Monday 30 January 2012

CP Rail to Banff

Chapter 4

Again I was aboard a train and in touch with familiar surroundings, because CP Rail's stainless steel passenger cars were like old friends welcoming me back after a long absence. I selected a seat beside one of the large picture windows in the smoking section of the forward coach. The aisle seat beside me was vacant so I pulled a CP Rail schedule out of my brief case and placed the schedule on the seat beside me to refer to later. While waiting for "The Canadian" to depart I fired up my favourite pipe with a not too stinky brand of tobacco, pushed the reclining seat back as far as it would go then propped my feet up on the foot rest. I was settled in for the start of the 559-mile rail journey to Banff. 
 
I did not see any logic in bringing along a heavy suitcase full of items that would never be needed or used so my philosophy was to travel light. Everything that I had with me was in my brief case. In addition to a few music books and note pads for writing I had managed to cram in a few English muffins and slices of cheese for breakfast, an extra shirt, a pair of socks, other essential personal items, an extra pipe with a good supply of tobacco and matches as well as a camera and a tripod.

Once again I impatiently glanced at my watch. 18:29. From the window I watched the conductor on the platform. He was looking back toward the station gate for any last minute passengers rushing to board the train. An instant later and true to railway form he bellowed, "All Aboard!"

With a slight hesitation in making a last look back, the conductor then turned and waved a highball to the head end. The engineer gently eased the train out of the station and I heard the vestibule doors banged shut with a finality that indicated no hope now for any late passenger running after the train.  
 

The bouncing and swaying motion of the passenger coach was soothing as the wheels beneath were pounding out their familiar message at each rail joint. At times I wondered if train travel had inspired Morse to create his code. Pitt Meadows, Port Hammond, Haney, Albion, Whonock and Ruskin; I wondered about the railway history behind these station names. Train 2 raced eastward through these villages east of Port Coquitlam toward that formidable natural barrier the railway builders had known all too well; the mountains. I felt a certain sense of pride to be making my first train-trip on an employee pass but I also felt some disappointment to be doing the trip alone. Wistfully I looked out the window and watched as the train passed the telephone poles. Each one seemed to flash by in a consistently measured rhythmic pattern and if it were possible to illustrate the ticking of a clock, then this scene would have. The lead diesel's horn blasted out its standard warning of two long, one short and one long retort for another road crossing. At times I overheard older passengers recall their memories of the haunting and mournful strains that a steam engine's whistle would make in the dead of night. The wails from the air-horn up front did not sound any happier to me but I was pleased to be hearing the muted crossing warnings from inside on board rather than trackside as a spectator.

Later on, as the train was pulling out of Mission City, the dining car steward came up the aisle of the coach hollering out his second call for dinner. Hungry, I headed back through a few cars to the dining car. While it appeared to me the train had a considerable crowd aboard, the dining car was nearly empty. The steward seated me at one of the vacant tables, which had been set for four. He must have been more optimistic than I was prepared to be, however, the other three seats remained unoccupied the entire time. As with all the other waiting tables, mine had been set true to the railway's high, exacting standards. The chinaware and silver plated utensils were perfectly arranged on top of a spotless thick linen cloth adorned with a matching serviette. Every item bore the CP Rail name and distinctive multi-mark logo.

Shortly after I was seated, a waiter presented me with a menu and an order form together with a freshly sharpened short pencil. Railway waiters were prohibited from taking verbal orders therefore patrons were obliged to write down on the forms any items for dinner they desired from the menu. This practice was one of those curious oddities unique to railways. Writing while the train was in motion was difficult at best and I am not certain how the waiter managed to read my list. Perhaps years of reading illegible orders made these men experts at deciphering anything. As I waited for my dinner to arrive I was treated to occasional tantalizing whiffs of broiling foods.

While enjoying the delicious and well-prepared dinner, I spent the time watching the scenery outside as the waning daylight faded into darkness. The train had entered the famed Fraser River Canyon and the pace was very subdued. In spite of the slow speed though I constantly felt a need to lean left or right to compensate for the train's lurches and tilting through a seemingly never ending series of sharp curves followed by reverse sharp curves. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of my dinner in the diner and watched with fascination the erratic sloshing of the coffee in my cup. The cup was seated upon an expertly folded napkin placed there to catch the dribbles of coffee that spilled over the edge. The napkin also prevented the cup from rattling and moving around on the saucer. Watching the waiters flawlessly and unfailingly deliver trays of plates loaded with meals to the few other passengers was the evening's entertainment. Regardless of the lateral movements induced by the curves or the varying speed of the train, the waiters never fumbled or lost their balance. Their work and ability was an art.

After dinner while finishing either my third or possibly fourth cup of coffee I studied the features of the dining car and wished that one day I would be able to take someone special out to dinner...in a dining car...on the Canadian. Perhaps an unusual choice of restaurant but one certainly refined and steeped in a tradition of romance. I made the dream my own and promised myself to fulfill. Blunt reality though was that I had no one special to take out, not even to a greasy spoon joint in town, never mind a first class dining car on CP Rail's premier train.

Having paid my meal fare I left the dining car and headed forward to the skyline car hoping to find a vacant seat up in the dome. The upstairs section was almost empty. Few passengers were taking advantage of the dome's darkness to see the spectacular nighttime mountain scenery. The Fraser River looked more like a bottomless black abyss running parallel to the Onderdonk route. The headlight of the lead engine constantly lit up the rock walls on the other side of the track while the train was continuously squealing through curves. In railway jargon the squealing is called "pinging" but regardless of the name given, the noise still sounded like squealing. Late in the evening the conductor joined us up in the "glass attic" as he referred to the dome, and regaled the few of us long into the night with tales from his more than forty years as a railway man. The gold bars on the cuff of his jacket sleeve attested to his years of service.


I remained upstairs in the dome late into the night and The Canadian was well east of Ashcroft before I gave up trying to stay awake all night to watch the rails ahead of the train. Returning to my seat below in the forward coach, the lighting had been dimmed and most of my fellow travellers appeared to be asleep. In spite of having heavy eyes and wanting to drift off, sleep was elusive. The seat reclined a fair amount but my body craved for rest from a horizontal position. Fitful sleep grudgingly came.

Just after daybreak the train departed from Revelstoke and the New Zealand couple's little girl decided that she had enough sleep and enough of the confinements of train travel. She started running up and down the aisle of the coach. Thump, thump, thump down to the far end, a pause while she turned, then thump, thump, thump back. Inevitably, another child about the same age joined in and the two of them were doing it. Expectedly the train lurched a little more than usual; the little girl lost her balance, tumbled and started screaming. What an alarm clock! If anyone had still been asleep they were not any more. Later I overheard the New Zealand couple mention to someone they were going all the way through to Toronto. I was grateful to know I would be detraining at Banff.

