Posts tagged ‘Burns Lake’

May 18th, 2011

The Beaumont

Lately, I had a chance to spend time looking at the old Bow Mac sign on West Broadway. Back in the day, it used to be one of the largest freestanding neon signs in North America and was the brain child of then sales manager, Jimmy Pattison.   It was such a simple and brilliant way to promote the Bow Mac car dealership.  Just put up a freakin’ huge sign.  Boom!  Done.  Everyone for 10 miles around will be able to find them because they can see it!

Currently, the old car lot is now a Toys R U and, since they just slapped their sign over the Bow Mac part, it looks a bit hideous.  Still, I remember that sign with fondness. 

My dad was never one to splurge on anything for himself.  He was always very practical, especially when it came to cars.  If it ran, it was good.  If it didn’t run, you had to replace it with something only slightly better than the car that just died. 

I was very young, but I still remember my dad sighing over pictures of his dream car – a 1966 dark blue Beaumont.  True to my dad’s practical nature, he never dreamed of owning a new car.  Even his dream car was 10 years old.  With my mom’s encouragement, we made the long trip down to Vancouver on a Greyhound so my dad could buy his dream car for sale at the Bow Mac car lot. 

The Beaumont was a solid steel, four doored V8 super charged machine.  Its hood was easily 16 feet in length.  You could put the entire contents of a medium sized Safeway in its trunk.  The trip from Vancouver to Burns Lake usually took 12 hours but in this car we were home in 3.

After my dad bought the car, the rules of behaviour in the Beaumont were implemented. 

  • No food or drinks were allowed
  • All feet must be on the floor
  • Punch buggy was prohibited because it might draw blood, which would stain the floor mats
  • Windows must remain closed at all times when there was a hint of rain or snow…, which in Burns Lake was daily.   
  • No popping the bubbles on the plastic seat protectors no matter how tempting. Surprisingly, this plastic wrap was not in the car when my parents went out on a date…only when my sister and I came along. 

When my dad was teaching me to drive, I could tell he was panicked that he was letting his baby take control of his other baby.  He was always very patient, but the occasional shrieks of “Oh My God…” were a bit distracting.   I am firmly aware that if I had been in a car accident, my dad’s first question would have been about the condition of the car. 

The Beaumont ran for almost 20 years.  The day it had to go to the wreckers was one of the only times I saw my dad cry.  He said he was crying because it meant he would have to spend money on a new car.  But I know that even though he spent his life taking care of us, he felt like a rebel zooming around town in his hot rod car.  I think the irony of it made him young at heart.  Knowing that he allowed himself to splurge on something that made him so happy, makes me smile.  We should all do that for ourselves every once in a while.

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February 23rd, 2010

Meat Bonspiel

Meat Bonspiel

Curling was going to be my shot at Olympic glory.  Growing up as a kid in a small northern town, your talent on ice was always seen as your ticket out of there.  Since I was born a girl (and remain one to this day), my parents put me in figure skating.  Back in the day, girls didn’t play hockey.  They stalked hockey players.  Unfortunately, my Nordic roots did nothing for me and I was a dismal failure on ice.  My parents kept hoping that I would be a late bloomer but, after 4 years of lessons, a ton of money in skates and one disastrous fall where I took out the set of the local ice show, they resigned to the fact that their heavy set daughter was not going to get an Olympic medal in figure skating…or probably any other sport for that matter.  Instead, they rightly concluded that my ticket out was going to be via scholarships and education.  So they gave me books and I spent my days and nights studying, note-taking, and reading. 

One night, the babysitter failed to show up and so my parents were forced to take me along on their outing.  And where did we go?  To my town’s version of the Olympics.  Yes.   The Sixth Annual Bavarian Meat Bonspiel.  My dad, being the local banker, was involved in all the town’s activities.  We walked into the rink and it was magical.  One side was set up as a German meat buffet.  The other side was the rink.  Suddenly my mom’s outfit – a Bavarian short skirt, peasant top and ribbon head-dress – made sense underneath her parka.  All the curling wives were on duty as Bavarian serving wenches.  Their job was to add a classy, cultural element to the evening… and to bring meat and beer to the curlers and fans.  My mom, who had secret ambitions to be a B movie actress, loved the part – although her over the top Marlene Dietrich impersonation, along with too much meat innuendo, made the United Church Minster blush and made the other husbands stand in long lines for what she was dishing out. 

