From the Back Pasture

LOOKING BACK, UP AND DOWN, MAKES ONE WONDER WHAT’S AHEAD

2011-02-04T17:03:00.000-08:00

The recent price of gold brought to mind the Chinese workers who had been brought to work on the railroad. My father told me that most of them went back to China but those who didn’t found it difficult to get work. They resorted to panning gold. One area of their interest was what we called Todd’s intake (this is another story) which had a long sloping bank down a steep sandy trail to Penticton Creek bed. If memory serves me right it was some 200ft in elevation from creek to summit.

The tools needed were simple a wheel barrel, a shovel, a gold pan and a strong back. Finding the right elevation along this sandy path was a matter of trial and error. Fill the barrel, down to the creek, pan it out and look for that black sand with a few flakes or a pin head sized nugget to deposit in that piece of equipment I omitted, The Poke. At $30 an ounce my Farther told me they could in a day one 30th of an ounce or one dollar a day with a little luck was possible.

My contact with the Chinese as a young boy was not great but what there was left me with a good feeling about them that has stayed with me to this day .
Back to the $1300 an ounce gold.

The Macintyre Creek area was another interesting place to prospect and pan in those hard time 1930’s. Since its head waters came from the area of the famous Camp McKinney gold mine of years before it seemed it was a good place to spend some time. The participant in these excursion included Dad and the means of transport, because our field of interest was some 35 miles south and might include a flat tire or break down, myself, at 9 or 10 years - maybe my brother Red, four years older than I was, plus a son-in-law, Sterling Hauser. Oh yes I almost forgot our snake killer the fox terrier Kip. It’s almost impossible for me to stay on the subject so have patience.

The time of year had a bearing on directions given out by the boss. If it was hunting season don’t shoot a big horn sheep by mistake or whatever, don’t get lost and be back or in shouting distance by 4 pm. You, Gordon, look after your brother and let the dog do the rattlers, and remember, one boot on the snake’s head if it’s connected when Kip through with it, before you cut the rattles off. Don’t forget your rock hammers and sample bags and your magnifying glass, thermos and lunch. If were late for supper we’re all in trouble.

On to the hunt for a spot where we had found traces before, or a better location. Fill the pan maybe a third full and after removing any larger stones dip the pan into some slow moving water, gently move the pan in a circular motion and at enough of an downward angle on the far edge to allow dirt and other matter to be flushed away, Continue until only that mineralized sand and other bright objects are left and maybe some flakes of that deep off black gold will shine though.

Tiring of the gold search, look in the backpack for that thread spool with the fishing line and the cork with the fish hooks, find a green willow shoot and after assembly find some bait and a likely pool and rest a while. Some hope. Kip has found a rattler. Better him than me.

The more senior members of the group had headed off in various directions looking for showings of gold, silver, mica, crystal, or the one of value unknown to us at the time, molybdenum. In the vein this mineral looked much like silver. It had some important use in bomb making. Interesting, but to be useful at a later date.

By the way the other bit of paper was your hunting license and prospectors license. Seems to me that they also a small aluminum case that slid apart and you could put your licenses inside, to be carried on your belt. Come to think of it I think I still have one of those cases in my junk after 70 years.

Back to prospecting if you found a good outcropping and had looked around for further signs It was necessary to stake out your claim with no less than 4 inch diameter which had to stand 4ft above ground with a blazed and the face showing the compass direction of number 2 stake and the number of paces. This process continued for the next 2 stakes to complete the claim. The claim must then be registered with the nearest Government Office and metal plates put on the claim stakes. Seems to me that you had to do a certain amount of development work each year or you would lose your claim.

At one time Dad thought there was enough of a showing to call in a Geologist. This knowledgeable person explained that the show of the mineral was good but there was little hope of the vein continuing. He explained that during the eons when the earth surface was being pushed about by the Ice age the rock surface was folded over on itself. This resulted in the continuity of the vein being broken and buried or shattered. A good example of this type of earth formation can be seen when traveling west on Hyw 3a and on your left at the turn off to the Twin Lakes Golf Course. This type of formation is common from Princeton to the Kootenays.

The most memorable thing I have thought of in recent years about the creek was that in some spots it had flowed along merrily for years and left smooth polished rock making it easy to see the vein of quartz which carried the high grade mineral. The Moly that was pointed out to us by the geologist showed us the difficulties of finding any continuity of the vein because of what he called Slip or those ancient folds that I discussed before.

