memoir chapter III-continued.

Sometime shortly after we moved to Moncton,we began going to church.Church was a much bigger deal on the mid 1960's than it is today and a great deal more people attended.Town was generally shut down on Sunday as well,though the may have been one or two corner stores still open.

The churches at thsat time were the tallest,most imposing buildings in town,even more imposing than City Hall,as I suppose church ought to be.Downtown,at the corner of Queen and Church Streets,there was a church on each corner,and they were made from stone and looked very old.There was something vaguely scary about huge,old buildings like that.

My mother began to attend Mountain View United Church,at the corner of Connaught and McBeth,and from an early time she would take us along.While she would attend worship services in the church sanctuary we would go to Sunday School in the basement.At the time,I remember,my sister was still in the churches nursery in the corner of the basement.While adult family members heard sermons we were taught the same Bible stories by teachers that our mother read to us before bed at home.

Mountain View United Church was very much unlike the other churches around Moncton,at least in appearance.It had neither steeple nor bell,and,in fact did not reach very high into the sky at all,and did not seem to cast much of a shadow.I often wondered if our church didn't have a bell.how my mother ever knew when it was time to go to church.I guess she would have been slightly embarrassed to admit that her reference in such matters was likely the bell from the Catholic Church.

Mountain View United was not built of stones.Instead,it was a 1960's style modern building of glass and brick and wood.I guess,at the time it was a new concept in church building and it fit right in with the surrounding neighborhood,which featured a profusion of expansive brick houses.The Royal Canadian Mounted Police also had a brick building on the same street,and the Moncton Hospital was a bit farther down the road as well.To me,it was a wonder that,after having constructed the surrounding area,there were any bricks left at all.When my mother or a Sunday School teacher would tell the story of the Children Of Israel being forced to make bricks in Egypt,my mind visualized those bricks going to build all those stylish,upper middle class houses all about our church,rather than pyramids.But our church fit right in with the neighborhood.

Often we would drive to church,but sometimes we would walk,in the spring or fall.It was quite some distance to the church,and there really wasn't all that much to see on the way,so the walk bored me.We would walk down to the end of our own street,then down Mountain Road towards downtown.We passed Mapleton School,then Beaverbrook School right next to Mapleton.Mapleton was a French school and it was made of wood and painted white,so as to almost look more like a church than a school.Beaverbrook was made of,you guessed it,brick.We would pass a store where the Green Gables now stands,but there was not a lot along that streach back then.The Shell carwash and the Mc Donalds were not yet built,though the Fairlanes Bowling Alley was there and there was a gas station on the corner of Killiam and Mountain Road.It was called BA.When we walked to church,that is where we crossed Mountain Road,and it never varied.Sometime I would wonder why we could not walk down the other side of Mountain Road,but we never did.

Just before we got to the church we would pass a business in an old house that sharpened knives and skates and the like.There was also a very strange looking house about two blocks before the church.It was a modern style house,a bungalow,but kind of bent in the middle and it had a wrap around balcony around part of it's upper story.I always though of it as being like a boat.It was a very unique house,and,as it turned out,I was later to find out that the people who lived there were Muslim.I always wondered what it would be like to live in that boat house.

What I know of our church,what I've been told as a child,was that it started out as a tent.I always thought it odd that people would go to church in a tent,and I wondered what it would be like.To my mind a tent was a very small place where,even then I could hardly stand up without touching the roofI truly wondered how my sister and my mother and myself,as well as the minister and all the ushers and Sunday School Teachers and the choir and all of the other people would have ever managed to have church in a tent.The first time you jumped up to shout amen or Halleujah,the whole church would be torn apart,and of course,if it happened to be raining everyone would end up getting baptized.As it turned out,the good folks at Mountain View United seemed to have an aversion to much shouting which was likely just as well.I suppose,though,they likely had erected a much larger tent,something like a circus tent perhaps.