But that night was not about drinking beer and eating meat.  No.  It was about local victory, pride and the winning of more meat.  Did I forget to say that the winning team got a freezer full of meat?  Oh.  Well they did…so the stakes were high…in every meaning of the word. 

I had never seen curling before.  And, once I did, I was mesmerized.  While figure skating was a sport of athleticism, grace and co-ordination, I watched my dad’s team (and their opponents) engage in truly hard core competition.  And they played the match while smoking cigarettes, eating meat and drinking beer.  This was my kind of sport.  I instantly perked up.  These were true athletes.  Sure, Elvis Stojko and Patrick Chan can land jumps sober…but can they do it after eating five pounds of meat, drinking a flat of Molson’s and chain smoking a pack of Rothmans?  I don’t think so. 

Watching the tournament, I could see myself doing this.  As a Virgo and a granddaughter of a maid, I was really good at sweeping and I could chuck snowballs with the precision of a seagull over a freshly washed car.  I was enthralled.  Even when all the teams were so obviously hammered that half the stones started going into the wrong lanes, the competition was exciting.  I clapped. I cheered.  And  I cried when my dad’s team won the freezer full of meat.  I believed that I, a nerdy, shy, unathletic gal, could finally become a world class athlete at something! 

On the ride home, I begged my parents to let me become a professional curler.  But they were firm.   “No. Your future lies in your education,” they responded.   And with that decision, my Olympic medal hopes evaporated.  To this day, I still have a soft spot for curling….and, of course, for meat and beer.  They are three of my favourite things…and I am world class at two of them. 

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January 18th, 2010

Stormy Weather

Stormy Weather 

I have an intense fear of my roof being ripped off by a large bird.  It happened again last night.  I was lying in bed as a severe storm passed overhead, and my heart started to beat wildly. 

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, we had nasty electrical storms.  While incredibly beautiful from a distance, the fork lightening was known to be deadly and something to be avoided.  Of course, after each storm, the local news would profile the same guy who had been hit by lightening 14 times in a row and survived.  For some reason no one thought to fully question Reggie Stanson’s affection for playing golf in turbulent weather…nor did anyone do a suicide assessment on him. 

As a young girl, the storms were terrifying.  The house would shake.  The lightening would illuminate the whole house for long periods of time.  Tree branches would break  and fires would start wherever the fork lightening hit.  

One night, in a valiant effort to calm his scared daughter, my dad thought it would be a good idea to explain thunder and lightening – you know, to apply a more rational approach to the fear.  Did I get the traditional children’s explanation such as “Oh, don’t worry.  That is God bowling.  The lightening happens when he gets a strike!”  Or, “Oh, don’t worry.  That is Mother Nature pushing a hot and a cold front together. They are fighting over space in the atmosphere just like you and your sister fight over your play area.”  No. I got this tidbit of rarely used Scandinavian folklore.

Listen, Maggie.  Thunder and lightening are nothing to worry about.  What happens is sometimes, the Norse god Thor gets upset at the world so he opens up the sky and he sends a gigantic flying eagle down to earth and it lands on the roof of the house.  Sometimes the bird flies off with the house and takes it back to Thor as a gift.  See, nothing to worry about.  Now good night, Sunshine. 

With that jaw dropping anecdote, I was tucked into bed and left to worry about the dangers of thunder and lightening, our friend Reggie (and the fact that no one in the town thought he could survive one more lighting strike)….and now a giant eagle landing on the roof of my house and possibly taking it back to some guy with a weird name as a gift! 

To this day, I am still terrified of thunder storms.  Granted, I have a much more grown up understanding of thunder and lightening now – it is caused by space aliens who are doing a laser light show for friends - but the giant eagle thing is always in the back of my mind.   It is why I own two cats.  In the event the big bird shows up, I want to be armed with as much cat power as possible. 

As a post script, Reggie survived two more hits of lightening and to the best of my knowledge is still alive and doing well.  He has no hearing in his left ear and can pick up CBC North without a receiver.  He has given up golfing in stormy weather but has taken up skydiving.  Stay tuned.