Speaking of remembering the Creek, just downstream there was a place that as a young boy I found most fascinating. Again this stream had cut down though solid rock some 20 ft. The initial opening was about 6 to 8ft across .This had left the creek channel flowing through a bottle shaped corridor. Very impressive but to finish off the melting ice had deposited a large pear shaped rock on the top of the bottle shaped creek channel. A fascinating bridge. I would like go back for a look someday, maybe this summer.

Strange things happen to me as I reach old age, - I sometimes think about things that have happened in my life many long years ago and I begin to question myself. Did I actually pilot a fully loaded Lancaster bomber with six men of my crew behind me through that hell called war? Sometimes I have to go and check the records.

I wonder if this happens to other elderly people?

2009-06-15T15:58:00.000-07:00

I seem to have a habit of drifting off into a comparison of the way things were in the past to what they are like today. Hard not to when you've been around for as long as I have.

There is a lot of talk these days about organic grown fruit and veggies, as well as meat, and one is paying dearly for such produce. The trend to organic food (and even organic cosmetic products) is like a lot of other things these days, - blown entirely out of proportion.

I believe that ordinarily grown produce, handled by a registered organized shipper, is probably safer than some other sources because they are controlled to a greater extent by inspectors.

It is a complex subject and my reason for discussing it is to give some idea of what took place in the early years of the last century regarding spraying.

Lime sulfur and a light type of oil was the main dormant spray used, - one that I found was applied as much on the operator as on the aphids and the mildew that it was meant to control. The operator and the surrounding countryside were redolent of rotten eggs! These early season sprays had no carry over to the produce that was sold to the consumer.

Eventually the coddling moth found its way into the Okanagan Valley and this scourge caused all kinds of trouble for the next seventy-five years.

As a prime example of one chemical that was first used for this type of pest consider Arsenic of Lead. This chemical left a residue on the fruit that had to be washed off in the packing houses before it could be shipped out to the consumer. This was done under strict supervision by government inspectors even in those early years, so there was no threat to the consumer.

However, grass that the livestock ate in the orchards caused them to become sick with lead poisoning. We used nose bags made of screenings so they couldn't graze when they were hauling the sprayer in the orchard. My father did eventually develop some small patches of skin cancer on his face.

In my own case it was a matter of being young and foolish. I was about twelve years old and it was August, which was pear picking time. It was a boring job and it was hot. The pears had to be two and one quarter inches in diameter and one grew weary. For a break I took some of the smaller pears growing in the center of the tree, wiped them off roughly on my jeans, took a couple of bites and then threw them away. Eventually I began to feel ill and went back to the house, but Mother was away someplace so I ended up lying on the ground, being extremely sick for some considerable time. This experience has stayed with me all these years because I remember wishing I could die... Being so violently sick probably saved my life.

Arsenic of Lead was one chemical that was used in paints and was eventually banned.

Other sprays were developed, such as Creolite and Guthion , but in all cases the washing process was strictly carried out in the packing houses and residue tests enforced by government inspectors.

In the last years of the 40's I did custom spraying and I was always very careful about the amount of chemical used. I might also add that I never used a spray mask in all the years that I did this type of work, mainly because they made it very difficult to breath.

Nowadays I see what appears to be men from Mars suited up in space suits, driving the tractors which haul spray machine.

The other afternoon I was party to a conversation between two fruit growers about organic growers and the regulations which are apparently being imposed on this venture. Apparently a lady had arrived in the Similkameen Valley from down East and was laying out all the new regulations regarding the growing, handling and selling of organic produce. One of the regulations I found most ridiculous was that the farm worker must wash his hands before continuing work if he smoked a cigarette on his break.

It would almost seem that it's time for the invention of a pill that we can all take to provide us with the needed nutriments to keep us alive and free from any contamination. I cannot help but think of the thousands of lives lost to Malaria in the equator regions of the world as a result of the banning of D.D.T.

I have a feeling that the new push for organic grown food will prove to be very expensive, not any safer than it was before, and a great opportunity to charge more for produce by taking advantage of the fear of contamination.

2009-06-15T15:34:00.000-07:00

Here I am, back again!

