Saturday Song: The Electric Light Orchestra, "Mr. Radio"

To most people, a radio is just a box which plays music or gives news reports. They have only a vague idea of how it receives signals and converts them into sound waves which our ears can hear.

But for me, my radio was my lifeline to the outside world. In my Deliverance from Jericho memoir, I wrote about how having my own radio made me feel a little less depressed at that institution.

One November afternoon in 1969, I happened to pick up a radio station from Edmonton, Alberta. Since my home town of Fort Saskatchewan was only twenty miles north of that city, I felt like I made contact with home by receiving that station.

The Electric Light Orchestra recorded a song about the comforting presence of a radio on their first album. I readily identified with it because of my experience at the blind school.

Hear this song here.

We Christians are also exiles, even though we've never set foot in heaven. But we do have a home waiting for us there when we die. John 14:2-3 (KJV) reminds us with the words of Jesus, "In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

The Word of God is our lifeline to heaven, as is prayer. Just as I felt a connection to my home through receiving that station, so we have an assurance of better things to come. As the Apostle Paul wrote in Romans 8:18 (KJV), "For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us."

A day will come when this world will be replaced with a better one. Revelation 21:4 (KJV) tells us this wonderful news. "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

Just as I left Jericho Hill School and never returned to it, so we won't have to live in captivity anymore. We'll be united with Jesus and all the faithful who followed him.

So, what do you think of what I've written and this song? Please let me know in the box below.

On Monday, I'll post about another Bible verse which people misquote and misapply.

FIFTEEN YEARS OF QUIETUDE

What a blessing quietude is. Being able to sleep at night undisturbed by booming car stereos and flatulent vehicles is becoming a rarity these days. Thanks to the sovereignty of God, I have enjoyed peace in a rural setting for the past fifteen years.

I used to live in Edmonton, the capital city of the province of Alberta. The first twenty-three years weren't too bad but the last seven were miserable. Churlish people moved in next door so after almost three years of their noise, I moved. The condo was even worse so after eight months, I moved to an adult-only high rise. The suites were being converted to condos so there was always the noise of renovations going on. I moved nine months later to the main floor of a house and discovered that the neighbours were running a vehicle towing service out of their home. I endured their idling trucks and parties for almost three years before I moved again.

God providentially answered my prayers in June of 2000. I had received a large pay-out from the government because its clerks had been underpaid. A house in the hamlet of Radway was in the perfect location. As I prayed, it was on the outskirts of town with no close neighbours. At the time, there was a store, a drug store, and the Greyhound bus came through the hamlet daily. By the Lord's providence, everything fell into place.

Apart from those annoying magpies, I've lived in perfect quietude. Though the store and drugstore are gone, I now get rides on the Thorhild County bus with some seniors. The Greyhound bus doesn't come here anymore but I go with the New Horizons Seniors club and the seniors from Newbrook to shop in Londonderry Mall at least once a month. Transportation is still a big problem for me to obtain but I'd rather live out here than back in Edmonton.

Why do I feel this way? Living here is like being on a permanent writing retreat, minus the other writers of course. I can do my work without having my thoughts disturbed by some idiot who figures the entire neighbourhood needs to hear his favourite tunes. Being close to nature also inspires me. Even though the sewage lagoon sometimes stinks up the town when the wind blows from the southeast, I'd rather be here than in Edmonton with its exhaust and barbecue fumes.

I wrote at length about my move to the country in a book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. You can read more about it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Powell's Books.

THE MONTHS OF THUNDER

Are you afraid of thunder storms? I know that many children are while some aren't. I was one of the latter group. As the lightning flashed and the thunder boomed, my sister Diane and I watched the storm through the living room window. The free entertainment gave us plenty of excitement as we pretended the angels were bowling.

I enjoyed thunder storms as a young adult. People said I was crazy to go out in that sort of weather and stand on the fire escape of the house to watch the action. I never was struck by lightning and I never feared it would hit me.

Of course my possessions didn't escape lightning damage. A small thunder cloud woke me up one summer morning. As I washed my hands in the bathroom, the house was shaken by a sudden clap of thunder. My alarm system started shrieking as I headed down stairs to shut it off.

Lightning had hit a nearby transformer, sending a pulse of high voltage through all the lines connected to it. The surge fried my alarm system, my stereo, and messed up a few computer monitors. Fortunately, my insurance covered a third of the damage.

