“GO WEST, YOUNG MAN”: Chasing my dad Part 5

["The miles rolled by (south of Longlac)"]

The following notes are found in my journal for Day 3, i.e., Monday, April 23, 2012:

“This will be my second full day on the train and I think I have a routine. Shower @ 6 - 6:30 a.m.; fumble for clothes from tight storage areas (a lower berth may be worth the extra $); get to breakfast by 7:00 - 7:15; Chef’s Omelette - can’t go wrong, and coffee isn’t bad(!); pack up unnecessary items so porters can shift beds into window seats; read, write, relax, take a few photos, cookies and tea @ 10; lunch @ 11:30-ish (ain’t life grand!); easy kap-easy p.m., read, relax, have a beer @ 3 p.m., finish Sudoku, etc. ‘til supper at 5 p.m.... catch the drift?”

Well, did you catch the drift? My life on Via Rails ‘The Canadian’, which included ‘tens-ies’ and ‘threes-ies’ and roast beef at five, could not have been much more pleasant. Had a former Prime Minister of Canada dropped by at 11 p.m. to fluff my pillows I would not have been surprised.

Stymied momentarily, perhaps. How much does one tip a former PM for fluffing pillows?

Thoughts related to my dad drifted through my head on occasion. Perhaps it was because the chief purpose of the trip related to ‘chasing my dad’, i.e., making an effort to walk in some of his footprints, at least the ones he’d made while on Vancouver Island in 1944 and ’45.

In his naval memoirs he wrote, “Then I went to Givenchy III, known as Cowards Cove, at Comox on Vancouver Island. It was absolute heaven there. Just normal routine; I trained a few zombies on cutters, and played ball five or six times a week under a good coach.”

["Navy buddies Chuck and Doug played ball,

and occasionally drank Riverside dry"]

I was fully aware, of course, that I was heading toward Comox and Vancouver Island, and getting closer with every passing hour. As I scanned acre after acre of trees in Northern Ontario from the comfort of a leather seat, I hoped the Comox ball fields were still there, and wondered if a few old cutters still existed at Givenchy III or The Spit.

Dad also wrote, “At Givenchy III I passed professionally for my Leading Seaman rating and Acting Coxswain, classed very good.”

In one hand-written copy of this same line Dad had underlined ‘very good’, so I knew it had meant something to him to make progress, so to speak, up the chart. He had very pleasant memories of Givenchy III, and I wanted to have a few as well.

He shared the following story too: “We used to go to the Riverside Hotel in Courtenay and rent room number 14 because it had a window that opened into an alley just about hip high. Then we proceeded to drink Riverside dry, go to a dance and return to the room and find another dozen sailors who had come in the alley window. The room was crammed, and when we left on Sunday morning the manager’s head turned to and fro, like someone watching a ping pong game. He was utterly astounded but never called a halt because we were such nice guys.”

["The Riverside Hotel is at the top of the street,

third from photographer, fronted by trees"]

In my opinion, this is a great story. Dad’s memories are vivid, contain hints of his good sense of humour and reveal he was part of a pretty nice, friendly group of sailors. 

Prior to my trip I contacted a museum curator in Courtenay and I learned the Riverside Hotel burned down in 1968, so there would be no Room 14 to visit, no alley window for me to peek into in order to judge for myself how easy it would have been to steal a night’s sleep. However, I learned the dance hall was still just around the corner from where the hotel had been and I was planning to visit it and have a good look around.

No wonder then that thoughts related to my dad visited me throughout my days on The Canadian. And thoughts were inspired by views out the window as well.

In my own journal notes from Day 3 I also read the following:

"Quick Thots - 1000s of damaged, tilted, grounded (i.e., upon the ground) telephone poles captured my imagination, and would have captured Dad’s too."

[Dad collected telephone pole insulators. He would have had a field day!]

["Some poles carried more than 20 souvenirs... insulators"]

"10,000 insulators, clear, blue."

[That’s 10,000 per mile. In his younger years, Dad picked them up one or two at a time from the ditches around Norwich, his hometown.]

"$1 each for true Canadian souvenir. 'From the Prairies.' 'From Northern Ontario,' etc."

[$1 for an insulator. Not a bad deal. Another passenger, however, said the miles of unused copper wire would be worth more money. He was probably right. But I had eyes on something else.]

"Tonnes of old lumber in skids, fence slats, old sheds and houses. Why, we could make a fortune in birdhouses."

["There are a lot of birdhouses in that old lumber"]

Who is 'we'? Dad built hundreds of bluebird houses for the fields and fence rows around Norwich, and now I make dozens each year as well. I’ve been able to pick up most of my lumber from friends, the curbside and buyers who have a few spare boards in their garage. Driving to Northern Ontario for fence slats isn’t in my future, but I know 'we', i.e., Dad and I, would have had a good conversation or laugh about all the lumber going to waste beside the CN line he rode when he was a 24-year old. 

["One of Dad's birdhouses hangs in my workshop"]

The miles rolled by. I didn’t count them, or the insulators. (After reaching one million I gave up.)

I counted my blessings instead.

[Photos by G.Harrison]

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Please click here to read “GO WEST, YOUNG MAN”: Chasing my dad Part 4