I wondered too why our church was called "Mountain View"And I never did discover the answer.I could,I suppose be a reference to jerusalem,in the sense of The New Jerusalem,or perhaps a reference to Calvary.Or,if you looked far off on the horizon,there was what I suppose you could call a mountain,though it was really just a hill.

And so,at roughly the age of four,church became part of my life and I would continue to attend for decade or more until one day I decided that what I really was was an atheist.When I woke up from my athiest inspired sleep decades later,I opened a Bible to a random page and began reading what turned out to be Psalm 121-"I look unto the mountains,where does my help come from?...

essay-coyotes in calgary

 Princes Island Park is located in the Bow River,between downtown Calgary and the city's North Hill.It is covered with tall trees and crossed by a number of walking trails.In the middle part of the island there is a fashionable,upscale restaurant called The River Cafe,and at the islands west end,there is a large pavilion that plays host to a large folk music festival each summer.Not only is Princes Island a popular recreation destination,but it is traversed daily by hundreds of commuters who travel or bicycle to work.

The eastern tip of Princes Island Park is somewhat less traveled and much less developed.It includes a constructed urban wetland consisting of ponds that are home to large flocks of ducks and geese.Only a stone's throw away is Chinatown,Eau Claire,with it's trendy condos,and the office towers of Downtown.But this small patch of land can seem incredibly far from Downtown,though there is not much more than a narrow river channel in between.

Early on the morning of November 21,2012,I was attracted to this spot by a new fall of snow,thinking that it would be a good opportunity to collect some photographs for this blog.The trees,ponds and river were quite dramatic clothed as they were in winter white,while on the nearby pathways,commuters passed like specters.It was a lovely but frosty and very cold morning.

Then,as I walked eastward among the many sets of tracks in the snow,only one of them human,I noticed a movement in the bush just slightly ahead of me.A coyote  stepped out into my path,glanced briefly in my direction,then,just as quickly ,and without a sound disappeared into the bushes on the other side of the path.It was not the first time I've encountered a coyote here in the city,but I'd never before seen one this close to downtown.

Like many Calgarians,I've come to know the coyote as a familiar,if not a common sight.More than once I've encountered them from only a few feet away.

You might well ask how a coyote would come to be in the heart of one of the largest and busiest urban areas on the Canadian prairies,but,in truth,they are quite common.Calgary,unlike some cities has a lot of wilderness even relatively close to it's downtown core.The Rockies are just to the west and there are two river valley systems which allow coyotes to travel about while avoiding roadways and other highly developed areas.Still,they visit urban areas in most parts of North America,in search of food and,as a species have become rather adaptive and successful.

Rabbits would seem to have been plentiful on Princes Island if the abundance of tracks was any indication,so perhaps that accounts for the coyote as well.Out on the pond,there were the shadowy forms of perhaps sixty ducks and a smaller number of Canada Geese..As the sky was lightening,I noticed that one of the ducks had a pronounced limp.Likely it had tried to land on the pond not realizing that the water was partly frozen over,and had injured itself in a collision with the ice.That might also account for the coyote,as they are known to be opportunistic hunters who will prey on injured animals.

People who are not familiar with coyotes ask me if I'm not afraid of them.The answer is,"not especially."Most of the ones around Calgary are smallish,maybe thirty five or forty pounds,though the occasional one is much bigger.They usually look a lot like a thin,hungry version of a German Shepard and,at times I suspect they are mistaken as exactly that.While I've been told that they run in packs,I've never seen more than one at a time,except of course for the very first one I ever encountered on the way to work one spring morning.

On Calgary's east side,Blackfoot Trail crosses Ogden Road,then bends around to the south,while Ogden Road runs in a generally southerly direction.Between the two roads is an industrial area,with some railroad tracks up on a ridge.Despite the factories and mills,the area is not frequented much by people,especially along the tracks.In 2001,an old rail bridge still  spanned Blackfoot Trail.It was this bridge that I would taske to my job at the IKO mill,which occupied a large site just off Ogden Road.