While I still like thunder storms, I now switch off the main breakers to the house. I don't want a repeat of what happened. That stereo was a good one. Certainly it was much better than the cheap replacement I bought. Switching off the breakers won't protect me from a direct strike but it will impede any voltage surges induced or fed through the wires.

June and July are the stormiest months in central Alberta. I still enjoy watching the lightning and listening to the thunder roll across the prairie. It brings back memories of how Diane and I played outside until the rain began and then we watched the storm indoors.  Mom's fears of us getting zapped by lightning through the window never materialized. As long as I'm able, I'll continue to enjoy God's light show in the comfort of my home.

Thunder storms didn't get much mention in my three memoirs. But there was one strange occurrence when a single lightning bolt lit up the dorm room in March of 1969. I wrote of that in Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School. Check out that paperback at the Bruce Atchison's books page. My most recent book is up at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Powell's Books.

NO TRAINS TO DERAIL MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT

I miss trains. There was a time here in Alberta when every little town was connected by rail. People rode trains to the cities to visit their doctors and get shopping done. Students visited home often on weekends or during college breaks. Trains which passed through the Rocky Mountains had a car with an observation deck so people could appreciate the grandeur of the scenery.

When I lived in Fort Saskatchewan during the early sixties, I rushed to the classroom emergency exit to watch the train go by. These big machines rumbling through town and blowing their whistles fascinated me. My teacher once remarked, "You act as if you haven't seen a train before."

During summer holidays, I stood near the tracks as freight trains rolled past. Diane, my sister and close friend, sometimes joined me. We counted the cars and tried to read what was painted on the sides as the rolling stock rushed past.

Sometimes the train would stop. Fortunately for all concerned, Diane and I heeded Mom's admonition not to crawl between the cars. Her graphic stories of children losing arms, legs, and even their lives acted as a profitable restraint against the foolish urge to try something stupid.

When I moved to Radway, a small hamlet an hour north-northeast of Edmonton in 2000, the train passed through at least once a week.  What memories it evoked each time it happened. Even when the train came in the middle of the night, I still felt nostalgic for those halcyon days of my youth when the passing of trains were a wonderful excuse to stand next to the tracks.

Owing to a grain elevator fire in 2009, the train no longer comes through the town. Even the siding where excess rolling stock was parked now sits abandoned. The once-gleaming rails now are rusting unused.

I mentioned the train passing through Radway in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. This engaging memoir of God's awesome providence is available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

THE CURSE OF CENTRALIZATION

Back when I was young and naive, I believed the Marxist notion that capitalism was evil and that the government was fair. It seemed to make sense that some profit-oriented rich person would only care about making money while oppressing the workers. I was taught by three socialist teachers in high school that Keynesian economics was a much fairer system as it would supply people's needs and tax the greedy.

It's obvious to me now that those men misled me with their enticing philosophy. Looking dispassionately at the results of socialism and free market capitalism, I plainly see that the former stultifies economic growth while the latter amplifies it. Furthermore, top-down government control is inefficient. Bureaucrats thousands of miles away have no understanding or empathy for local situations.

One recent example of governmental mismanagement was the amalgamation of Alberta's nine regional health boards into one "superboard." This resulted in millions of dollars wasted and massive confusion. Furthermore, bureaucrats in Edmonton thought they could plan for local conditions better than the people who lived hundreds of miles away from the capital.

A dramatic example of this was the meal-planning SNAFU in hospice facilities across the province. Before the boards were collectivized, local people cooked appetizing and nutritious meals for their residents. The word came down from on high that meals would be pre-packaged and sent out to the various facilities. These were bland and unappetizing. Additionally, senior-unfriendly foods like tacos were included in the packages. You can imagine how difficult eating one would be if your hands were arthritic.

Thanks to public pressure stirred up by the Wildrose Party, local cooks are again providing delicious meals to their charges. The Wildrose Party is also pressuring the government to give better care to seniors, including common sense ideas like home care and adaptive aids.

Local charities are likewise better equipped to care for their needy neighbours. A bureaucrat in an air-conditioned office can't relate to an elderly pensioner living in an over-heated apartment in summer. Likewise, distant government employees aren't face to face with those people who need help as local charity workers are. These entities are also dependent on the good will of their donors, causing them to be cautious about mismanagement of funds. Governments, on the other hand, mismanage money all the time and people have grown used to that sort of criminality.