It seems impossible that the last ten weeks have disappeared and I have not written here, but it has, and the only excuse I have is to say I 'was under the weather'..

Hildred and I seldom get sick, but we both came down with some kind of flu at the same time; she with a bad sinus cold and I with some kind of chest infection. I surprised myself, after taking a look at her and seeing the concern in her eyes, by suggesting I should go to Emergency.

Never having experienced this type of procedure before I was amazed at the number of family members who appeared on the scene.

In any case, my oxygen level went from 88 to 96 in a couple of days and I was home again twenty-five pounds lighter, feeling pretty good and with a greater respect for our health care system.

Hildred took a while longer to come back to normal but we are gardening again with a vengeance and giving TLC to the curly willows.

2009-04-17T21:50:00.000-07:00

What kept a Kid Busy in the 1930's
And other comments

Well, it's hard to keep things in their proper chronological order when one starts looking back so many years, and for the type of person who has never written much beyond his own name, it's a chore!!

However, as youngsters we had it really good with the sling shots - "zipzips" - our name for the weapon of David and Goliath fame.

Here, in a painting by Lorie Corbus, you can see what a serious business this was.

Along with 22's and 12 gauge shotguns, when we reached the age of responsibility.

This was serious business too, and we had impressed upon us by our parents (usually Fathers) of the consequences of misuse. This meant thinking where the missile that you were launching would end up, after it had hit the target - or NOT, which was quite often the case. Along with the sport of using firearms we kept in mind the damage that they could cause.

The necessity of putting down an animal that was badly injured or sick was something that one might not enjoy, but which must be done in an humane way.

These were some of the things that our generation had to learn and remember, - and as they would be today our mothers were always concerned about this type of education.

Our days were spent outdoors, but in the evenings we listened to the radio. We did have a fairly good radio and I can remember listening to Tarzan of the Apes and One Man's Family, it seemed like every night.

There were some special programs, like H.G. Wells' broadcast of "War of the Worlds". There have been many people who have been critical of people who were terrified when they heard this radio broadcast about the invasion of aliens from Mars, but the usual expression applies - "Buddy, if you weren't there hold your tongue".

If I remember correctly there were three major stations carrying the story, and each one broadcast disclaimers quite frequently. But as you turned from one station to another, seeking the truth, you would miss the disclaimers.

In this day and age when the knowledge of the universe has become so much more advanced it seems that those who were so alarmed some 70 odd years ago were somewhat foolish, but stop and think of the number of people who believe we are alone in this Universe. I have only one comment. Research has told us that the big beautiful solar system reaches out for billions of light years, and to think that in that vast space this speck of dust that we call earth holds the only intelligence is, IMHO, a complete no brainer.

As I journey back in my mind to those years of growing up, and the pals with whom I spent the days hiking the hills, fishing and swimming, and all the other things country boys were able to do, stories come flooding back. But I will save them for another posting.....

2009-04-09T20:57:00.000-07:00

Musical Memories

Mother had a great love of music, and she had her own violin which she played by ear. She had no formal education in music but she was determined that her children would have this privilege.

This meant scraping together enough money for a piano (a lovely old square grand) and the dollar every two weeks for the piano lessons for me and my sister.

At the time it seemed a terrible bore to have to practice every day, but I often thanked my mother in later years for her foresight. The ability to read music is a very fulfilling part of one's life.

I remember the first piano recital I participated in.... I think my sister and I played a duet, and as I recall it was quite an experience.

It was a later recital of much more sophistication involving costumes and make-up where I was a soldier and played Marche Militaire. Marches at that time were my favourite genre.

Not too long after the first recital I was prevailed upon by our school music teacher to play a selection in front of my classmates. I remember freezing solid! I could not move my fingers or speak a word. The teacher recognized my stage fright and talked me out of it, quietly and gently. This experience stayed with me, and gave me confidence in later years.

The same teacher encouraged me to play double B bass in the High School Band. Many of the boys who played in this school band also played in the Penticton City Band after the war, but the ranks were thinner because of the war. Because of being strong and hefty I was chosen to play the Sousaphone, - a feat in this marching Band.

We also had a girl's Glee Club at school and they and the school band performed at a music festival and were adjudicated by Sir Ernest MacMillan, receiving very favourable results.

Our music teacher was a clever man, and he introduced a lot of us to a much fuller musical experience, and this in turn enriched the years that followed.