One May morning,just after the long weekend,I was walking along the tracks as usual when I rounded the slight bend just south of the bridge.And there,standing on the tracks dead ahead was a coyote.I had no idea what this coyote would do,having never seen one so close before.Not wanting to turn back and take the meandering Ogden Road,I decided to press onward,vaguely remembering some radio show advising that if you were to see a coyote,you should stand erect and make yourself look as large as possible,thus establishing yourself as an alpha pack member.Coyotes,it seems perceive people as not humans,but as other canines.At no time should you turn and run,because that is supposed to cause coyotes to perceive you as prey.I have no idea if this is good advice because,in the end I had no need of it.

For a few paces,maybe a hundred or so yards,the coyote just walked on ahead of me,maintaining a distance of about a hundred and fifty feet.Then she slipped down the steep bank into a gully,allowing me to pass.But,just as soon as I did,she came back up the slope and began following me,not seeming in the least disturbed.She remained at exactly the same distance as she had when I had been following her.It did not seem that she was stalking me,as I'm certain that we both knew of each others presence,and moreover,were aware of each others awareness.

For the next quarter mile a nervous sort of a dance took place.I walked on,but occasionally turned back to keep track of my canine companion.Each time I would stop,she would stop as well.If I took one step toward her,she took one step back.When I took a step away from her,she took one toward me.Always and only one exactly measured step.

Farther down the track there is a second rail bridge.When I crossed it I walked on for maybe another hundred yards.To my left was a small truck depot where I normally stepped off the tracks and headed toward the back part of the IKO property where I worked.taking a final look at my companion,and wondering what she would do I stepped down from the tracks to my left.As I did,she likewise stepped down,only she departed to the right,leaving me to wonder what had really happened.What was the point to her very precise choreography?

The very next morning,my companion was waiting at exactly the same time and in exactly the same place.And the dance continued exactly as before,step for step,ending exactly as it had the day before.Measuring me up.I'm sure that's what she was doing.I had no intentions of doing her harm,and in fact was starting to enjoy her company.But I'm sure she didn't know this.It took her a few days to become convinced,and convinced I hope she was.

It wasn't long until I discovered the reason for this creatures behavior-following,not stalking.Just at the point where we had been parting ways each morning,there is a small ,bowl shaped valley,where the tracks and a road meet at a right angle.In the middle of this little hollow,in some tall prairie grass were a couple of large metal oil drums.It was inside one of these drums that she was hiding her family of four,or perhaps five pups.By this time she had stopped following me.For a few days I would set off for work a half hour early so I could stop and watch the pups frolic in the grass.Mama lay at the entrance of her metal den,pretending to rest,while keeping a watchful eye on her young.

Then one morning they were gone.Coyote mothers are known to maintain more than one den,and will often move the pups from one den to another.Perhaps she did this in response to my watching,or perhaps someone else disturbed her.I prefer to think it is just the coyote way of doing things,but,either way I never saw her or her family again


                                                                     To Be Continued.

memoir writers homework-trespassers will be prosecuted

There was a small set of railroad tracks separating our end of town from Centenial Park,in Moncton's west end.But,to get to the park without crossing them involved cycling for miles,way down past the locomotive shops then back.So everyone crossed at the tracks.Just on the other side of those tracks there was miles of hiking or biking trails through the woods,but,of course there was a huge sign saying "trespassers will be prosecuted"It was obviously intended to keep us away,but I don't know if they ever really intended to prosecute anyone.

In those days the tracks were quite busy.But since the Canadian National shops have closed,hardly a train ever passes.Railroads,of course could be dangerous places,and that is likely why the sign was there.You could be killed by trying to race the train,but no one I knew was that stupid.There were some switches on the tracks there,and some kids would play with those while no one was around.That could be dangerous too.In fact,it could cause cars to derail.There always seemed to be boxcars parked there and they acquired graffiti though not nearly as quickly as they would today.Some of the kids said you could hide in the boxcars or even ride them if you stayed inside them for a while.The trouble with that was that they could only go to the shops or the switching yard,neither of which was more than a few blocks away,and you were certain to be caught doing that.One friend told me you could steal dynamite from the cars too,but I never believed that,and I've never known anyone to do it.There was a rumor that a wild man lived near that crossing too,but I never considered that to be much more than a lame attempt to keep younger kids away.There could have been the odd hobo there I guess,but I never saw one.

