close, the lights of the city twinkling as far as the eye can see, I could stay here forever.”

I just nodded, I felt the same as Tim.

Well we didn’t stay forever, however we lay there enveloped by a strange feeling of closeness. Tim told me of his illness, I told him of my accident. He told me of his hopes and dreams. I knew lying there in the dark, looking up at the millions of stars, that tears were flowing down Tim’s cheeks. I told him of my hopes and dreams. We talked and then were quiet for long stretches, and as I realized later, we must have fallen asleep. Eventually it dawned on us that we must go down and get to bed – after all I had an important appointment in the morning. As it turned out we had just started to the elevator when a Nun found us. She was frantic with worry and more than a little angry. It was two-thirty in the morning. But the joy of finding the two of us alive seemed to override the anger and before we knew it we were both in bed.   

I had my operation in the morning and evidently for some reason they had to give me much more anesthetic than normal and I slept virtually all the next day.

So about noon the next day I went up to see how Tim had made out with his operation. He hadn’t arrived back from the operation yet, so I pulled up a chair by his bed to wait. After a little while a nurse I knew a little came over, she looked very sad.

”Larry what are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting for Tim, I promised him I would be here when he came back.”

“I’m very sorry Larry, Tim didn’t make it, he isn’t coming back."


THESE ARE TWO PHOTOS OF SASKATOON THAT BELIEVE IT OR NOT ARE TAKEN FROM THE ROOF OF ST. PAULS HOSPITAL. ONE ON A COLD WINTER DAY.