Later on in the morning I was reclining in my seat puffing away on my pipe and watching with amazement the spectacular mountain scenery. A little boy had paused in the aisle to watch me. I recognized him as the other early morning jogger. I continued looking out the window pretending not to notice him figuring that he would go back to his seat. He stood there watching and finally out of curiosity he asked in a rather bold loud voice, "Hey Mister! What's that?"

Removing the smoldering pipe from my mouth with my right hand and pointing at it with the left hand I looked at him and asked, "You mean this?"

"Yeah." he replied in a tone that indicated he was quite pleased he had someone's attention.

"It's my pocket stove." I answered, assuming he would accept my answer and return to his seat.

"Hey Mister! What are you cooking?" he continued.

"Breakfast" I replied without hesitation.

"Oh." and after casting a puzzled look he disappeared down the aisle to his seat.

About a minute later the little gentleman returned and very informatively advised me, "Hey Mister! My Mommy said that’s only a stinky pipe."

I heard a few chuckles from the nearby passengers who had heard the little boy's questions. I then instructed him, "Well you go tell your Mommy that I’m not very good at cooking." The young traveller disappeared again and I beat a retreat to the skyline car before he came back.


A mountain of words cannot adequately describe Banff and the surrounding mountain scenery. Absolutely awesome! William Van Horne did have the right idea. The scenery could not be exported so he brought in the tourists and he built them a place to stay. Tourists from all over the world continue to visit Banff and many are still brought in by trains over Van Horne's railway. I was just one more visitor arriving on Canada's premiere passenger train that Van Horne's railway no longer wanted. Arrival at Banff was about thirty minutes behind schedule and in spite of CP Rail's disdain for their famous train, the service on "The Canadian" had been superb.

The Banff Springs Hotel is a majestic and rather intimidating immense stone structure located on the far side of the town from the train station. The hotel is every bit deserving of its reputation for luxury and as a choice place for the rich and famous to stay and play. Outside the main entrance was a sea of confusion with guests arriving or departing. Groups of skiers with a clutter of equipment were trying to locate their transportation to the slopes. True to the stereotype, a small crowd of Japanese businessmen in dark suits, white shirts and ties had cameras dangling from their necks. 

Somewhat timidly I entered the lobby and was awed by the huge buffalo head that was mounted high up on one wall. Deep thick carpets, the castle-like masonry and dark-coloured richly grained wood-panelled walls adorned with sparkling polished brass fixtures made me feel adequately out of place. Attired in dark green uniforms with matching green plaid vests and white gloves, the elevator operators called out the floor number at each stop. The lift-drivers looked as if they could have stepped out of a scene in a 1930's movie.

In spite of the snow being several feet deep everywhere almost everyone, visitors and employees alike, was darkly tanned and sunburned as if they had just walked off a sun-soaked summer beach. It took me a while to figure out that the summer look was from skiing on the sunny slopes day after day.

After checking in I remained self-sequestered in my room. I was weary and felt as if I had been awake since yesterday morning, perhaps because I had not washed or shaved since yesterday morning. Long distance coach travel by train had that effect but I would not have made the journey by any other means. My room was located in the back overlooking the roof of a lower section of the hotel structure. This was obviously a room that was held for Canadian Pacific employees on discounts. In spite of the roof though, the mountains seemed to soar upward from immediately behind the hotel to tower far above everything else. I spent quite a while just standing and looking out the window. Darkness came very quickly after the sun dropped behind the peaks.

Not wanting to eat alone in one of the hotel restaurants, I took a look at the room-service menu. If anything was higher than the mountains I had been staring at, then the prices on the menu were. The prices were staggering. I settled for the least expensive entree that was a hamburger with an exotic sounding name and two bottles of imported German beer. The cheapest luxury was the only one I could afford.

Having heard about the supposed beneficial qualities of minerals in the glacial mountain waters of the Rockies I decided to have a long hot bath. The bathtub resembled one of those deep ancient cast iron cauldrons. All that was missing from the vat were those cat-like feet that old cast iron tubs always seemed to have. The steaming water spewing out of the tap was the same emerald-turquoise colour of the Bow River and the other lakes and streams I had seen from the train. Whether it was the minerals in the hot turquoise water or the two imported beers with dinner or a combination of both, sound sleep came within minutes after I lay down on the bed to read.

Early next morning the sky was a sunny cloudless bright blue. The temperature was near the freezing point but the unrelenting wind blowing from the north made the morning air feel colder. Undaunted I was determined to go out for a long walk to take some pictures and to enjoy the mountain scenery. Up close the mountains surrounding Banff were far more impressive than any postcards could ever depict. Banff was quite a bit smaller than I had expected. The town seemed to consist mostly of one main street dividing two rows of expensive shops, boutiques, restaurants and watering holes. The train station was at one end of town and the Banff Springs Hotel at the other end.

Anxious to avoid the main street I elected to follow the first gravel road that appeared to lead out of town. After hiking around a few twists and curves, all uphill, a high steep rocky bluff that overlooked the Bow River, on the bank opposite from the castle on the slopes where I was staying, beckoned to my curiosity. Carefully I picked my steps along the rocky ridges until I discovered a secluded place that was sheltered from the wind. My temporary sanctuary was obscured from the road by a grove of pine trees. Had the snow not been so deep I probably would have explored more and ventured farther. 

One endearing quality I loved about this country was the vast areas of stark silent solitude. Ironically, my life had evolved to become an area of stark silent solitude that I disliked intensely. My travel odyssey would have been far more enjoyable if made with someone else rather than alone. Not just anyone though but with that one special person I kept hoping to one day find. 

Train travel in the mid 1970's was not popular with young adults, especially on CP Rail. My impression was that CP Rail sold space on "The Canadian" as a means to see the scenery...if you wanted to go by train, but...if you did not want to take the train...that was okay too. CP Rail really did not want to operate the train anyway. Canadian National Railways though was still strongly marketing a passenger-friendly railway image. CNR sold the space on the "Supercontinental" as a means to have a good time while journeying across the country. In terms of scenery and train equipment, CP Rail was clearly the winner, however, image was everything because CNR was attracting the passengers. Tragic. How could anyone truly understand Canada without travelling Van Horne's railway from end to end?

In the early afternoon I checked out of the Banff Springs Hotel and slowly wandered through town along the main street. I was planning to take some photographs of the eastbound Canadian, and any freight trains that might happen to pass, while waiting for the westbound Canadian to arrive and return me to Vancouver. If they were on time, the eastbound and westbound Canadians were due within a few hours of each other. To escape the chilling wind, most of my time was spent inside the train station seated upon one of those wooden benches characteristic of railway stations. CP Rail's transcontinental trains could be relied upon to be behind their schedules but what I could never figure out is why the benches were so terribly uncomfortable. Those benches encouraged both the patient and the impatient to get up and pace around. The station was quiet and no agent was on duty. A large part of the trackside structure had been converted into a restaurant. As train time approached, I went outside and paced back and forth along the platform trying to decide upon the best spot to set up my camera.

The eastbound train arrived close to its scheduled time but the westbound Canadian showed up almost thirty minutes late. The afternoon shadows had lengthened, the wind had increased and the temperature had dropped noticeably quickly. I was glad to be aboard the train again.