In my own case, I've been helped by local charities and friends while having been harassed in 2003 by my pension case worker. I wrote about how it happened in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Please check it out at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

A POLITICIAN WITH COMMON SENSE

Most folks would agree that politicians aren't practical, honest, and articulate. In fact, it seems that the joke about politicians is completely true.

Q: What's the difference between a robber and a politician?

A: The robber takes your money and runs while the politician runs and then takes your money.

While I agree that it's true in most cases, there are exceptions. Danielle Smith is the leader of a conservative party in Alberta called the Wildrose Alliance. It was formed because conservatives in the provincial government became fed up at the wasteful spending and dictatorial way the Progressive Conservative government was being run.

When Danielle joined the party, it was little better than a splinter group with only Rob Anderson running for the position as  a member of the Legislature of Alberta. Danielle's dynamic personality and honest answers to political questions won many Albertans to her side.

In the 2012 election, Wildrose had candidates in all 87 Alberta ridings. They almost won. At the last minute, the PCs misquoted one candidate's blog post and manipulated another into making a supposedly racist comment. This stampeded Albertans into re-electing the PCs.

Though Wildrose lost that election, they learned from the mistakes of the past. The party is focusing on alternative policies to those of the incumbents which would save money but still address the province's needs. Wasteful spending on pet projects and rewarding crony corporations is what is driving Canada's richest province into deep debt. Danielle and the Wildrose aim to change this entitlement mentality which the government presently has.

For more information on Danielle and the Wildrose Party, visit wildrose.cahttp://www.wildrose.ca.

Though I'm not overtly political, I did mention my beliefs in my three memoirs. The first two are for sale on my Bruce Atchison's Books page. The third, my testimony of coming out of a toxic church, is available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

"WHAT DID YOU DO, TAKE MUSIC LESSONS?"

Electronic music has been my passion for decades. The sound of analogue synthesizers evokes a sense of wonder in my soul. Being so moved by that futuristic sound, I purchased two electronic keyboards and a second-hand Realistic MG-1 synthesizer. With the help of an electronic music program host's four-track cassette recorder, I composed about six hours of tunes.

During the spring of 1989, I embarked on a project I called Seventeen Sites. Each track was named after an airport in Alberta, British Columbia, Yukon, and the Northwest Territories of Canada. Having no CD-R burner and having a CD made being so expensive, I recorded copies onto cassette tapes.

In the past, some of my friends complained that my music was repetitive and simplistic. I decided to strive for a melodic sound rather than only for a unique effect. The results astonished my friends, especially a DJ at CJSR, the local university radio station, named Gene Kosowan.

"What did you do, take music lessons?" he asked after hearing the tape. "This music is so much better than your other stuff."

I felt amazed that he was so impressed with my latest work. But an even bigger surprise came in July When a track from Seventeen Sites called "Hay River soared to the top of the weekly music chart. "You're number one," Gene announced over the phone to me one evening. I didn't understand what he meant until he explained that my tune was at the top of the chart that week. I had copied the tune to a C-10 cassette, never suspecting it would become so popular.

Twenty-five years later, I uploaded some of these tracks to SoundCloud, along with others that I recorded over the years. My hope is to create YouTube videos for these tunes using stock photos of the various places which each track is named for.

These days, I'm busily promoting my new book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. People need to be on their guard when listening to persuasive preachers peddling new ideas. I didn't know about such false shepherds and became trapped in a cult for fifteen years. Read more about this wondrous testimony of God's providential leading at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm.

A ROOM OF MY OWN

I feel sad whenever I hear about today's teenagers having to either share an apartment or stay at home with their parents. Property speculation has raised rents to where they are totally unaffordable for almost all young adults starting out on their own. Forty years ago, rooms were inexpensive and plentiful.

When I was sixteen, I attended a high school in Edmonton, Alberta, twenty miles from my home in Fort Saskatchewan. Special counsellors were tasked to help us blind and visually-impaired students with long reading assignments and filling in test papers.

One disadvantage of this arrangement for out-of-town students was having to rent a room. Normally, this would be of little consequence. In my particular case, I discovered that the landlady had some sort of fixation regarding me and my poor sight. Relations between us became strained to the point where I begged my mom to find me a new room to live in.