Like most all the kids around,I just wanted to get to the park without having to go all the way to Timbuktu.So,I would wheel up to the track,jump of my bicycle and carry it across the tracks.If no train was passing,it only took seconds,and if there were a train,I loved to watch the cars go by.It was said that the railway police patrolled the crossing,but I never saw a police car there ever.I was not interested in pulling switches,or riding in boxcars or dynamite.I just wanted to go to the park.I'm sure the police did try to catch kids damaging property,but I never encountered them despite the sign.Maybe I was just lucky,but I never knew or knew of any other kid who encountered them either. 

memoir chapter III-continued

Construction began anew in our subdivision once spring came.And this time it wasn't so much about digging holes as it was about paving them over and completing what had not been finished the year before.The tar truck never came back,as far as I could tell,and,after our misadventure of the summer before,I'm sure that was a relief to my parents.It must have been a bit on the annoying side too,getting your car all covered in fresh oil or tar every time you drove home.

Back in 1965,the construction companies never seemed to take a lot of precautions to make sure their sites were safe,or that they didn't make a huge mess.None of the sites around our house were fenced off and there was a lot of construction junk lying all over the place.We used to play in some of the foundations for the new houses that were going in,and I often wonder why no one was seriously hurt or even killed doing that.When the construction equipment was idle in the evening,some kids would even play on and around that.

The street we lived on was already paved,and had been from the time we moved in.Most of the other streets around were not.During the spring,summer and fall of 1965,a lot of pavement was laid down.Trucks came and went all day and there was a new sort of machine going up and down the streets too.It was a large sort of tractor with a hopper like device in it's front end.Into this hopper,trucks would drop hot pavement,then the tractor would spread it out all over the road surface.Behind would come equipment that would roll the pavement out flat while it was still smoking hot.The whole process involved an incredible amount of heat and foul smelling smoke.For a time the whole area reeked of hot asphalt and oil most of the time,at least during the day.

Once there was even a fire in the paving machine,long after the workers had left for the day.It wasn't a very big fire,but it brought several fire trucks,and every kid for blocks around running.By the time I got there,there didn't seem to be any fire.But it was in the hopper of the paving machine.A bit of asphalt must have been left there and since the machine would stay hot for quite some time it caught fire.In a likelihood it would have just burned itself out,but what better excuse for some kid to pull the handle on the alarm box.

Down at the end of our street,across Mountain Road,there was new development happening too.What had been a field when we moved in  was being turned into a new Kmart store.The construction site seemed enormous,and likely was,for it's time.But in fact, when it was finished it wasn't much bigger than a small strip mall with less than a dozen stores.By today's standards it was small.It opened sometime just before I started school.

In the opposite direction,up the street,work was beginning on a new school.It was to have two wings connected to a central part,and was two stories high.It took up the whole of a city block,on Ayre Avenue,between Crandall and Birchmount Streets.It must have seemed huge to my parents who were used to much smaller communities.My mother had taught school for a while,in a small,one room school house that housed children of all grades.I had been in that school once,and I wouldn't be surprised if it would have fit thirty times into our new school.The fact that we could go to a school without using the bus,and the fact that there would be no outdoor plumbing at this school were likely huge selling points when it came time for my parents to decide where to buy a home.

Our subdivision was called the Birchmount and the new school was to be called Birchmount School,after the street of the same name.Except that Birchmount Street wasn't yet completed.There were a few older houses at it's far end,then rows and rows of new but unfinished houses streachin the four or so blocks to the school.Moreover,construction on Ayre Avenue had just started,and only on one side of the street.Once they started building the houses on Birchmount,the subdivision came together quickly,though it took longer to complete Ayre Avenue.All of that started happening about a year after we moved to town.

memoir writers homework/police

We would watch the police come and go,but not much seemed to happen on our street and they never seemed to stop much.Once we were playing street hockey and they stopped to chase us,but we gathered everything and ran away.Sometime when you played hockey on the street they would take all of your sticks and make you go to the police station to get them back.