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October 28th, 2009

Halloween Time

Halloween Time

Halloween is the best day on the planet.  As a very shy kid, it was so fun to be able to transform into something that I was not for a few hours.  Plus, it was the only time of the year when my parents actively encouraged my sister and I to go out and take free candy from strangers.

When I was growing up in Burns Lake, months of Halloween costume planning was always ruined by the first major blizzard of the year.  The two events coincided religiously.   When I hear kids in my Kitsilano neighbourhood whine about having to walk up and down stairs to get treats, I twinge with the impulse to tell stories about how, when I was young, I trudged through five foot snow drifts to get a single treat sized Snickers bar… but I digress…

Despite the blizzards in Burns Lake, the people handing out the candy were always so supportive and enthusiastic. 

“Hey! What a great costume,” they would say to the hordes of kids in identical snow boots, snowsuits, mittens and balaclavas that would parade to their door asking for treats.  We looked like a casting call for an episode of South Park, but in our minds we were so different.

My costumes were never cute or scary.  They were “creative”.  While all my comrades were pirates, princesses or zombies, I would be Muriel Applebottom – Bunny Hunter Extrodinaire, or My Dad’s Box of Tangled Christmas Lights or The Lost Panel of a Bazooka Joe Comic Strip.  Needless to say, most of my costumes were not met with an “OOOO…how cute” or an “Awwww…adorable”, they were met with an “Oh, and what are you again?”  Still I wore my costumes with conviction and people gave me candy anyway, so they rocked!

My mom’s expensive, guest use only, King sized silk pillow cases were the preferred treat bag of choice but it was often hard to sneak them out of the house before she noticed.  Although, one year, I did use my cousin’s hockey duffle bag until some judgemental lady ruined my fun when she called me “greedy”. Mostly, I just used a Hefty garbage bag.  Because rippage could be a problem it was important to come prepared with backup bags and maybe a sled.

Out on the hunt, it was amazing how quickly information spread on the kid treat network.  With no twitter, facebook, or texting, to link us, we mind-melded together with the singular purpose of getting as much sugar as possible.  By remaining connected to the kid treat network, you quickly knew which houses gave out two chocolate bars instead of one, which were making you sing, which were giving out raisins….and which were giving out CANS OF POP!!!  

I know kids in here in Kits stay out collecting candy until they get tired or bored, but in Burns Lake, we stayed out until medically ordered indoors due to frostbite or hypothermia.  Hard core does not accurately describe an 8 year old Burns Lake kid on a mission for candy.

Arriving home with our loot, my parents insisted on inspecting all treats for safety concerns.  Surprisingly, there was a high ratio of tainted Aero bars and Glosette raisins (my parents’ favourites) but we were too hyped up and inexperienced in the ways of the world to realize that our own parents were stealing from us. 

The next two days began the hierarchy of snacking.  We would eat through our treat bag like layers of an archaeological dig.  Chocolate bars were eaten first.  Then Tootsie rolls Then Glosette peanuts.   And then….ugh….because there was nothing else left, jaw breakers, Pez circles and gum.  It would take two to three days of concentrated effort to consume all the sugar in those king sized pillow case bags.  But we did it!!  Once it was all done, we crashed in a sugar coma for two weeks….and woke up just in time to start dreaming of all the treats coming for Christmas!!

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March 24th, 2008

Easter Bunny

Easter Bunny

Kitsgals have fabulous figures. Thus, temptation in the form of calories is the natural enemy of any true kitsgal. This time of year presents temptation in an extreme form. Easter chocolate is everywhere.

Two days ago, I was in Purdy’s Chocolates on West 4th. It is chocolate heaven for anyone who believes in that form of religion. An army of brightly

I want to be buried here.

wrapped bunnies and eggs assault your senses as soon as you walk into the store – the smell alone adds ten pounds to your hips so it is best to breathe sparingly. While waiting in line to pay for my basket of chocolate bunnies, caramel eggs and truffle hens, I overheard a tiny kitsgal in front of me talking to her equally tiny kitsgal friend. With the hesitation and regret that is usually reserved for a discussion with a girlfriend after a drunken one night stand, she ordered one low fat mint patty. The two gals then discussed for a good three minutes whether they should each have one or they should share it. After hearing the exact calorie count, fat grams, transfat grams, sugar content, organic status and oxidant levels, they rationally decided to share it on the condition they do an extra session with their personal trainer and up their weekly Bikram’s yoga class number to sixteen. Yes, this was how they planned to celebrate the crucifixion and resurrection of our Lord and Saviour – one shared mint patty.