"There's a housekeeping room only a block from your school," she informed me as we ate supper one Friday evening. "It's only thirty-five dollars a month too. I'll come to the city and show you where it is."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "I'm getting so fed up with that stupid landlady coming in my room while I'm gone and even barging in when I'm there. She complains I'm too noisy, but her and her boyfriend shout and argue past eleven o'clock."

"Well, you won't have to worry about that, or her watching you through the window either."

"Yeah, she even listens at my door. I opened it once and found her standing there."

"That reminds me, where did that large carving knife I gave you go, huh? You didn't go and give it away, did you?"

"No, of course I didn't."

"Well, who took it then?"

"I don't know. The landlady was the only one who came into my place."

"Did you lock the door, huh? You didn't leave it open all the time so people could come in and steal stuff, did you?"

"Of course I locked it. The only person who came in there was the landlady."

"Oh, I just bet she stole that knife. It was such a nice one too."

"I think she might have taken that knife too," I thought as I ate. "She did con Mom out of the twenty-five dollar damage deposit because she cleaned the place for me."

The new furnished room that Mom found for me was cosy but what gave me the most happiness was that my new landlord and landlady never barged in or spied on me. If I muttered to myself or listened to music at a decent volume, nobody knocked on my door demanding answers.

In my upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoir, I wrote about other authority figures who didn't respect my personal boundaries. To a lesser extent, I mentioned similar incidents in my two previous books. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about them.

WALKING IN MY WINTER WONDERLAND.

The cold, the dark, the endless snow: this is what winter is all about for us adults. Frost is a nuisance we scrape furiously from car windshields as we run late for work. Billows of crystals from car exhaust obscure our vision at times as we try to drive through the ruts of ice on the roads. Then there's the inevitable dead car battery that has to be jump-started. No wonder millions head to warmer countries and spend thousands each winter just to get away.

Not so for children. Snow is just fluffy stuff to them, perfect for building forts or snowmen. Icy sidewalks on slopes are great fun to slide down. Watching their breath rise in the cold winter air is an enjoyable game, as is pretending to be a fire-breathing dragon. Watching snow fall through the beam of a street light becomes a journey through the stars.

In my Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I wrote many vignettes about how I loved playing in the snow. Being from Alberta, what little snowfall Vancouver received reminded me of home. Much to my supervisor's dismay, my dorm mates and I frolicked in it while adult motorists cursed.

When I was home for Christmas, I usually enjoyed being out in sub-zero weather. Of course it wasn't fun when I froze my feet, as I did while exploring the creek by my home one afternoon. Apart from that, I felt proud to be an Albertan and being able to brave what others thought of as impossibly cold weather.

I'm no fan of winter these days. I hate having to dress like an Arctic explorer so I can take out the garbage. Shovelling snow may be good exercise but it gets old fast. By march, I'm tempted to leave the snow where it lies and let spring take care of it.

How I long for the warm sweet-scented breezes of May and the lazy afternoon heat of July. I miss the birdsong I hear coming through opened windows, magpies not withstanding of course. I long for the fresh scent of the air after a thunder storm. Waking to brilliant sunlight and retiring to bed as the sun sets is one of many fond memories I cling to during these long winter nights.

THREE OF THE LONGEST JANUARIES I'VE EVER ENDURED.

For most folks, January is the start of a new year. All their hopes and plans are neatly lined up, gleaming with promise. The old year is behind them as they plough forth into new ventures and adventures.

It wasn't like that for me in 1965, 1966, and 1967. Unlike most Canadian children, I was sent to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind for months at a stretch. The government only allowed me to go home during summer and Christmas. When I returned each January, I knew that I wouldn't set foot in my beloved home until the end of June.

Six months is a long time to be away from home, especially for children. I soon learned to cope by focusing on whatever difficulty or pleasure engaged me at the moment. Only at night or whenever supervisors allowed me to be alone did the thoughts of home return.

As the days passed, I took note of the changing seasons. Vancouver's sodden winters turned to spring as I busied myself with the demands of school and outings. Even so, homesickness plagued me from time to time.

Then came Easter and the soul-crushing burden of knowing that I couldn't go home like most of the inmates of that institution did. Substitute supervisors took pity on us from time to time but it was cold comfort to me.