At times we would see a police car turn on his lights and race through a red light.If it was ten to eleven at night it often meant he was on his way to a fast food outlet and wanted to get there before they closed at eleven.Everything seemed to close at eleven in those days.Seeing the cops do that would make my father angry and he would say he wasn't paying taxes so they could do that.I didn't guess I begrudged them a meal though when they were working to protect us.

One December two cops were killed while investigating a kidnapping.It was a sensational crime for Moncton,and it commanded the attention of the community for a long time.Our neighbor was what we would call today a police groupie of sorts-right wing,no nonsense from anybody,strict law and order.He had a police scanner,which was a radio that could receive police and other emergency frequencies.All week end long,while the manhunt was on for the cop killers we sat around in our neighbors living room listening to the scanner,trying to catch any news of the unfolding events.It seemed very busy,but anything pretaining to the killings was being scrambled,so all we would hear was static.We did get to hear the other call though.Things like loud party complaints,and barking dogs,and people urinating in public,and auto accidents.That sort of thing.

Before Christmas my father bought a scanner so we could listen in to the police too.Our neighbor supplied us with a list of all the police codes so we knew what they were talking about.For the most part,they were talking about auto accidents,barking dogs,loud parties and people urinating in the streets.After the killings,Moncton went back to being the quiet town it was most of the time.Sometimes there were unusual,but not especially serious things going on.Like someone mowing their lawn in the middle of the night,or kids throwing the old paper bag on to someones doorstep on Halloween.There were checks for outstanding warrants and vandalism and routine traffic stops as well.Really,listening to the scanner was not all that entertaining.When I got older some of the names of kids I knew came over the scanner,as they came into contact with police for one reason or another.What really seemed odd though was hearing the police going about their business,but not seeing them all that much.And even though most of what went on seemed routine,I got much more of an appreciation for what it was they did,and how busy they really were.

music by bethany burie

memoir writers homework/something I'd rather not do.

Over twenty years ago I began writing with thoughts of creating a memoir.You see,nobody else was,so our family history was falling by the way.Then,of course a certain family member started trying to alter the picture of that history to suit their own perceptions.Well,to make a long story short,most days writing is a labor of love.Some days,it's something I'd rather not do.

Many things are discovered in the process of writing and research.And not nearly all of it is good.Nearly everyone that I have to present in order to produce a memoir with integrity has a vested interest in some of the stories that might be told.But it's my story,right?Well,yes,but not exclusively mine.

as a writer,I understand that I must sometimes present people who are not always good.They may break wind in church,or perhaps they are not in the habit of referring to African Americans as African Americans.They use words that I'd rather not use because I find them repulsive.Or,they may have a dark secret that still has the power to affect people still living.I've discovered at least one of those.

Now,we should tell the truth,right?Well yes,but not all truth should be told.Sometimes a painful truth needs to be revealed because it has a compelling lesson.And some truth just injures people needlessly.The need to be truthful is never an excuse to do that.That is simple cruelty.If the pen is mightier than the sword,there are some moral decisions to be made in writing.

I try to keep the story of Noah and his sons in mind when I write memoir.When his sons discovered Noah drunk and naked,two of them covered him up,while the third laughed and ridiculed him and had no respect for his dignity.I don't want to do that to anyone,so God help me.

It's an awful responsibility to write history,in whatever form,to hold the power to immortalize some other.Not for the faint of heart.There are stories that I fully intend to take to the grave with me.And there are stories that I think must be told.And,I don't always perfectly know the difference.Moreover,because my memoir is not exclusively mine,there are moral decisions to be made about my right to hold back any particular story.I've never imagined so much risk involved in writing.Some days I wish I'd never started.But most days it's a labor of love.