I felt a bit bad when they turned and saw my basket.

“You must have a lot of children,” one of the gals said to me.

“No. I didn’t have breakfast.” was my reply.

Easter is one of my favourite holidays. Essentially, I like any holiday whose main purpose is to give folks free chocolate. Here is my ranking of Maggie’s favourite holidays:

  1. Halloween
  2. Easter
  3. Valentines’ Day (even as a single gal, you can get free candy from your coupled gal friends if you play the pathetic/ suicidal card)
  4. Christmas
  5. Thanksgiving
  6. Canada Day

As you can see, the ratio of free chocolate to holiday traditions directly impacts my love of the occasion.

When I was growing up, Easter posed a bit of a challenge. My mom had a huge sweet tooth but she was determined to try to fight genetics and insisted that the Easter Bunny only hide non-chocolate related items in our house. This posed a bit of a problem. For all of my friends, finding brightly foil wrapped chocolate eggs meant the hunt was over in about 45 minutes or so. For my sister and me, finding the non-chocolate treats hidden in our house meant the hunt could go on for days. Eventually, we devised a strategy to help us in the search – we had to ask ourselves what things were now in the house that had not been there the day before. Over the years, the Easter Bunny left us some really odd treats.

A list of some of the really odd treats left by the Easter Bunny.

  • Potato masher
  • Mittens
  • Protractor set
  • Money
  • Prescription medication
  • Hamsters
  • Ichiban noodles
  • Scotch
  • Book on how to care for your new hamster
  • Vicks cough drops
  • Sunflower seeds (I am guessing they were for the hamsters)
  • Condoms

Thinking back on things, it is really hard to say what was left by the Easter Bunny and what we just inadvertently stole from visiting house guests. My mom put an end to the whole Easter hunt thing the day after I very proudly claimed a new set of Samsonite luggage, not thinking that it may belong to my dad’s new boss who had just arrived to stay the night.

Perhaps that is why I find the whole Easter candy hunt thing a bit lame…finding brightly wrapped chocolate eggs in a living room seems so simple; finding a new, never seen before, roasting pan hidden in a house – that takes skill.

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March 3rd, 2008

Eye Doctors

Eye Doctors

This past Saturday, I had to go to the eye doctor. Nothing in my life causes me more stress than going to the eye doctor. I know there are other doctors that commonly cause people more anxiety than eye doctors, but, in my world, they are the most feared.

When I was a little girl living in Burns Lake, my parents came to realize that their socially awkward, extremely shy girl also had one eye that was lazy. Laziness of any kind was not tolerated in my family – only hyper productive, hard working eyes were allowed - so my parents set about to get it fixed right away. Because the town doctor was temporarily on “vacation” due to a revocation of his licence for something called “incompetence”, we made the arduous journey to the big city of Prince George. For those of you who don’t know Prince as it is called, think about mixing the smell of sulphur and rotting eggs with unemployment and red necks and you pretty much have a good idea of what that mill town is like. But Prince had an A&W, and we always got a root beer float everytime we went.   For me, this feature made a visit to PG like a visit to New York – wonderful and exciting!   

In Prince George, I met my first eye doctor, Dr. Dixon. My parents hated Dr. Dixon because he was a hippie. They knew he was a hippie because he had sideburns. Only hippies and communists had sideburns. Dr. Dixon examined my wandering left eye and said I needed to “see better”…. this I soon came to realize was code for “ You need to wear big, freakin’ ugly glasses.” Because, I also needed to have my lazy eye “corrected”, I also had to wear an eye patch on my stronger eye to encourage the lazy one to get up off its ass and see straight. The rationale of having a lazy eye that was always looking off to the side work on its own, pretty much guaranteed that I would be walking in circles. Seeing the world in front of me was no longer an option.

Arriving back in Burns Lake, I came to learn the definition of the words “pirate” and “torment”.