The resumption of school took my mind off going home for a few weeks. But the arrival of June started me counting down the days until the night I'd sleep in my own bed again. Three weeks, two, one: each minute seemed slower than the last as that wonderful day approached.

Finally, the long-awaited day came. Having ridden in a bus, plane, and Dad's Volkswagen, I found myself once again in the home that I yearned for with such intensity.

January no longer torments me with the depressing prospect of a six-month exile or even a three-month-long one. After writing Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), memories of those miserable years don't sting like they once did. Additionally, my parents eased my suffering by paying for my train ticket home twice. In 1970, the British Columbia government took pity on us Alberta kids and flew us home.

I've written many more vignettes of my time at that institution in my Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir. It, and When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), are available directly from me. I hope to have How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity in print this year. Check out the information on the left hand side of this page or contact me directly for more information.

HOW TO RECEIVE DISTANT STATIONS WITHOUT CABLE OR SATELLITE.

Have you ever tried turning the channel during summer mornings when the weather was excellent? Chances are that you discovered TV stations on normally vacant channels. You also may have found that the spaces between FM stations likewise come alive with broadcasters. Why does this happen? An atmospheric condition called tropospheric ducting funnels the very high frequency signals, that normally would go out into space, and carries them for hundreds of miles. Depending on the dome of high pressure over a given area, this can continue all morning. Once the air heats up and the wind starts, the duct is destroyed.

Being an avid radio listener and television watcher since early childhood, the lure of tuning in distant signals, not meant for our area, was too strong to resist. I wrote about my discovery of tropospheric ducting in Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School). During August of 1969, Alberta's fine weather provided me with weeks of long distance viewing entertainment.

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I discovered a new form of long distance television viewing that month. Stations located a couple of hundred miles away came in clearly during the early mornings of cloudless days. Though the stations rebroadcast the programming of the CTV and CBC networks, I felt thrilled to see channels seven through thirteen filled with signals. I learned from the station identifications that these repeaters were located in small towns in northern Alberta. A station from Lloydminster also came in one day.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of what life was like in that government-run institution. These range from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of mischief. Click here to read more about this compelling story. You may also e-mail me directly if the comment form doesn't work.

COMPASSION FOR A STARFISH.

Judging from this vignette from my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I had a tender heart for even the lowest of animals. Having never lived in a family that regularly hunted and fished, my view of wildlife was shaped by Disney cartoons and nature documentaries. I still care about the welfare of animals but my view of God's creatures is tempered by the knowledge that he gave them to us for our use and management.

In November of 1969, my schoolmates and I were taken on a field trip to the beach. As I attended Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, British Columbia, I yearned for the Christmas holidays when I could be with my family in Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta. Here's how a starfish became a souvenir in my suitcase.

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Another gift I packed was a starfish. Mr. Moiarty took us on a walk along the beach one Saturday afternoon. As we strolled, a few men in diving suits called us over to see what they brought from the ocean floor.

One man held up an oblong, translucent, orange-brown creature. "This is a sea cucumber," he announced. He let the totally blind students touch its blubbery surface as he explained about the animal. "If they're attacked, they expel their innards to distract the predator," he claimed.

Then the divers gave us each a starfish to take back with us. When I received mine, it was purple and had only four rays.

"How come this one has one leg missing?" I inquired.

"A fish must have eaten it," the diver explained. "Starfish can lose a point and regrow it again."

He explained how these creatures ate and how they could live out of the water for up to twelve hours. I thought it might be fun to have a pet starfish but then I realized how impractical that would be.

Before we parted, the divers gave us some coral. It was hard and greyish-beige. Mine reminded me of the human brain which Mr. Warner once let us touch.

"We'd better dry these starfish before they rot," Mr. Moiarty said when we returned to our dorm rooms. He took each one and scraped out its innards with a butter knife. I refused to watch, feeling queasy at the killing of even these simple creatures. Then he laid them on the table to dry.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of what life was like in that government-run institution. These range from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of mischief. Click here to read more about this book and to order it. You may also e-mail me directly if the comment form doesn't work.

Spring in my step and my heart.

Spring has always been my favourite season. Summer is too hot and
bug-ridden, autumn reminds me that the good weather will soon end,
and winter is a time of prolonged cold tedium.. To me, spring
embodies joy. Trees put on leaves, animals mate or give birth, the
air fills with birdsong, and the whole world shakes off its annual
hibernation. After being cooped up for months and having to dress
like an Arctic explorer just to go out and play, spring was a
wonderful time for me as a child. I still love it and I believe I
always will.

