Part 7
Chapter 3 – Canada at last
The journey across Canada back in those days took about eight or nine days. Because of the cost, we travelled Colonist – the cheapest method, which meant we fed ourselves, buying food at stations on the way, envying those who could afford the luscious food, luxuriously served in the dining cars.
I was fascinated by such things as the cow-catcher on the front of every engine, the clanging of the train bell whenever we passed through a town, large or small, the length of the train seen rounding Lake Superior, both ends being visible at the same time in a long semi-circle; the miles and miles of open, flat prairie with the grain elevators, indicating the great corn industry at every little place we passed.
I have one sad memory of that train journey. We stopped on one of the little used tracks to allow another train to pass. As we started again, one of the train staff tried to jump on the steps of our moving carriage, but unfortunately had let the train gather too much speed and he missed his footing and was dragged under the train. I saw the whole tragic happening very clearly and was stunned speechless. The train stopped and later I told my elder brothers I had witnessed the dreadful accident, but they refused to believe me and laughed me to scorn. I was so bewildered and hurt by their disbelief and derision that I never mentioned the subject again, stifling my resentment and indignation.
However, the novelty and excitement of arriving in the new, vast country soon dispersed any feelings of gloom and forebodings of disaster engendered by the accident. There were all the hitherto unknown experiences awaiting me.
We arrived in Calgary, Alberta, in the middle of the night, in a tremendous burst of steam from the two engines pulling the long train and to the accompaniment of clanging train bells announcing with deafening, shattering explosion of sound that we were here at last. At the time, I wondered why it was necessary at such an unearthly hour to proclaim to the sleeping populace, the arrival of a train.
The father I didn’t remember met us at the station, but I suppose I must have been stunned physically insensible by the ear-splitting arrival, as I have no recollection of anything he said or did.
On our first Sunday morning in Calgary, we all went off to an English church, in deference, I suppose, to monitor mother’s religious persuasion, but it wasn’t long before we were attending the meetings at the Salvation Army Citadel. The first impression I got was of a joyous, happy crowd enjoying their religion in a mood of rapturous abandon. The service built up to a climax, the aim being to persuade sinners to go forward to the Penitent’s Form where they became converted from sin to a life of religious service. I well remember the jubilation all round the hall as my father led my mother out to make her confession. But I also remember wondering in my young mind, what possible sins my dear, sainted mother could have to confess, for I knew her to be an angel in thought, word and deed!
The Salvation Army in Calgary was started as far back as August 1887 and its first officer was Captain James Desson, the services at first being held in Boynton Hall. The building on 1st Street East, which for some strange reason – unique, surely, in Army history – was called an auditorium, was not built until twenty two years later, in 1909, by which time they were well established with flourishing musical and all other sections.
At first we lived in one of the few suburbs of Calgary, which had not long grown out of being a cow town; in fact, only 35 years before our arrival, it was merely a fort, Fort Calgary having been established in 1875 by F Troop of the North West Mounted Police. The redcoats had built up a great respect for themselves and the lawless fraternity made themselves scarce when they heard the Mounties were on their way. The Mounties made their first encampment at MacLeod and spent their first winter in the west hunting the scattered whisky traders.
The early history of Alberta was largely of buffalo hunters and, helped by the Indians, they slew thousands of these magnificent animals. Hadn’t I found many skeletons in my favourite gulley, proving this shameful bit of history? As was to be expected, the country was lawless and wild and this was made worse by those white men who peddled whisky to the Indians. However, their criminal activities were dealt with fearlessly by the Mounties who eventually succeeded in putting down all such wrong-doing. Undoubtedly, Canada owes a great debt of gratitude to its scarlet coated police force, of which all Canadians are justly proud.
I quickly made friends with some Canadian boys, learning to live as they lived, running barefoot about the streets, paved or unpaved, playing ‘knife’ and soon mastering this game with some dexterity. It was a game of skill, played with an ordinary pocket knife, the object being to throw it in various ways, each consecutive throw getting more and more difficult. Your turn came to an end when the knife failed to lodge in the earth.
I liked the wooden houses right from the start, painted in bright colours, each with its wide veranda, screen doors and windows to keep out the flies and mosquitoes in summer and storm doors and windows to keep out the cold in winter. Our first home was a bungalow in the suburb of Sunnyside, with a basement accommodating the central heating system, this being a furnace with galvanised tin trunking carrying hot air to the rooms above, this being admitted through a grating let into the wainscoting. A bungalow without a basement had the advantage of being moved fairly easily and in those days, it was a common sight to see a bungalow being trundled along the street on low wheels to a new location.
Never before had I used a telephone but here, in Canada in 1911, already installed in the bungalow was an automatic dialling telephone! And we could have as many local calls as we liked included in the basic charge, for there was then no check or limit on the calls dialled. Of course, it was different for long distance calls