My own career as a pianist probably reached its peak as a result of playing by ear the pieces I heard on my cousin's player piano, - Alexander's Ragtime Band, You Made me Love You, The Dark Town Strutter's Ball, and many other pieces popular in the first part of the 20th century. My sister was much more accomplished and plays a great repertoire to this day.

During my time in the Airforce I found there were many good musicians, - some of them really excellent. Amongst the best was Nolan Henderson, a fighter pilot whom I
met on my way home from Overseas. During leaves in Britain he would often play his violin on the BBC. On the train coming West across Canada, he stood and played wonderful wild Hungarian Dances.

We both embarked the train in Edmonton, - I to be married and he to return to his home there. We had become friends quickly, and as I had none of my old friends within easy distance (most of them being still Overseas) I was glad when he agreed to be my Best man at our wedding.

When we first moved to the farm in Cawston a friend made us a gigantic set of speakers that we could set up facing the open windows of the house and broadcast marvelous records throughout the orchard while we worked. The speakers are now installed in the rafters of the garage, and the same music accompanies me as I fiddle about there!

And I am playing the part of a baritone in a senior's 'choir' where the members love to sing.

Music has spread in both our family, and my sister's, with the playing of fiddle, guitar, piano, clarinet, banjo and drums. The children and grandchildren have introduced us to contemporary music, but my favourites are still the music which was familiar to me when I was young, the music of the Forties, the music of Andre Rieu and Nana Mouskouri, Scott Joplin, Military Bands, Truckers tunes and Country.

And I hear a lot of hymns being practised which usually please my ear....

Here is a picture of one of the new generation of pianists.....

..and one of the old gaffer

2009-03-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

I read in the papers and see on the television concerns over what seems like an increase in bullying. And I remember my own experiences in my first year at school.

For some reason I was sent to stay with friends of my parents who lived in town, very close to an area where there were several large families who were inclined to be rough and tough. Because I came to school on the bus I was considered to be a 'sissy', - and perhaps I was. Country living is different from town living, especially in those days.

I remember being afraid to go to school, and getting very little sympathy outside of being able to stick up for yourself. There was an older boy named Craig Coldren who lived right across the street from the people I was staying with, and I latched on to him every morning. Needs must (when the devil drives). I was grateful he was there, but I never saw him again after he left school and I think he was killed during the war.

I eventually gained confidence and became friends with the other boys. Eventually I grew into a good sized lad, and I can remember when I stepped in to stop some cases of bullying, mostly by talking.

I should mention the fact that in those days any one caught fighting on the school grounds ended up with five of the best on each hand. It also might be worth mentioning that the instrument of application was about thirty inches long by two inches wide by one quarter inch thick!!!

I have 'borrowed' this picture from the web, - it was a ferocious instrument, but a deterrent, - and it caused boys to duck behind the stone walls that fronted the school yard when there was any fighting going on....

I came across an old newspaper dated in the early forties, and it had a story in it about justice at that time. Four young lads who had badly abused a girl in the same age bracket were convicted and sentenced to three years with alternate lash and paddle during the time of their sentence.

I knew one of these fellows in later years and believe me, he never broke any laws during the rest of his life.

A hard way to teach the effects of lawlessness, but we were never then in the mess we are now, and I lay blame on the liberalness of the courts in their treatment of criminals....

2009-03-25T20:57:00.000-07:00

One of the things I remember as a child in the thirties was being sick with the various ailments that all children seem to suffer with, - measles, mumps, chicken-pox, and the more serious ones like scarlet fever, small pox and infantile paralysis (as it was called in those days).

We managed to avoid polio during childhood, but when I was in my mid twenties I was stricken with it, and although I was fortunate and recovered with no lasting disability through my life, now, as I age, I am afflicted with 'polio syndrome' where the nerves have died after being damaged by the disease, and the healthy nerves left have deteriorated from doing double duty for those that had been destroyed.

Health care in those early days relied mainly upon the ability of the women of the family, and my mother was a diligent and kind nurse.

Small Pox was one of the worst diseases for scarring, - it was sometimes fatal, and it was very contagious. There was a recommended vaccination, but I believe it was still not totally effective. My Brother, Tom, had a paper route in Penticton, and one of his deliveries was to a customer who had the Pox. Tom probably carried the disease home through money exchange and my sister Nonie and I contracted small pox and ended up with wool socks on our hands so we wouldn't scratch and have the ugly telltale face shell scarring. My mother cared for us meticulously throughout this time, and I have only one small pock mark which over the years has faded and disappeared.