I brought out my pocket watch and timed the passing of the mile boards on the telephone poles as the Canadian closed in on Castle Mountain. Between Banff and Lake Louise were several miles of mostly straight track alignment and the stainless steel streamliner was rolling along at a good pace. Train 1 was more than just a few minutes behind schedule and I assumed the head end crew was pushing to keep the consist as close as possible to the speed limits in an attempt to win back a few of those lost minutes. Quite a controversy had erupted when Castle Mountain was arbitrarily renamed Mount Eisenhower. Given the appearance of the massive landmark I thought Castle Mountain was a far more appropriate name, but then who was I to question the wisdom of politicians who had probably never seen the mountain. Several miles had been ticked off in less than 55 seconds per mile. 

Darkness had arrived by the time the Canadian had made its descent from Stephen, a siding at the top of the Great Divide, to Field, a CP Rail division point at the base of the Kicking Horse Pass. The fourteen and a half miles of track achieved a vertical drop of about 1250 feet. The famed train flawlessly traversed the historical Van Horne route through spiral tunnels and snow sheds and along the ledges that had been carved and gouged out of the sides of some of the most rugged of mountains. This daily, taken-for-granted show was the highlight of the journey across the mountain barriers of British Columbia.


The soon-to-follow second feature would be the unalterable double bill. First would be the corkscrew canyon cruise into Golden, through tunnels, over bridges, and all alongside the Kicking Horse River, where in some places, river currents outpaced than the train. Next on the program would come the challenging uphill  train-twisting grind toward Roger’s Pass culminating in a spectacular crossing of Stoney Creek on the famed arched bridge, and run toward and through the Connaught tunnel that had been drilled beneath Roger's treacherous pass. My ambition for the evening was to fight off sleep and stay awake long enough to witness the two events. I won, but just barely.

The following morning and like red steel dogs pulling a long silver sled along cold-rolled parallel strips borne by sleeping timbers, the chortling diesels charged onward with their string of stainless steel passenger cars obediently in tow, rolling along atop its twisting iron route spiked down beside the southern shore of Burrard Inlet.

Already my seat in the coach had been abandoned in order to conclude the journey by standing in the vestibule. With the top half of the door open I was leaning on the top edge of the closed lower half of the door, occasionally poking my head out to take a peek at the engines in the lead. I was enjoying the rush of warm spring air mixed with the official railway scents of diesel exhaust and creosote while observing the fascinating sights along Burrard Inlet. Surely this was one of the present-day's fading age of railway travel at its lingering best; perhaps something lost on old-timers still lamenting the passing of the steam age.

In a few minutes CP Rail's "Canadian" would be home. This Canadian, however, would soon be back in the city in which he now lived but returning to Vancouver just would not feel at all like returning home. I was also feeling the despair of loneliness knowing that no one would be meeting me at the train station and no one would be waiting to greet me upon arriving back at West First Avenue.


The apartment, more correctly home, was as soundless as ever. Half the previous week's newspapers must've arrived last Thursday because they were piled up outside the door in the bedroom that opens into the basement. Someone, perhaps one of those anonymous, faceless strangers who lived upstairs, had moved my mail and newspapers down from the upstairs vestibule. 
 
Yes, I'd enjoyed my weekend and train trip, but stepping back inside this tiny basement suite only to be greeted by stifling silent stillness was a sobering dose of returning to reality. I felt somewhat distressed having to admit to myself that it was possible for me to have never returned, never have been noticed to have been missing and never have been missed. This was the cold hard truth of the obscurity and insignificance in which most people live out their lives, and I was one of these people. Truly, only God notices when little sparrows fall.
 

The Oddblock Station Agent

Tuesday 24 January 2012

Karen McLennan

Chapter 3

"The years of our life are threescore and ten,
or even by reason of strength forescore...
So teach us to number our days
that we may get a heart of wisdom."
Psalm 90:10&12


One week was followed by another but little if anything changed in my staid life that was evolving into mundane routines. Too many uneventful days had passed, especially those rain-soaked weekends when alone and on my own meant far too much time available and too few meaningful activities to occupy the time with. Nonetheless, Vancouver's rainy season gradually transformed into spring, and weather forecasts promising an increasing frequency of wet-free weekends made me restless. 

In spite of the drudgery of working for a living, I was beginning to welcome Monday mornings and dread Friday evenings simply because working was better than being alone and with little else to do. An observant older work colleague who was approaching his retirement had noticed, and cautioned me about how short life is, how quickly time passes and how little time remains in which to get things done. At the time I couldn't grasp the meaning of his wisdom nor comprehend the value of his advice.

One particular evening while I was on the bus and heading homeward after another uneventful day at work, I felt wearier than usual and wasn't looking forward to arriving at my silent living quarters and then having to cook and eat another meal alone. Resting my head against the window, I wasn't really paying much attention to anything. 

Seconds later when glancing over at a woman with her back to me who was standing in the aisle a few feet away, my thoughts seemed to shout, "Karen McLennan!"

I perked up right away, believing I'd finally crossed trails with someone I know, but having some doubts seconds later, I rationalized, "It can't be her... she's studying in Kingston.”

Karen often wore a long dark green duffle coat and the woman in the aisle was wearing one too, but something about this lady's coat didn't strike me as being identical. Perhaps the shade of dark green wasn't quite right or maybe the tailoring wasn't the same. Although this young lady appeared to be the same height, had the same profile, and possessed the same long dark hair as Karen, I wasn't fully convinced. 

I was debating whether or not to get up and tap the mystery lady on the shoulder to satisfy my curiosity, but was afraid of making a fool of myself in front of a busload of strangers in case I might be wrong. Before I decided, the mystery lady turned. She was Chinese and definitely not the person I'd been hoping to encounter.
 
Disappointment felt cruel, because my busy imagination had already dreamed up a near impossible but magical reunion with Karen and I sharing some wonderful moments together. Alas the lady standing about six feet away wasn't her, but at least I was relieved about having stayed put. 
 
I'd never really paid much attention to Chinese people before, other than mentally noting they're Chinese, but again I glanced at the young woman in the aisle and this time noticed she was strikingly attractive.
 
"Is it because you reminded me of Karen?" I wondered.

The bus bumped along, well it felt that way with my head resting against the window as my thoughts drifted back to Karen. Only a year ago we were attending the same music classes at John Abbott College and trading places in top spot. Eventually we met where assignment and examination results were posted.

Perhaps recognizing me from the music classes, out of the blue she spoke, "Do you have any idea who student 7019235 is?"

Unsure if she was venting frustration aloud to herself or expecting an answer, I chose to respond, "Why?"

"7019235 beat me by one mark." 

"Don't you think 97 is a good mark?"

"How do know my mark?" astonished, and almost sounding like she'd been offended.

"You just told me." 

"I did?"

"I learned how to do this from reading Sherlock Holmes a few days ago." hoping to sound clever.

