Dog About Town

We lived on the edge of the golf course.  It wasn’t a fancy course – prairie grass and sand greens.  As a kid it puzzled me that something so clearly brown could be called a “green” but I chalked it up to one of those mysterious adult things that made no sense.

Mike

Mike’s daily constitutional took him through the golf course; a soak in a murky ditch adjacent to the railway tracks; across the main CPR line followed by a stroll down Highway 2 (main street) to Dad’s office, where he would arrive usually in a very odorous state.

Mike’s trek was so regular he was often given rides by Claresholm-ites who knew his destination, particularly the town plumber.

The stops along his route increased when Mom started work at the Bank of Commerce next door to dad’s office.  Mike clued in quickly and added the bank to his visits.  When the weather was warm, the bank would leave the doors open and Mike would stroll in. If not, he would patiently wait until someone opened the door.

At the time, tellers were housed in wicket-like structures and as the bank secretary, Mom’s desk was further back.  Since Mike couldn’t squeeze under the wickets, he simply went through the bank manager’s office to get to Mom’s desk. There he would settle in until it was time to head to Dad’s office.

To his credit, the bank manager didn’t complain until one day another dog came in and a huge dog fight erupted.  Mike successfully defended the bank but a detour was suggested. The bank doors were kept closed and Mike was redirected to Dad’s office.

One particularly wet spring, Dad decided he was going to break Mike of the habit of rolling around in the ditch along the railroad track.  So, upon Mike’s rather smelly arrival at the office, Dad loaded him into the car, drove home, filled up a laundry tub and bathed Mike.  Dad gave up after 3 weeks.

Although we knew Mike was a Mike_obitwell-known Dog about Town, we didn’t know how well known until Mike’s obituary was on the front page of the Claresholm Local Press unbeknownst to us and courtesy of the editor.  In spite of being hit by cars over the years, Mike died of natural causes on February 16, 1964.  He truly did live the life of Riley.

 

 

The Curse

I got my period at age ten. I was in the middle of my Cowboy and Indian stage and even had my own holster and toy gun. Got them at the Calgary Stampede the same year, I think, when I pestered to see Lash Larue.

royset

I had no idea what this bleeding was all about. I figured I was dying and thought I would just die quietly. Mom and Dad were dealing with a lot. My grandmother had died and my aunt, only 4 years older than me, couldn’t live with Grandpa and Unk in Lethbridge, so she came to live with us. Then there was my younger brother plus our dogs, Mike and Snuggles and Dad trying to build a small business.

There wasn’t much blood the first time but Mom picked up on it. What she said was something about girls do this every month and next time, I would need to wear a belt with a pad. What I heard was the word “BELT” and I remember being SO excited because I wanted a new Roy Rogers belt.

The Runaway

runaway When I was four years old, I ran away from home.  I can’t quite recall why.  It may have been due to the spanking I received when my Mom thought I stuck my tongue out at her when I really stuck it out at a spider.  Mom’s uncle, Unk, was visiting us.

I loaded my dolls and my books into my doll carriage and moved into the garage.

Dad arrived home and came to see me in the garage.  He quietly explained that although the garage was detached from the house, it was still on their property and if I really wanted to run away from home, I would have to move totally off the property.  He thought he’d convinced me to come back into the house.

I loaded my dolls and my books into my doll carriage and proceeded to move across the street to my friend’s house.  Dad watched me cross our quiet street.

Years later I learned that Mom, Dad and Unk figured I’d come home soon.  When I didn’t, Unk suggested that if they, rather loudly, got into the car and slowly backed down the driveway, I would show up.  Nope.  That didn’t work. They drove around the block but still no sign of me.  Dad finally had to come to my friend’s house to get me.

That was one of many of battles of wills. All of us – BullMom, Dad and me – were born under the sign of Taurus, the Bull. 

The Arrest

Every summer the town of Claresholm enacts water rationing.  Southern Alberta is often very hot, very dry and very, very windy.

My scariest memory was the day the uniformed town cop knocked on the back porch door of our house. My three-year-old-self saw my dad hide behind the entranceway door to the kitchen and say to my Mom, “Tell him I’ve gone to Timbuktu”.

Policeman

Mom found me in the bedroom sobbing my eyes out because I thought my dad was going to jail.  I’m not sure how I knew about the concept of jail then, but somehow I did.

My dad had been caught watering his vegetable garden outside of assigned watering hours. The penalty?  The town cop invited himself in for coffee.

The Brass Bed

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Kelly fell in love with the chair.  Actually there were two chairs but she didn’t know that. The chairs are solid wood children’s chairs painted dark blue. They’re seventy years old. I’ve had them since I was a young child.

Kelly is a good friend with two young children.  I debated giving her the chairs but was struggling with the decision.  I couldn’t quite figure out why.  Kelly’s children are the only little people even remotely in my life.  So where else would the chairs go once I’m no longer around?  I only use them as stools.

Then I thought of old Mr. Clark.  Forty plus years ago, old Mr. Clark was my neighbour in Castleton, a tiny town in Ontario with a general store, post office (in someone’s house) and a garage as its only amenities.  Mr. Clark and I would have coffee together two or three times a week and, early on, he gave me a tour of his house.  Upstairs in a bedroom, was a lovely old brass bed.  I commented that if he ever wanted to sell it, I’d love to buy it.  He said nothing. I wasn’t sure he heard me.

One night many months later, old Mr. Clark knocked on the door.  It was odd.  He didn’t often go out after dark.  He came in, declined a seat, and said that if I was still interested in the brass bed, he would sell it to me for $65 but there was a condition.  The condition was that I must keep it until I was his age and if and when I sold it, I must sell it for the same price.  Mr. Clark was 85.  We shook hands.

A month later, old Mr. Clark was in the hospital in Cobourg terminally ill with cancer. It tore me up when I went to visit him. He constantly called out that he wanted to be at home. It took too long, but Mr. Clark died.

Funeral plans and decisions about the house and contents took up much of his son, Keith’s time.  I figured that I would forgo the brass bed.  Nothing, of course, had been written down.  But one day, I decided to mention the brass bed to Keith who said that whatever his Dad had agreed to with a handshake was an agreement to be honored.  I paid the estate $65 and the brass bed moved to our house.

Tomorrow, the chairs go to Kelly.  She’s agreed to keep them until she’s my age.

blue_chairs

Calgary, Alberta

March 4, 2015

 

P.S. Unfortunately, the brass bed was destroyed in a fire in Ottawa…a whole other story….

 

Stories of Everyday Life