In September of 1964, I was sent 500 miles away to Jericho Hill
School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, British Columbia.
Instead of our parents, Miss Boysse and Mrs. Sandyford supervised
my dorm mates and me during the hours we weren't in school. The
local children could return home each afternoon but I was only able
to be with my family for Christmas, summer holidays, and 3 Easters.
Being from Alberta, having spring come a month sooner seemed
strange but delightful to me. From my Deliverance From Jericho
(Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, here is an excerpt that
describes my delight at the arrival of this season.

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In March, we visited Pete's Ice Cream Parlour. This meant much more
to me than a new flag or an old leader. As I had never been to a
business which actually made ice cream, the outing seemed an
exciting event. Occasionally, our dietician treated us to small
dixie cups filled with ice cream from that establishment. Now we
were actually at the place which manufactured those desserts. Mrs.
Sandyford purchased the treats and handed them out to us. As we
walked back to the dorm, we ate our ice creams while enjoying the
fine weather. Though it was only vanilla, that confection was much
tastier than apples.

The frogs began singing their ageless mating song during March.
Since much of the school property remained undeveloped, many small
wild creatures made their homes among the bushes and trees. I loved
to listen to those high-pitched voices at night as I lay in bed.
The sound was hypnotic and soothing. This natural lullaby helped
ease my loneliness. Additionally, it fired my imagination. Mrs.
Rose had read us Fables of the Green Forest by Thornton W.
Burgess, as well as other children's stories. The idea of talking
animals captivated my heart. I wished those frogs could talk to me
and be like the characters in the stories I loved.

A pheasant also lived somewhere on the school grounds. We could
hear its call quite often in the early mornings. "What's that
noise?," I asked when I first heard it. "That's a pheasant," Wayne
answered. "Some men hunt them for food, you know." Being
tender-hearted, I felt sorry for those birds. I yearned to see one
close up.

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Deliverance from Jericho contains many more vignettes of
what life was like in that government-run institution. These range
from poignant experiences of homesickness to hilarious incidents of
mischief. This 196-page paperback, containing 6 black and white
photos, sells for $25.00 through the PayPal-equipped Inscribe writers
group website. E-mail
me for further information or if you don't have PayPal but
still wish to place an order.

The day a childhood landmark burned.

The Fort Hotel, built in 1913, was a major landmark in the city of Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta. I felt saddened and shocked when I learned that it had burned to the ground on January nineteenth of this year. The fire reportedly started by the VLT machines at the south end of the main floor. As I watched video of flames shooting through the structure's windows and firefighters valiantly fighting the blaze, I recalled all the times I had passed by it as a youth. Being painted orange, I could easily identify the building even with my poor vision. My parents took my siblings and me to eat supper a few times in its restaurant too. Though we once ate all the sugar cubes while waiting for our orders to arrive and Mom apologized to the waitress, we enjoyed the outing.

Not all my memories of the hotel were pleasant. I spent many hours behind it in Dad's Volkswagen as he drank with his buddies in the bar. Back in the early sixties, parents weren't all that concerned about paedophiles snatching or molesting unattended children. There was only one time when somebody bothered me. As I waited for Dad one evening, a scruffy, grey-haired man stopped by the open passenger side window and kept urging, "Come on, son, show me your pee pee." I felt terrified, having been sternly admonished never to unzip my pants in public. I hesitated and almost complied with his wishes. "I can't do that," I said as I held onto my zipper. "I'm not supposed to." The stranger suddenly fled, doubtless frightened off by some noise or passing pedestrian. I never told my parents about the incident as Mom often panicked whenever I informed her of any problems I had.

One evening, after friends held a party at the hotel for my parents to celebrate my mom's return from hospital, my siblings and I were left in the Volkswagen for a few hours. When Dad finally staggered out the back door and climbed into the driver's seat, he promptly slumped across the steering wheel.. "Wake up, Dad," I repeated as I shook his shoulders. He just mumbled and fell back asleep. Having had enough of waiting, and it being a warm summer night, I decided to walk home. A man spotted me passing in front of the hotel entrance and, because it was two hours past the curfew, hauled me into the lobby. An RCMP constable drove us children home while Mom and Dad had to answer to a judge. Regrettably, this didn't end their practice of leaving us in the car for hours at a stretch.