“Oh really?” and totally unimpressed.

To prove my claim I persisted, "Only one student in the class had a 97, right?”

“Right.”

“Well then... if 7019235 beat your mark by only one point then you had to be the one with the 97.”

“Yes..." her voice now betraying curiosity, "but how did you know I’m the one with 97?”

“From the obvious."

"And what's the obvious smarty-pants?"
 
"I’m 7019235.”

"Right." sounding like she now understood.

"Well I know one mystery that Sherlock Holmes never solved." I boasted.

"Oh yeah?" 

"Are you familiar with any musical pieces by Arthur Sullivan?"

"Which one?"

“The Lost Chord... and as far as I know the Lost Chord is still missing."  

Casting me a weird look, she goaded, "Let's see if you can pick up the trail to our next class." 

"How do you know if we'll be in in the same one?"

"Walk with me Sherlock and I'll clue you in."

Karen and I soon became close classmates but no less competitive. She had a keen ear for interpreting music by listening and possessed a knowledge of music history that outshone everyone else in class. I felt outclassed too but I did have a slight edge with our written music theory and analysis assignments, because she thought analyzing composition structural forms was boring. Her instrument of choice was the French horn, which she told me she'd been introduced to in her high school band. 

Karen sent me a card and short letter for Christmas. I wrote back to her the day after but never received any further word from her. She told me once that going to Queens University in Kingston was where she wanted study, and now she was there. 

I was happy for her and perhaps slightly envious too, because she always seemed confident in knowing what she wanted, and she seemed just as determined to go out and grasp it. Being the contrarian, I didn't have a clue as to what I wanted to do, nor could I define even for myself a single meaningful personal goal or an objective to strive for in life. 

Returning to the present, once more I glanced toward the Chinese lady but she'd vanished.

"Why am I seeing familiar people in complete strangers?" and feeling more alone than ever, I wondered, "What am I doing here in this city?"

Again my thoughts drifted back, to those days nearing the end of our spring semester. The Montreal Symphony Orchestra announced it would perform a series of special dollar-a-seat concerts at the Montreal Forum, and for the final performance, famed Russian pianist Emil Gilels was to appear as a guest soloist to perform Beethoven's "Emperor" concerto.

I was interested in Karen but I didn't know how to approach her on the subject of asking her out. Determined to overcome my lack of confidence I purchased two tickets and vowed I was going to invite her to attend the concert with me. A few ideal opportunities came along during the weeks leading up, but the question just wouldn't come from my mouth. I could talk at length about our latest music homework assignment, or ask her about the other subjects she was studying, even the weather, but I was unable to muster the courage to ask her to attend the concert with me. 

Is the anguish of longing but doing nothing more endurable than risking the pain of reaching out and asking, only to be rebuffed by a refusal?

Like sand in that proverbial hourglass, time ran out and I ended up going to the concert alone. Seated beside an empty seat, I despised myself for being a coward, but I think what hurt the most was unexpectedly spotting Karen in the crowds and seated about a dozen rows below from where I was. The following day in class she filled me in me about a concert she'd attended the evening before with her sister and mother, but I never told her I'd seen her there.

The last time we saw each other, she was on Cloud 9 about the summer job she'd landed at Fort Henry, and she'd be working there right up to her start at Queens University. After hearing her news I didn't consider telling her what was on my mind, so as we'd often done, we discussed music. I'm sure if she told me she was returning to CEGEP for the fall semester then I too would've returned instead dropping out and moving here to Vancouver.

Maybe our friendship might've developed further had I been different and tried to make circumstances different, but circumstances weren't changed and neither was I. Once more I pondered what could've been had I possessed the self-confidence and courage to act, but then again, perhaps nothing.

At the intersection of West Fourth Avenue and Arbutus Street I exited the bus. While scrambling in the rain to open my umbrella, that fading whistling sound the poles made against the overhead electric wires as the bus drove away attracted my attention, and I mused...

"Wires singin' in the rain, wires singin' in the rain.
What nonsense I'm thinkin'? It's pouring again."

I  was weary of Vancouver's almost constant rain. 

Upon arriving at my dwelling and hoping a letter might've come, I checked upstairs for mail. 

Nothing. 

Feeling forgotten by the world back east, I didn't feel like cooking, so I placed some cheese and salami on a couple of slices of rye bread and placed them under the oven broiler. While waiting for dinner to warm I sat on the couch and started browsing a newspaper. A 3rd-page headline about CP Rail's latest unsuccessful attempt to discontinue passenger train services in eastern Canada snagged my attention. A minute or two later I smelled burning and it wasn't pipe tobacco. I'd forgotten the oven and supper was converted to coking coal, or so it looked.

Giving up on cooking I headed downtown. My first stop was at a music store that had a library-like selection of music scores. After spending nearly an hour looking through numerous possible choices to add to my miniscule collection, I finally selected Schubert's Symphony Number 8, better known as the "Unfinished" symphony. I'd listened to recordings of the Schubert symphony but remained undecided about whether or not the work really was left unfinished in spite of those sketches he'd made.

As I walked the almost deserted streets after exiting the store, I pondered details I'd uncovered during my music studies research about the finale of Beethoven's Opus 131 string quartet . The famed composer had toyed with the possibility of using the quartet's last movement in a planned tenth symphony. He'd even scribbled some musical sketches, but he died soon after completing his last string quartets, thus any plans he might've had for a tenth symphony died with him. Anyway, I once had big aspirations for orchestrating the last movement of the A minor quartet, but after a few feeble starts I soon realized how little I knew about orchestral arranging. And what did I really know about how Beethoven might've done it? 

Nothing.

Well If Schubert could have an unfinished symphony, then maybe my claim to fame could be my "Unstarted" symphony in any key, and maybe even have it usurp John Cage's ridiculous fraud of work titled, 4' 33". 

At my second to last stop I picked up a copy of the latest edition of Trains magazine and then wandered over to a nearby restaurant with an Italian sounding name. Having decided upon pizza and beer for dinner, I wanted to spend an hour or so reading the latest news about railways, my other favourite pursuit. 

Much to my surprise the waitress was Chinese, but unlike the Chinese lady I saw on the bus earlier, the waitress didn't resemble or remind me at all of Karen. She spoke very little English and kept repeating back to me what I ordered to make certain she had it right. I had to ask her to repeat what she repeated because I had difficulty understanding what she was saying in her limited and very accented English. After she disappeared into the kitchen, I wondered, "Why isn't she working in a Chinese restaurant?"

Choosing to walk home instead of taking the bus, I proceeded westward along Robson Street toward Burrard. Vancouver was a “friendly city” because the streets were safe to walk at night. Not surprising considering the streets were almost deserted after rush-hour. The downtown buildings looked so silent, so desolate, so dark, but in some strange way they were mirroring the way I felt. 

On my way I encountered Curtis Beale, a colleague from work, and we paused to talk. After a few moments of sidewalk discussion about setting the world aright, he invited me to join him for a drink, because he was en route to his favourite hangout. I was undecided, but after some cajoling from Curtis, I accepted his invitation. Only silence awaited me at home anyway. 