We were quarantined for some weeks, and supplies had to be delivered to our property line. When the disease had run its course the house was fumigated with open topped coffee tins containing a sulfur like substance which burned for days.

Besides these childhood ailments I was inclined to be Croupy, and this condition I disliked with a passion. The only relief from the choking that I remember was a teaspoon of brown sugar, well soaked with kerosene. In later years my experience with Croup stood me in good stead when some of our own children would awaken in the night, panicking, coughing and unable to breath. It is most frightening for parents who are not familiar with Croup, but I could calm them until a tent of steam relieved the condition.

As a kindness, we didn't ever administer brown sugar and kerosene......

2009-03-19T19:14:00.000-07:00

Buffalo Bill Cody

The other day, while surfing the TV, I came across a play about Bill Cody and his Wild West Show, - a popular event in the early part of the last century.

Memories came flooding back about stories my mother told us about this Show that she had seen in Toronto in the early teens. Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show.

It included real Indians and Cowboys riding and roping, but what impressed my mother most was the extraordinary marksmanship of Annie Oakley.

What made the story even more interesting that one of mother's Irish relatives was related to Bill Cody, in a round about manner. I became good friends with my distant cousins, Lyle and Verne Cody.

Another story mother told us was undoubtedly true. She was born into a large family of Irish Catholics by the name of O'Callaghan, in Downeyville, Ontario.

They were farmers and had livestock, including a Jersey bull with a set of very sharp horns. A bad combination, - Jersey bulls are not noted for a gentle disposition.

My grandfather, William O'Callaghan,

got into a fracas with this Jersey bull.

He was knocked to the ground and gored. Fortunately the bull had been fitted with a nose ring and Bill got his fingers into the ring, holding the animal at bay while he whistled for his stock dog who drove the bull away.

Mother's first husband died of the Spanish Flu in the terrible epidemic of 1918. She was left with two young children, Hazel and Tom, so when her parents decided to move West to Vancouver she came with them.

Her father, Bill, found work as a teamster in the Vancouver train yards, but was killed shortly after when a switch engine struck his loaded freight wagon.

Mother moved to Penticton with her children to keep house for my father, who had also lost his first wife, Violet, and was orcharding on the Penticton benches. Their eventual marriage produced three more children, - my older brother, Gordon, myself and my sister Wenonah.

Which sets the stage for a a ton of 'growing up' tales and memories.....

2009-03-04T18:21:00.000-08:00

Depression Days

By the end of the 1920's we had a radio at home, and could get several stations, so the great stock market crash of 29/30 and the 10 year depression that followed was remembered even by a five year old. Hearing of people jumping off bridges and out of windows to their deaths, as described by reporters. and watching the concern on your parent's faces was enough to make even a child remember. Best that I not comment on our present situation.

Those years through the thirties were memorable for many things, - some good and some bad. On the farm we were really fortunate to have enough to eat. My dad and older brothers would hunt in the fall for game birds and deer and elk. It was not the sport hunting that it is today. I was with my dad one day on a hunt in the shellrock area around Penticton and we had not sighted any game. It was late and the light was going fast. We spotted four or five deer headed up out of the ravine about 800 yards away. Dad was an excellent shot, but with poor light and shooting down hill it took him five or six shots to finally knock one down. He was upset because at five cents a shell it was too costly. We went down and dressed the deer, but had to come back the next morning to get it out.

By way of explanation concerning the necessity of hunting game, this was part of the existence of pioneers who had to live off the land.

As well as providing for our family there were many days when there would be extra mouths to feed. When the Kettle Valley Railroad was being built in 1915 the grade cut through a small corner of our property and the house was only a few hundred yards from the tracks. More importantly, down the tracks a half mile was the Randolph Draw trestle which was built on a curve that required the heavily loaded freight trains to reduce their speed significantly, much the same as when the train was coming into the main yards.

The men who rode the rods looking for some kind of work would jump off to avoid the railroad police in the yards. Of course when they discovered that they were still eight miles from the hobo jungle where there might be something to eat, they would head for the nearest farm house. They hoped that they could do some kind of work for a meal. It was a matter of pride that they would feel they were not begging if they could pay for the meal in some way.