Yarrrrrrrrrr…..yarrrrrr…..yarrrrrrr….was how all sentences started whenever anyone spoke to me.

In today’s world, as an adult, I would be mortified if I had to wear a huge eye patch with a thick pair of eye goggles covering it. When I was a kid in grade two, however, I was mortified X 1000. After my forth day of coming home sobbing because the kids wanted to see my hook, my mom took matters into her own hands. Mortified X 1000 X 2, I watched as she marched down to talk with my teacher. My teacher, Mrs. Carlson, was 104 years old. Since Burns Lake could not get new young teachers to go there, anyone that started teaching was forbidden to retire. Mr. Tolbert actually died in front of his grade five class and they didn’t replace him for seven months. The administration said it gave the class a chance to catch up on their silent reading.

Anyway, after my mom’s visit, Mrs. Carlson promised to address the issue. The next day she called me to the front of the class. I stood there as she made this pronouncement to “fix” the problem.

“Children. Now, Maggie does indeed look like a pirate. But her mom says you should stop calling her a pirate. Stop asking her where her parrot is, telling her to walk the plank and asking to see her scurvy marks. You should also stop putting things in front of her.  She cannot see them and will just trip  If you want her to see something, walk over to her left side and show it to her.   Apparently, her left eye has no Protestant work ethic and is, therefore, evil.  Now, I  personally think your behaviour it is funny and clever but, she can’t take it, so try to stop if you can.”

It was a crushing day in Maggie history as I made the long walk back to my desk only to find a note waiting for me on the far left corner….”Yarrrrr” it read.

The next week or so were relatively without incident until my mom decided to up the stakes. Because the removing of the eye patch was painful to me and time-consuming for her…(think about pulling a big adhesive patch off your eyebrows and face…yep, now you’ve got it)….my mom thought of a brilliant way to alleviate my pain and make her life easier. Instead of putting the eye patch on my face, she briiliantly decided to wrap black electrical tape around the lens of my glasses. Yes, at that point, even I was calling myself Black beard Maggie.

By grade six, my lazy eye had healed and Dr. Dixon, who had moved from a hippie phase to a pronounced disco phase, said I no longer needed glasses….YIPPEEE!!!

Fast forward twenty-plus years.

I began to get hints from my family and friends that perhaps I should consider getting my eyes re-checked. Apparently, it is not common to type in Microsoft Word with font size 72.

Taking a deep breath, I made an appointment to see an eye doctor near my house. His name was Dr. Stupid. That is what I am calling him. I took a day off work and sat in his waiting room for over an hour with a promise that he was “running late” due to important eye doctor business. I envisioned him stopping to fix the eyes of orphans or giving dogs to the blind. In reality, however, he was running late because he had to place an order for some stocks. I know this because that is what he told me. He also reeked of booze and stale cigarettes.

Anyway, I saw him for two minutes when he made the diagnosis:

(Read in loud echo-y slow motion.)

“Your eyes have deteriorated.”

Tightening in my chest

“They are in horrible shape.”

Lower lip starts to quiver.

“You need GLASSES.”

A single tear trickles down my cheek.

“We have a lovely new Pirates of the Caribbean line that you might want to check out.”

WHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I began to sob uncontrollably. Dr. Stupid, who obviously learned his people skills from Stalin, ushered me out of his office and left me sobbing in the waiting room. People stared. I sobbed and dripped for a few minutes and then left. Everyone was happy to see me go. Even me.

After a month of trauma counselling, a friend recommended I see his eye doctor for a second opinion. I met Dr. Chris with a lot of hesitancy but he was young, hip and, well, SUPER gorgeous. It is amazing how a gal becomes much braver when a cute guy is involved. I told him of my experience and he listened intently, sided with me and blamed Dr. Stupid for being so lame. I was in love.

He looked at my eyes and said they looked fine. You bet they look fine! He said I might need glasses for reading but there are lots of sexy styles that would be fun to wear. Yes, what a great idea. Fun to wear sexy glasses!! Dr. Chris wanted to see me again. Yes!! In six months. Sure!! For another eye exam. Okay! I’ll take what I can get!!

I do have glasses now but just for reading. I’m okay with it. I can even make the odd pirate reference without sobbing…Yaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…..

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