Most of those times when we waited for Dad were uneventful. My brother, Roy, and my sister, Diane, often kept me company while he indulged himself. Having no toys to play with, it was only natural that we became bored. One afternoon, Roy released the emergency break, causing the robin's egg Blue "beetle" to roll backwards into a low wooden barrier. Diane and I received a tongue-lashing from Mom for letting our little brother do that.

The Fort Hotel wasn't exactly what one would call a "classy" establishment. One summer morning, Roy and I wandered upstairs and woke a prostitute. Being preschoolers, we had no idea of what this aboriginal woman did for a living or why she had no clothes on. She ushered us back onto the fire escape and told us to go home. I never mentioned that to Mom either as it seemed unimportant.

Several years later, Mom's boyfriend, Ralf, treated her and us to dinner at the cafe in the hotel. We enjoyed the food but all five of us agreed that the tables were too close together. After the meal, Mom said, "Let's walk by the wall so we don't disturb other people." As the room was crowded, it sounded like a reasonable suggestion. As I squeezed against the wood panelling, my head struck a protruding coat rack support. all activity in the restaurant ground to a halt as everybody stared. I felt totally humiliated, especially since I sustained no serious injury. Had I received a visible wound, it would have justified all the fuss people made over me.

After spending six years at Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, I boarded with two families in Edmonton. I attended a public school with disability counsellors to help me with reading assignments and tests. Instead of coming home only at Christmas and summer vacation, I visited my family each weekend. Two years later, my parents paid the rent for a room of my own in the city. After graduating high school, I entertained the notion of revisiting Fort Saskatchewan for a sentimental journey. Regrettably, work and other concerns continually postponed that plan. If I ever do return to the place that was once my home town, there will be one less landmark to view. Losing such a memorable part of my childhood has given me a small taste of what the citizens of New York City felt when the World Trade towers were destroyed. No matter what sort of structure replaces the Fort Hotel, I'll always remember what used to be there.

In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I recount many stories of what it was like to grow up with partial sight in the sixties. Though the book contains plenty of gritty reality, it also has some side-splitting stories of childhood mischief. To learn more about this memoir, as well as my debut book called When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), please visit the Inscribe Writers Group web page.

The shock of an exiled child.

Forty Five years ago on Labour Day, I believed I was merely going to a new school. Being only seven years old, I had no notion of how far Vancouver, British Columbia was from my home in Fort Saskatchewan, Alberta. Consequently, I assumed the airplain ride would be part of my daily routine. When a young woman supervisor collected us at the airport and drove us to a large brick and concrete art deco building, I thought it was a hotel. In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I wrote of how the hard truth of my situation knocked all those naive notions out of my head. Here is an excerpt from the first chapter that tells how it happened.

I followed the rest of the boys back to the dorm after school. Doubtless, I thought, a grownup would soon be picking us up and taking us home. As it was a warm sunny afternoon, the wait was somewhat pleasant.

Becoming bored with hanging around the swings, next to the dorm, I asked one boy, "When will we be going home?” "Christmas," he said bluntly. I could not believe my ears. "You're joking!" I managed to blurt through the shock. "No, I'm not. We really have to stay here till December."

I felt utterly devastated. How could my parents betray and abandon me in such a far away place? Christmas seemed a million years away. What began as a wonderful adventure suddenly became a tragedy. I held back my tears, though I certainly felt like sobbing.

That was not the only shock I received that day. Miss Boyce sent everybody to bed at seven. I could not believe it. No one went to sleep at that hour of the evening. "This must be some sort of mistake," I thought, so I started to wander the hall.

"I told you to get back into bed!" Miss Boyce ordered.

"I want to play. The sun's still shining."

"Go back to bed and I mean it!" Miss Boyce barked.
I shuffled back into the bedroom feeling thoroughly defeated. With the sun blazing brightly outside, I closed my eyes and waited for sleep. To my surprise, I drifted off fairly quickly.

At my web page, you can read more about this memoir of my time at Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind as well as my debut memoir, When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies). Please contact me via the web page for further details and watch this blog for more book excerpts. I also am on Facebook and Twitter. Additionally, I have a few videos on YouTube. See you there!