In a lot of cases these men were professional and well educated. They probably had a wife and children somewhere in Canada. The government of the time would pay a small allowance to the family but the husband had to try to find work.

For those of us in the impressionable age (from 5 to 12) it was a time of learning from the vast store of knowledge that these men possessed. A lot of them were vets from the Boer War and the first World War, and their experiences traveling across the country looking for work added to our education.

In this day and age parents would be reluctant to have their youngsters associating with the 'hoboes' as they were called. In those days if child abuse were to occur the perpetrator would be severely dealt with by his associates and he would be lucky to get away with life. In towns such individuals would be tarred and feathered and run out of town.

I don't know all the circumstances that caused these men to be forced to such desperate measures - riding on the tops of box cars in all kinds of weather. Sometimes they might be lucky enough to find an empty one, but then there was the danger of the heavy door slamming shut and locking them in if they did not find a block of wood large enough to prevent this.

The third option was even worse, and I believe it is where the expression ' riding the rods' came from. Since I don't have access to a rail car any more I have to guess, but I believe there were two heavy rods under the deck of the cars, anchored on one end to the back and the front axles, running to an anchor point in the centre of the deck. These rods, on a slight upwards angle, were about two or three feet apart, allowing a man to lay with some innovation of boards or wire in some comfort, although in an extremely dangerous location.

This type of behavior may look exciting in the movies, but it cost a lot of good men their lives.

My mother always fed them if she could, and that's where some of the deer and elk meat went. I think there are men still alive today that went through that time, but their ranks are getting thinner with every day that goes by.

We can only hope that in the present financial difficulties we manage to prevent the terrible economic collapse of the thirties.

2009-02-27T21:52:00.000-08:00

My father, Sid, was good at many things. In those early days if you had any kind of motor in a machine there was no such thing as an electric starter. They had a magneto which created a spark only if the motor was turned over with a crank or by spinning the flywheel over. As you can imagine, if the mag was not set just right you could end up with a broken arm.

Dad was a bit of an expert on these things so there were many friends and neighbours whom I suspect enjoyed a cup of apple cider if it was in the right stage between sweet cider and the dark vinegar which we sold for fifty cents a gallon.

As kids we loved the sweet cider and we could take part in the process of grinding and pressing of the pulp. Also it was the place where you learned to stay clear of moving belts and machinery. I guess it was the kind of place where men and boys could get away from the chores and demands of the household. This was always a bit of a point of contention with the household bosses, and since there were no telephones to demand the return of the cellar gang my father always had an ear cocked for the sound of mother's call from the house, or the message relayed by my sister.

I never saw my father inebriated in all the years that I knew him. He seemed to be able to handle even the worst situations with a quiet manner and quick action, whether it be the neighbours team of runaway horses or a wind driven fire. His nature made him extremely good with livestock.

He told us boys of some of the early days when he ran a stagecoach from Hoodsport to Lake Cushman, carrying passengers and mail. He had managed to purchase a matched team of whites for the stage, named Sam and Mons.

He also ran a barge on Lake Keechelus to handle freight from one end of the lake to the stage road. If I remember correctly the lake was part of the trail through the mountains to the coast. I would imagine that he had a small tug boat (with a mag and flywheel driven engine to drive the propeller) He told us that he carried the first motor car to cross the mountains on this barge. The year must have been about 1905. He also told us that he carried a loaded side arm under his seat because of carrying the mail. He said that the worst trip was when he had to build sturdy rails on the barge to load a dozen or so horses which could cause serious problems if they began to panic.

On the orchard we had a second cistern very near to the first one. These had to be filled before the irrigation water was turned off in the fall. In all the years that my dad worked at all the different jobs he was called upon to undertake there was only once that I can think of that he was laid up, and that was when a ladder broke during the construction of this second cistern. He jumped from the ladder and broke his heel bones.

My father had a power spray machine and with it he did custom spraying from Naramata to Kaledan, traveling some thirty miles with the team and sprayer, and maybe having to ride the horses home at night and back in the morning.

I am finding that it is impossible to get incidents and happenings that made up one's life so many long years ago, and even more difficult to put it all down so it makes some sense. There are events that seem to divide the years according to your age and the sometimes painful happenings, so with that thought in mind I will try to write more chronologically.