Jack of Spades was the name of the bar, so upon stepping through the doorway, I asked, "What are they shovelling in this dig?" 

If he'd heard my question, he ignored it.

Curtis was one of the regulars here, because all the employees greeted him by name. Too, he didn't have to tell anyone what he wanted because they knew what he always ordered, so I asked him if he was the king of the club, but I don't think he caught my drift. 

After grabbing a vacant table and assuming I'd have the same, over the din of that thumping disco music, Curtis gestured and shouted, "My friend will have the same."

"Okay." to be agreeable, "I'll settle for dealer's choice or jokers wild."

"What on earth are you talking about?" 

"Cards." I replied.

"Cards?"

"Isn't this place the Jack of Spades?"

"What of it?" sounding like he hadn't made the connection.

Our drinks arrived and right away Curtis swished around the solitary maraschino cherry in the bottom of his glass.

Looking up, he declared, "That's it!"

"Huh?" now I was lost.

"You're a bridge player."

"I've never played bridge in my life." 

"I mean that bridge you've walked over once too often." Curtis jabbed and then laughed.

My work colleagues knew I often walked home to save a few quarters, so raising my glass I acknowledged, "Touché."

We talked at length about everything from work to politics while we had a few drinks. I had a few and he had quite a few. Curtis was in his late-thirties, never-married and didn't have anyone special in his life, but from comments he made, I sensed he wished he did. His home was a high-rise apartment in the Vancouver downtown core two blocks from the office as well as a few blocks from here. 

"Convenient." I thought, and wishing I could afford such rent.
 
During the course of our bull session I mentioned that I was from the Montreal area, well aware that no one in Vancouver had a clue about the West Island suburbs. After hearing Montreal, Curtis revealed that his last girlfriend was French and, while he didn't directly say it, his heartfelt reminisces about her left me with no doubt that he never got over her after their relationship ended some many years earlier.
 
When Curtis excused himself to make a trip to the washroom, I looked around and pondered everything I was seeing, hearing and feeling in here. 

"Are all these jovial sounding people surrounding us really having a good time like they seemed to be?"

"Is everyone laughing their heads off because they're truly happy?"

"Is enjoying life and having a fun time with each other an easy-to-discover secret everyone here seems to have figured out... except maybe for Curtis and me?"
 
I didn't know, but this bustling bar scene with its smoke-filled atmosphere seeming to reek of an underlying insincerity definitely wasn't for me, because I felt like that proverbial square peg trying to fit into the wrong place. Curtis was interesting company, but the fact was we were familiar strangers who worked together. Regardless, I really didn't want to stay here and drink late into the night, and had I wanted to, I certainly couldn't have afforded to. 
 
Making up and then giving my quick nonsensical excuse about the hour, and then bidding Curtis a hurried good night, I beat a hasty retreat. Outside, I grabbed a breath of cooler smoke-free night air and resumed my foot-sojourn homeward via the Burrard Bridge. Pausing a while later on the long center span to watch a large yacht proceeding from English Bay into False Creek, I heard music playing and a woman's laughter coming from inside the luxurious vessel as it passed beneath the bridge.
 
"Must be nice to be able to afford such luxuries." I thought and feeling a tad envious, but wealth I could live without and I had a lifetime of experience to prove it. 

All I wanted was to find that one and only special right person to share the rest of my life with, but I knew the bar-scene wasn't the way to search for her.

Instead of returning directly to my closet-sized suite as first planned, I detoured over to Kitsilano Beach for a late evening visit. Minutes later I was standing on the bluffs overlooking the edge of the water, and leaning against the white wooden fence with my hands resting on the top rail. Reflecting upon my earlier trip home on the bus, I thought about Karen McLennan and again wondered what the outcome might've been had I mustered the courage to ask her to go to that Beethoven concert last year. 


As I stared at the ink-black shoreline and city lights reflecting on the water, I debated whether or not to write to Karen once more, but in the end decided not to. Aside from my mother, those others who'd promise to write never responded to my letters. Besides, nobody under thirty has time to write letters, because letter writing is too much of a chore that takes too long. I suppose using the telephone would've been easy, but long-distance charges at almost three dollars a minute were prohibitive... and I didn't have her telephone number. Nonetheless, Karen knew my address, but no reply told me she was most likely too busy with her studies and exams, so I accepted she'd since found new interests in life and I wasn't one of them.

Might've been, could've been, hadn't and didn't, summed-up my present stark reality, and following a sigh of resignation, I whispered aloud, "Good-bye Karen." 

While walking back from the waterfront my thoughts shifted to the approaching Easter long weekend. Employment with Canadian Pacific had its advantages, and I was cognizant of pass privileges on CP Rail's few surviving passenger trains. One entitlement I hadn't known but learned about were the significant employee discounts at the CP Hotels. These two perks were perfect incentives for making a very inexpensive trip somewhere, especially considering that I loved train travel. At first I considered Calgary, but escaping from one city to go to another didn't seem appealing, so I set my sights on Banff.

After turning on the radio I sat at my desk, leaned back in the chair and stared at the backs of the music books that were lined up against the wall along the back of the desk. My thoughts were lingering on Karen, so I wasn't in the mood to read about music. A few minutes later, I reached over and pulled a pipe out of the tin I kept on top of the books. I scraped cinders out of the bowl and then stuffed it with tobacco. When satisfied the tiny stove was spouting sufficient clouds of pollution, I looked at my Bible for a moment, but instead, I picked up the CP Rail timetable and studied the passenger train schedules. 

Over the last few years CP Rail's system timetable had become pitifully thin as many passenger services were discontinued and station names eliminated from the index. Nonetheless, reading train schedules was relaxing, and perusing the schedule for "The Atlantic Limited" evoked snippets of pleasant memories of journeys made on that train so I could visit my grandparents. I concluded with a browse through the schedule for "The Canadian" and then placed the timetable beside the pipe tin on top of the books. 

While most people regard reading railway timetables as a waste of time, I see timetable reading as lessons in Canadian geography. I could recite with accuracy where dozens of little unknown towns and places in Canada were located, however, because they were almost unknown, no one ever needed to know where any of them were.

I turned off the radio and pulled out the music score for Beethoven's fourth piano concerto. After placing the stylus onto the record with the same opus, I put on the earphones, turned up the volume a little higher than usual and grabbed a pen. Following along with score, I conducted the Imaginary Symphony Orchestra through a flawless performance of the concerto’s first movement. 

My performances with this orchestra were always flawless when conducted this way, because they were similar to watching a movie for the third or fourth time and knowing how the ending would turn out. Sometimes I wondered how famous conductors were able to non-stop wave their arms through entire performances of lengthy works, because arm waving was rather tiring. Perhaps this cardio-vascular exercise was the reason orchestra conductors tended to live a long time. 

