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.