2009-02-25T21:02:00.000-08:00

My grandfather, Vincent, was a withdrawn person, caused perhaps by his long and rough life over the years he traveled from the U.S. east coast, to the west coast, the Yukon and eventually to Penticton, where he completed his life's story.

But then maybe he was just getting tired of people and young children asking stupid questions. He and his son, Sidney, taught me many things that I have remembered all my life. How to use a hand saw after it is properly sharpened. How two men on an eight or ten foot crosscut saw in big timer could quietly fall a good sized tree and buck it into proper lengths. Mind you those men had to be able to use a double bitted axe right or left handed, and this is something I have been able to do as well - use an axe or shovel equally well in both hands.

But Grandpa Vince was a tough old bird and always seemed to be working at something. There was always a couple of horses and a milk cow on the ranch which had to be fed, so he had his scythe and wetstone and hay fork with him when he went into the orchard, and at noon and supper time a great mound of hay with a set of legs headed into the barn.

We had a two storey barn built into the hillside so that you could enter top or bottom at ground level. The bottom was for the livestock and the top for storage, and harness and saddles, etc. There were stairs to go down to do the milking.

One end was for winter hay storage, and my friends and I used to jump into the hay from great heights at the risk of a piece of harness being applied to our backside if we were caught.

The roadway at the top side of the barn was the way down into the orchard and because the property was quite hilly we had some great sleigh riding down the twists and turns and often ended upset.

Right across from the barn was a roomy root cellar built into the bank, made of logs and covered with two or three feet of dirt. Only the front was made of wood, with two doors. One was the normal size and the other much larger to accommodate the cider press and the large wooden barrels for cider, which eventually turned to vinegar.

The cellar was heated by a wood and coal stove and properly banked would keep the place warm in the coldest weather. It housed all the tools and jars of preserves. There was a much smaller root cellar which stored the root crops, like potatoes, carrots, beets, etc.

This building was the gathering place for friends and neighbours and I have many fond memories of it.

2009-02-22T17:28:00.000-08:00

Of course we have albums, and many boxes of pictures which we have recently sorted, so looking at the early pictures of childhood might give me some clue for a start.

Here is one of Bob Evans and I sitting at a child's table on chairs bought by my mother from the new T. Eaton's catalog.

My little sister is having tea and playing cards with us as well. The year is about 1928/29. We still have two of those little chairs.

Right behind us was a twelve by sixteen foot Yukon cabin with a floor and walls up the sides about four feet high, made of rough lumber. The rest of the walls and roof were a white canvas tent. This was the home of my grandfather, by his preference.

John Vincent Finch was born in 1850 in the Eastern United States. As a young man and a logger he ended up in California in the Redwoods, then north to Washington State and the big timber of the Hoods Canal. He married Ida Robbins and they had a family of 5 boys and one girl.

In 1898 he headed north to Skagway and the Chilcoot Pass, down Lake Bennett and eventually to Dawson City. As my sister put on his headstone many years later - 'Nor-westering'. His days of traveling north were over.

In 1913, having bought ten acres of land (sight unseen) on the east bench of Penticton, he settled there to grow fruit trees. He was not alone in this venture as he had four other buddies from the Yukon that I know of - Cabel Hauser, John Helslie, John LaHore and Mutch. These men were hard workers and extremely inventive when they had so much work to do, and so little in the way of machinery to help them get the jobs done.

The biggest thing that had to be provided was the water system, and this, I believe, was the responsibility of the Land Company that sold the property. They had to pick up the water from the mouth of Penticton Creek above Penticton in the Carmi, and run it in open metal flumes all the way to Four Mile with a spillway into the small creek bed at that point.

Some of my earliest memories are tagging along behind my father while he was 'chasing water', which meant trying to guide the water down dirt ditches to the last trees at the bottom of the hill. This usually meant several trips up and down to adjust the flow or plug a gopher hole into which the water was disappearing.

The domestic water for the living quarters for the winter months had to be provided for. In the early days there was no electricity and no such thing as the pumps we have today.

It must have been sometime around 1930 that we got power, but I could be wrong about that, because I remember cleaning lamp shades and trimming the wick. But that could have been in 1935 when the power lines from Trail were down for about six weeks.