Anyway, gesturing my way through the first movement was exercise enough, and I was content just to listen to the second and third movements of the concerto as an audience of one while waiting for sleep to bring the end to another day.


The Oddblock Station Agent

Wednesday 18 January 2012

Lessons in the Key of Loneliness

Chapter 2

 "Fear not, for I am with you,
be not dismayed, for I am your God;
I will strengthen you. I will help you,
I will uphold you with my victorious right hand."
Isaiah 41:10


March 1974, Vancouver, BC.

Early Friday evening and heavy rain was falling; straight down from a lack of wind to slant it. Pausing briefly at the doors of the main entrance to the office building where I was employed, I fiddled with my umbrella to ready it before venturing outside. 

“Oh God, please, not another wet weekend.” pleading in silence for dry weather tomorrow.

Living in Vancouver during winter sometimes made me feel like a swimmer trying to decide whether or not to plunge into a pool of cold water. Going out into heavy winter rain had that effect. In spite of the downpour, sidewalks were crowded with people in a rush to get home, or possibly elsewhere, after work. With reluctance and abandoning the shelter of the foyer, I too became one of those seemingly unremarkable, nameless, insignificant and forgettable faces in the rush.

Making my way eastward along West Georgia Street was a game of constant dodging through a sea of umbrellas pointed in every direction. Some inconsiderate person could always be depended upon to be rushing with head down, umbrella tipped forward like a bayonet, and charging ahead like the only person in the world. Maybe one of them owned the sidewalk and I was trespassing toll-free.


After reaching the shelter of the canopies outside the Hudson Bay store at Granville and West Georgia Streets, I shook my drenched umbrella, folded it, and waited for my bus to come along. Not in any great hurry to arrive at my small basement abode, I ignored the first bus that showed up, choosing instead to continue standing under the canopy and stare at the rain while contemplating recent major changes in my life. 

Winter in Vancouver was decidedly different from the Montreal winters I'd always known. Not anywhere near as cold but not anywhere near as dry either. Months had passed since I last heard a conversation in French. In fact, I hadn't heard a single word of French spoken since having said adieu to Montreal and Quebec. The "Maitres de chez nous" debate wasn't known here let alone a relevant social issue in Vancouver. 

People here were different ,and many looked different too. Very few Asians lived in the Montreal suburbs I'd always known, but in marked contrast, the Vancouver I was discovering was home to many Asians. Out of curiosity I observed and listened-in on others waiting for their buses. Chinese, at least I assumed the language to be Chinese, was the most common other language I overheard in conversations. Chinese was very different from French. Chinese was very different from any language I ever heard before.

I glanced toward Burrard Inlet and North Van's mountains, visible only as narrow strips between tall buildings. The early evening sky was grey; light grey, dark grey, every shade of grey in between and more shades of grey than anyone can imagine possible. No other word could colour a typical March evening in Vancouver. The rain had lessened at least, but everything was still wet, damp, moist, misty, dank and of course dripping. All week the rain had persisted without a break, and at times I felt like too many weeks had passed since the last pause in this so called, "Liquid sunshine." 

Someone had recently given me an accurate weather forecasting formula for Vancouver, "When it’s raining, you can’t see the mountains; when you can see the mountains, it’s going to rain." 

The formula hadn't been wrong. 

As the rain fell, I recalled some of those glowing descriptions I'd heard months earlier from people back east who'd visited here, and who'd verbally painted wonderful pictures describing Vancouver as the best place to live in Canada. Supposedly Vancouver was the end of that proverbial rainbow, but in my newfound skepticism born of hindsight, the reality I was living was much more like a cold soaking, because everything here smelled like wet something.


An almost empty bus displaying the right route number soon appeared, so I decided to board and take advantage of the luxury of having a window seat on the way back. Several stops later the bus was filled with passengers to standing room only. 

The windows soon fogged over the way bus windows always do when sardine-like inside and wet outside, so I made a circle in the condensation on the window next to me so I could take an occasional peek outside. Being new to this city, I'd occasionally lose track of where I was if I couldn't see out. Some bus drivers would call out the street names, but too often the drivers couldn't be heard over the din made by a busload of people.

Buses in Vancouver were unlike any that I'd ever seen in Montreal. These buses were electric and powered from a system of overhead wires. Attached to the rear of the buses were two sprung poles with cables and the ends of the poles ran along the overhead wires. Once in a while the poles would bounce off and when they did, power was lost. The bus would come to a quick forced stop making it necessary for the driver to exit, run around to the rear of the bus and place the wayward poles back on the wires. I often wondered how the drivers regarded this task in heavy rain. In spite of the idiosyncrasies of electric trolley buses they did seem to be just as reliable as diesel buses minus the fumes, but when the power failed nothing would move those electric buses.

The bus dutifully followed its predetermined route of stops and starts but I'd already given up looking at people getting on and off. I wasn't going to encounter a familiar face, and instead, stared ahead at an imaginary fixed point and drifted into reflective thought about my life. The sense of adventure in moving from Montreal to Vancouver had waned and first pangs of homesickness were surfacing. The excitement from my first full time job had subsided and the drudgery of eking out an austere living began to set in. Only now were the realities of the consequences of the drastic changes in my life becoming all too uncomfortably apparent.

Daily I was fighting off the urge to just give up and return to Montreal. Every day, and many times during the day, I reminded myself that a move back home would just be an unconditional surrender, and an admission of having really failed. I wasn't prepared to swallow my pride and make any such admission. Not yet! 

Months earlier I'd convinced myself into believing that heading west out of Quebec to find my raison d'etre was vitally necessary, but now that I was here in Vancouver, vitally necessary had become less easy to recall. Before leaving home and Montreal, that drive to get out had seemed so overwhelming, so monumental, so urgent, so compelling, but now it seemed less relevant. But this evening I could only wonder, "Exactly what was it that drove me to come here?"

Unlike high school and far worse, drug use in CEGEP was rampant, eye-opening visible in the lounges and seemingly so natural and accepted. Constantly having to confront substance abuse in and around the campus left me discouraged and totally disheartened, perhaps somewhat intimidated too. I knew where a few of the teachers stood on the issue of drug use from comments made in class and they weren't the same side I was on. Sure life was difficult and events beyond our control could make life miserable but I just couldn't comprehend what may have driven too many of my peers to use those substances. 

The Beatles, hippies, the peace movement, protest the war, just drop out and escape were all the rages with claims they possessed the change-the-world answers, but none of that made sense because nothing was changing for the better. Far more incomprehensible to me was the importance students and teachers seemed to place on that conflict in Southeast Asia. What was the relevance, and what possible connection did substance abuse in academic West Island have with an American military mess?

The latter was supposed to justify the former but the logic was beyond me. I didn't want to know about drugs and hear about Vietnam any more, and under no circumstance was I prepared to capitulate, join in, and blindly follow along. Having drawn my line, the fear of not fitting in and not belonging was crushing.