I digress. Back to the water. To provide domestic water it was necessary to built cisterns, twleve feet in diameter and fourteen feet in depth b elow ground level. I believe they used the chimney brick with the inside heavily mortared to water proof the tank. If you had a hill near your abode you could use a gravity feed and pipe under ground to give a pressurized tap in the house.

The cisterns had to have a weatherized top. This is where a good man with a shovel came in.

It might be worth mentioning that my father, Sid, had a set of pipe threaders for pipe from 3/8 inch to 2 1/2 inch iron piping. He must have learned this trade in his birthplace in Shelton Washington because some eighty years later the village officials got him to show them where the old ipe lines were situated.

Those people who could not use a gravity system had to put in a hand pump, which had to be thawed and primed each morning in cold weather.

Dad was about five foot ten in height, and weighed about one hundred and eighty pounds. His father, Vincent, was about the same size, but they were both extremely strong, and what they lacked in size they more than made up for in savvy.

My father was in his eighties when he came to live with us on the Cawston bench. Part of the property had some large rocks imbedded at ground level which could weight around half a ton. For something to do he would use his knowledge of simple tools like a shovel and a crowbar and the simple principle of the fulcrum point and leverage that was applied.

This prinicple regarding the use of the advantage of pries and the proper fulcrum point comes back to me now, and I recall when I had my own eighteen wheeler many years later in the 1980's I had a crew of 3 or 4 husky young men, and we had just finished loading a 20 ton load of baled hay. Unbeknownst to us the truck was parked over an old septic tank, and as we finished loading the dueled tandems fell through the top of the tank.

The young men couldn't see any way out of the predicament short of unloading the trailer or hiring a large loader to lift it free. However, there was a log lying in the yard, some 10 inches in diameter and 20 feet long. With the combined weight of the six men and the proper fulcrum point we lifted the trailer high enough to put planks under the tires and drove away.

The young men were suitably impressed.

2009-02-21T18:44:00.000-08:00

Well, the continuing pressure from family members to start writing down memories of the past 80 plus years has finally become more important as one begins to slow down with age.

The obituary column in the papers seems to draw one's attention, and funerals for our generation become a weekly occurrence.

Something that also pushed me to get on with this project is a recent purchase of a machine which, when added to the computer, can transform tape cassettes on to a CD. Some twenty years ago I started taping conversations with old timers about their lives and events of long ago. I realize now what a valuable thing it is to have some record of the history in which these people were involved.

Some of the things one learns from this type of discussion are the small details of events and happenings from the distant past that professional researchers would have no access to, unless through a local Historical Society.

Out in the hallway there are a couple of large photos of Hildred and myself at the age of two or three. She with her curly blond hair and me with my large sun hat in the yard of the house where I was born in the year of 1924. Twenty one years later we were married and then raised six children. Like many wartime couples we are still together, by the grace of God (and lots of patience and hard work).

A pretty short summary but one which indicates wide boundaries to fill with stories.

2008-01-15T11:14:00.000-08:00

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Beginnings

Once upon a time there was a man who had a lot of stories to tell.
And he told them well! He had a wealth of history and information that is lost to the generations that follow his.
Unfortunately, he was/is a very oral man, and as the years pass by his family and friends begin to get very antsy that the stories that live in his head will not survive him unless he writes them down.
Did I say that once upon a time there was a man who had a lot of stories to tell, but that he was/is a Master Procrastinator. Beyond tomorrow there is a wealth of tomorrow's, - but there is a stage in one's life when memories of early years are strongest.
This is the time to seize the day, organize one's self, set priorities, and put every body's longings to rest.
I long for Dad to tell the story of this, or I long for Dad to put down his reminiscences, or I long for Dad to tell us in print the stories he remembers of his Father, and his Grandfather, - his mother and his brothers. And the early days of the town he grew up in, and the orchard that was home. The days when he piloted a Lancaster, and stories of the crew who have remained friends for over sixty years. So many longings......surely we can satisfy some of them.
The truth of the matter is that the Storyteller needs his Secretary to spring into the breach and guide him along the pathway into Blogland - such a wonderful vehicle for telling the tales of the past.
We are about to embark on this adventure, and invite you to come along. Watch carefully, and closely, - one never knows when this journey will start! And wouldn't you hate to miss the starting bugle!
posted by Charles @ 6:53 PM 0 comments