If the world was ever going to discover another Beethoven, then I wanted in. At times I border-line believed I was destined to become that person, but such was the world of foolish and introverted self-delusion. The truth was that the world didn't want or need another Beethoven, and in fact, the music world didn't even need me. Cold hard reality began to seep in, that making any sort of living from music composition would nigh be impossible for me.

Prior to awakening from my wonderful delusions, thoughts about needing to prepare for the possibility of requiring a Plan B never entered my mind, so alternatives were never envisioned. Instead, I found myself confronting a troubling new companion called, "Now What?"

Disillusioned first and then discouraged, I soon lost the desire to waste additional years in higher learning to pursue that lost cause, so in capitulating I dropped out.

The increasingly vocal language issue in Quebec was gaining political momentum, and the French fact, or threat depending on how one perceived the issue at the time, was becoming all too real. The truth is that I was completely ignorant of the issues the French in Quebec were so terribly upset about. Honestly, the whole issue was of absolutely no interest nor of value to me, and as far as I was concerned, the debate totally irrelevant. Nonetheless, reality was clear enough for me to see that my other lifelong dream of working on CP Rail’s trains in the Eastern Townships was beyond any hope of grasping. Trains and railway jobs were disappearing by the hundreds. Working for the railway in Montreal or anywhere in Quebec was never going to happen as far as I was concerned.

With more apparent reasons to go than reasons to stay, I believed myself to be ready to leave home and strike out on my own. I'd always been comfortable in keeping to myself when I lived with my parents, in fact I even preferred being left alone, but nothing; neither parental advice nor advice from friends had prepared me for the complete separation and total isolation that independent living in a distant city would entail.

Instead of finding happiness and a sense of contentment that my expectations had led me to believe would automatically follow from successfully achieving the few modest goals that had been set, I was terribly miserable. All that I'd managed to accomplish was to cut myself off from my immediate family and all lifelong friends, to severely distance myself from everything familiar and to completely turn my life upside down and make myself very unhappy in the process. Many times I would ask myself what were to become two familiar haunting questions, "What went wrong? Did I miss something out somewhere?"  

Over the next weeks and months I would have many hours in which to consider these two questions and ponder possible answers... if any existed.

Pulling the cord to signal the driver to stop, I exited the bus a few stops early and walked the remainder of the way. My abode was on the northwest corner of West First Avenue and Arbutus Street, and practically a perfect location to reside in for my needs and requirements. The majority of the nearest stores and businesses were located only a few blocks south on West Fourth Avenue. Kitsilano Beach was only two short blocks away and the bus route over Burrard Bridge into the downtown core was even closer. The office was a fifteen-minute bus ride when it was raining or a half-hour walk when it wasn't raining but it usually seemed to be raining far more often than it wasn't.

The sunken doorway to my residence was dark and I fumbled around with the key to get it into the lock. I'd turned off the light when leaving for work in the morning without remembering that it was going to be dark upon returning. As I unlocked and opened the door I silently prayed that someone special would be waiting inside to greet me; if not today, then one day. Again darkness and silence were the only companions waiting to welcome me back to my dwelling. I was reluctant to use the word home because my new dwelling didn't yet feel like home, and I didn't know if it ever would.

My dwelling was a sparsely furnished apartment in the basement of what was an older house in one of the older established areas of Vancouver. Judging from the well-maintained solid hardwood floors and high ceilings of the upper levels, this structure must have at one time been home to an upper class family in the post Victorian era. In later years the building had been converted into five small apartments. 

My suite, the word my landlady used, was more like a three-room closet. Size was definitely not this suite’s strong suit, however, the rent was low and affordable for someone just starting out. The only luxury was the private side entrance complete with coat hooks on the wall just inside the door.

The living room was small to say the least, but did have a trio of small, double hung windows that faced the street at lawn level. The windows were adorned with yellowed blinds and white curtains. The walls and ceiling were a dark shade of beige and what I could see of the floor was covered with a beige-orange and brown patterned linoleum. The furniture consisted of a well-worn, chocolate brown couch, which was positioned beneath the windows and faced the kitchen alcove. At one end of the couch was a small brown, almost black, wooden end table with the room’s only lamp upon it. A small, dark-brown, rectangular-shaped carpet covered most of the open floor area. Everything was well worn and some shade of brown.

The kitchen was small and very much smaller than the kitchens I'd seen in the dining cars of the train that had brought me across Canada. The walls were a light shade of what would best be described as mint green. Seated in the back right corner was a small, white gas range, with four burners and an oven, with just enough room for the oven door to drop down without hitting the opposite wall when fully opened. A small built-in counter and sink, with a cupboard beneath, occupied the remainder of the right side. A single small cupboard was above the sink. The counter and cupboards were made of wood, stained dark brown and covered with many coatings of what appeared to be polyurethane. The metal fittings betrayed the probable age of the cabinets but the wood-finish had stood up well over the years. Against the left wall was a tiny wooden folding table complete with a matching small wooden chair. These were made of pine and both had seen numerous layers of varnish added over their many years. I could stand in the center, stretch out each arm and just touch the opposite walls at the same time. This was the length of my kitchen.

The bedroom contained a large, ancient, brown, metal framed double bed. The mattress surface must have been at least three feet off the floor. The only other furnishing was a large, brown, wooden, double-door wardrobe that stood against the wall facing the foot of the bed. From the floor the wardrobe almost touched the ceiling. I often wondered how the wardrobe had been moved into the suite. On the far side of the bedroom from the doorway was the only other window in my dwelling. The window was a pair of double-hung wooden-framed panes hidden behind a well-worn dark green blind, which was always kept pulled-down and obscured by a pair of curtains.

The bedroom also had a second door that was at a right angle to the opening to the living room. A key was constantly sticking out of the turn-of-the-century lock on this door. On my first visit to see this place I thought a closet was behind the door. The second door turned out to be an exit into the basement where my refrigerator was located as well as the route upstairs to the main entrance and foyer. The floor on the outside of the door was a step higher than inside, so I left the key in the lock where it was found. I'm certain the tenants before me must have done the same.

Leaving the key where it was, was a sure way not to lose it. Anyone who may have given thought to gaining entrance by poking the key out of the lock onto a paper pushed under the door would have been stymied. Sometimes out of boredom I'd try to think of a solution to this puzzle but gave up. Such a feat seemed impossible at this doorway.

Nothing in the entire apartment could even remotely be considered new, however, the place was clean and everything did work. Rental units were difficult to find in Vancouver and affordable ones even scarcer. This dwelling signified my independence and that I'd had finally made that exciting but terrifying first step of making my own way in the world. I was truly on my own now and responsible to pay my own way. Yes I was free, but free to do what? Yes I was independent, but independent from what? Yes I was also completely alone, but now what?

Upon entering the pocket-sized suite, I chased out my two unwanted companions darkness and silence by turning on the lights and the radio, then hung my hat and coat on the hooks just inside the doorway. Water requires time to boil so I started the pots going on the stove before going upstairs to see if there was any mail.

Nothing. No letter from home, not a single edition from any of the three daily out-of-town newspapers I subscribed to, not even a bill, and I think I would've been grateful even for that.

While waiting for the water in the pots to boil I took quick peek outside. The rain hadn't started again so I decided to pass on making my own supper, shut off the stove and dumped the water. I found that making dinner was far more convenient when I walked around the corner to the far end of the block to the little Chinese restaurant to pick up something that was already cooked and was going to taste far better than anything I could possibly concoct.

During rainy evenings and through wet weekends the silence in my three-room closet at times could feel excruciating. Silence was noiseless torture. How else could too much alone and quiet have been described?

If anyone lived in the four upstairs apartments, there was little evidence from the lack of noises. Not once, even in passing or looking out the window, did I ever meet or see any of the other tenants. They were silent, anonymous faceless strangers, but they didn't remain nameless. Mail was shoved through the slot in the front door and dumped on the floor inside the upstairs entrance. One of those unwritten rules was that the first one in sorted out the mail and placed it on the small table by the stairs leading to the top floor. On occasion I was the first in, thus in time determined the other residents were all men.

My telephone rarely rang, but when it did, the caller was almost always a wrong number or somebody trying to sell something, and that was just as good as a wrong number. On the odd occasion I'd lift the receiver merely to confirm there was a dial tone. Millstone-like shyness coupled with an inability to understand people in general made it paralyzingly difficult for me to take the initiative to reach out and telephone someone. And who was here for me to call in this new home city? 

Meeting new people felt overwhelming and the few people I did meet were already busy getting on with life and too preoccupied with their relationships to welcome interference from an awkward outsider. So in the end, very few of the few attempted calls ever made it to the first ring.

Shortly after moving into the three-room closet and managing to save some of the little that was left after paying the bills, my first major purchase was an inexpensive stereo. That necessitated a rearrangement of some of the furnishings in order to make room for the new arrival. The folding table and chair were moved out of the kitchen into the living room and set up to use as a desk. The lamp from the end table was placed on a corner of my new desk. The end table was just the right size for the stereo and speakers. The now empty carton was turned upside down to become my coffee table.

In the process of moving stuff around, I gave up sleeping in the bedroom and permanently made the couch my bed so I could listen to music at night. Being able to selectively listen to Beethoven, Mozart and others again was a joy. Music also provided some relief to lessen what often seemed like endless silence, relief the radio hadn't been able to provide.

The move proved a good choice because the couch turned out to be more comfortable than the bed. The bedroom became my place to spread out books, sort and file newspaper clippings as well as any and every other piece of paper that was of an esoteric value. In other words, the bed was soon buried with junk.

Laundry was one of those chores given no thought whatsoever until I was on my own for the first time in my life. Doing laundry became a weekly ritual that usually fell on Monday evenings or Tuesday evenings or any evening later in the week when it was raining on Mondays and Tuesdays. Hauling a stuff-sack full of laundry uphill to the laundromat on West 4th Avenue wasn't the least bit exciting the first time and became drearier each successive trip. Later, a classical music record store opened up right beside the laundromat so I timed my trips to coincide with the store's open hours. Waiting for clothing to wash and dry became more bearable as I looked for new recordings to add to my mostly Beethoven collection.

Food shopping was another chore given little thought until I had to do it for the first time and my learning was all done the hard way. The first valuable lesson quickly learned from having to walk back from the store was this: never buy more than you can comfortably carry.  Food shopping eventually fell on Thursday evenings because the food stores were open late on Thursday evenings and paydays fell on Thursdays too. Like other chores, my grocery-shopping schedule would be altered when it was raining.

Dinner was soon finished and the few dishes were washed, dried and put away. Sitting at my desk, I began fiddling with a pencil and scribbling down notes on a sheet of music paper but I soon placed the page aside. Several months had passed since I last looked at music paper. Picking up the sheet again and taking another look at the marks scribbled down, I closed my eyes, tipped my head back and then tried to mind-hear the music the notes were supposed to convey if ever played. 

Try as I might, I couldn't hear the music in my mind. I just couldn't be certain that what had been written on the paper were the melodies playing in my thoughts. Opening my eyes I pushed the chair back with disgust. Perhaps Beethoven and Mozart could compose music without the aid of a musical instrument but I couldn't. Tossing the sheet onto the desk, I gave up wasting any more time with music. 

"I need a piano,” muttering aloud.

Turning my attention to a corner of my makeshift desk I picked up my pocket billfold. Made only of cheap plastic it nonetheless housed what seemed to be my identity; a few dollars, a credit card, my social insurance card, a tiny card-calendar for 1974 and a black and white photo of my former girlfriend. More than three years had passed since she tossed me aside and said good-bye, but I'd never met someone else to replace her.

I opened the little folder to look at her, but instead, I looked at the tiny calendar. Mom had given it to me that day I was leaving home, and almost last-minute while she was driving me to Windsor Station in downtown Montreal. On the other side of the card was that Bible verse, Isaiah 41:10. In that instant I wanted to feel that God was with me because no one else was.

Next, and reaching over for the tobacco tin that was perched atop the row of music books that lined the wall at the back of the desk, I pulled out one of the half dozen plus pipes kept there. Removing the odd little pipe tool I usually carried in my pocket, I began scraping out the cinders and clinkers that had accumulated on the inside of the pipe's bowl; a task much like chimney sweeping without having to climb on top of a roof. When that was done and like a judge with his gavel, I banged the soot out into another empty tobacco tin that had been relegated to ashtray duty. 

Satisfied the pipe was now suitably prepared for another burning, I stuffed it to the brim with one of my favourite mixtures of tobacco. Striking a wooden match afire I waited first for the chemicals to burn off and then set my little stove alight as I'd done so many times before. In no time at all clouds of smoke billowed upward to the ceiling and shortly afterwards the upper half of the living room was a blueish haze.

Pipe smoking certainly wasn't a healthy activity nor was it even remotely useful, but I enjoyed it nonetheless and regarded the habit as a sort of art form. Choosing a pipe or a tobacco mixture was a matter of personal taste, however, packing tobacco into the bowl had to be done just right or the tobacco wouldn't burn quite right. And getting this far along was to no avail if the pipe wasn't properly lit. Firing a pipe with a lighter was almost sacrilege. Lighter fluid gases always ruined the flavour of the tobacco not to mention leaving an awful aftertaste in the mouth. Cardboard book-matches weren't much better because of their short lengths; they didn't burn long enough to properly set fire to a packed pipe without burning fingertips in the process. Wood matches were best and the longer the better. Even these could completely ruin a smoke if the match's chemical-laden head wasn't completely burned off first. Except possibly for lighter fluid flavour, nothing tasted worse than puffing away on sulphured tobacco.

Before turning in for the night I took a last peek out the window. The street wasn't dry but it hadn't rained in the last few hours. 

"Perhaps there's a chance it'll be dry tomorrow." I thought and now feeling hopeful.

Here in Vancouver, I think people's winter prayer on a Friday is for sun on Saturday. If not, then it should be.


The Oddblock Station Agent