In a large population centre like Vancouver, we expect a variety of talent and skills. With a meagre population base such as we have in Hedley, we have to accept that in the realm of the arts, entertainment, sports, etc. there will be a smaller pool of talent. For this reason, when an individual unexpectedly exhibits skill in some area, we are pleasantly surprised.
This was the case when I received a phone call from Graham Gore, manager of the Hedley Fire Department and pastor of the local church. “Have you seen the snow sculpture our mutual neighbour created?” he asked. Unfortunately I can’t reveal the name of the sculptor because he abhors personal publicity. I can tell you that his background is in highway maintenance, certainly not in the arts. I admitted I wasn’t even aware of this recent creation.
Night photo by Linda Martens
“It’s where Webster and Scott intersect, not far from the Cenotaph,” he told me. Although it was already almost totally dark, Linda and I grabbed the camera and hurried to the site.
Thanks to the snow plowing crew that visited our community last Tuesday evening and worked well into the night, several large piles of snow had been heaped up around town. Our neighbour had selected one of these for his sculpting effort, a gleeful “SpongeBob” perched high on the mound. Although not nearly as ambitious, it reminds me of the heads of 4 U.S. presidents carved into the granite rock of Mount Rushmore in South Dakota.
Linda snapped a picture and Graham also sent me his photos of it.
Hedley’s “SpongeBob” photo by Graham Gore
The only outdoor item of permanent art work in Hedley is a painting of a blacksmith at work. It was commissioned some time ago by the One Way Adventure Foundation and adorns the end wall of the Post Office.
Unfortunately the snow sculpture will not enjoy the same longevity, but in the meantime it pleases us to know that someone in our midst chose to delight us with a talent we were not previously aware of. We accept that Hedley’s version of “SpongeBob” isn’t likely to last long, but of course there is the possibility someone will come up with a coating that will preserve it for posterity.
A big thank you from all of us to Hedley’s # 1 Sculptor.
Due to the unusually heavy snow fall and lack of plowing this week,
Snow Filled Street
many Hedley citizens couldn’t get their cars onto the streets for a couple of days. We shovelled our driveways meticulously and then waited for the imminent arrival of a plow. In spite of our great expectations, most streets remained clogged with snow to the end of Tuesday.
For some this became a source of irritation. One individual complained bitterly about the lack of service in Hedley. A neighbour suggested I write about it in the paper. “We might get some notice from the plow crews next time,” he said. I thought he was somewhat overly optimistic as to any clout my chiding might have. I did take photos but decided taking Argo to task would not be a productive use of this space.
At 9 pm a grader did roll into town and the operator demonstrated remarkable skill and thoughtfulness. We had expected 3 foot high ridges of snow across our driveways when he departed. There were virtually none. My neighbour who asked me to blast Argo humbly recanted. Graham Gore, Manager of the Hedley Fire Department, phoned the company to compliment them on the snow clearing effort.
After the streets were cleared, it occurred to me that we are unaccustomed to having our plans unduly disrupted by what is sometimes referred to as an “Act of God”. When our television screen shows the nasty results of a disastrous event such as a tsunami, earthquake, tornado or flood, it is usually in some distant underdeveloped country. Disasters don’t happen in the Similkameen Valley, do they?
Certainly we have been spared the heartache and turmoil that inevitably accompany major catastrophes. It may be time though to look back into our history for a reminder that we haven’t been entirely immune from weather events, and that we cannot expect to always be spared. Even peaceful Hedley has experienced occasional body blows by Mother Nature and her willing accomplices.
An early example of the weather wreaking havoc is the washouts at the ends of the dam crossing the Similkameen River. Writing in “Mines of the Eagle Country“, historian Doug Cox says “the dam had
Dam Washout
been completed in 1915, using shovels, picks, wheel barrows and horse teams. It’s purpose was to supply power for the Daly Reduction Plant and townsites.” According to Cox, in 1935 a heavy build up of ice floes generated sufficient force to take out the ends of the dam. Deciding the dam wasn’t worth repairing, the company dynamited the middle pier and abandoned the project. It wouldn’t be the last time weather disrupted the lives of Hedley residents.
On January 24,1939 the hard fist of calamity struck the community with the vengeance of a terrorist attack. According to the now
Hedley Rock Slide, Jan. 24, 1939
defunct Similkameen Star, large boulders weighing as much as 25 tonnes broke off at the 1,700 foot level on Stemwinder Mountain. Some catapulted through homes, smashing them. Helen Moore, a former resident of Hedley now residing in Penticton, was living with her family in the slide area. A huge boulder crashed into the bedroom she shared with her sister. The Star reported that fortunately it came to rest between their beds and they were not injured. A man and a woman in another home were killed by a boulder that crushed their home. Subsequently a number of houses were moved from the slide area to Daly Avenue.
In 1948, and also in 1972, the elements again conspired to create havoc. In both cases 20 Mile Creek overflowed its banks. Ralph
1948 Hedley Flood
Mackay, a longtime Hedley resident recalls that in 1972 “three houses went down the creek. A hydro pole and the lines came down. In one place the water line was uncovered and it was sticking out of the ground.” He saw the porch of a house near the creek hanging in the air. The ground had been washed out from under it. The nearby bridge on Webster Street had one end washed out. A large part of the town was under water.
Almost certainly these events were entirely unanticipated. Disasters usually are. When we are not troubled by unfortunate and unforeseen events for long periods, we become complacent. We see no need to be vigilant or to prepare.
The Canadian Red Cross has an Emergency Preparedness check list on its website to help us prepare for calamitous events. This could be a good place to start our own preparation.
Tuesday, Jan.6, 2015. When we still lived in Abbotsford I sometimes felt a yearning to experience another Hedley winter. I credit my Mom with giving me that desire. She loved snow.
The past two days my wish has been abundantly granted. Of course, with the snow has come a considerable amount of shovelling. Sunday evening I moved about 6 inches off the driveway and the path to the storage shed and the Hen House. Yesterday snow fell well into the afternoon. More opportunity to shovel. Linda joined me this time.
Last night a plow made a token appearance in town. A few streets were cleared but in some cases a high ridge was left across streets. If those ridges are allowed to harden, we may see some ripped off mufflers scattered around town.
During the night a senior lady called 911, saying she had fallen and couldn’t get up. An ambulance was dispatched from Princeton. In the meantime the Hedley Fire Department received word of this emergency and two Fire Fighters and one First Responder hurried to the home. Because of the deep snow, the ambulance could not get close enough to the home and they called Mike Jacobs who lives nearby on the local reserve. Mike came immediately with his ATV and cleared the snow.
The paramedics got the lady on her feet and wanted to take her to the Princeton hospital. She decided she was now ok and elected not to go.
The two fire fighters returned to the Fire Hall and shortly received a call from the paramedics. One of their tire chains had broken and was stuck between the duels, making a loud knocking sound that concerned them. The Fire Fighters went to assist but when it was not possible to extract the chain, they summoned a tow truck. It was now Coffee Time at the Seniors’ Centre and the fire fighters went there to warm up. They expressed a lot of respect for the professionalism and dedication of the paramedics.
This incident points out one of the issues people in Hedley mention frequently. Other than the Fire Department’s First Responder service, we have no medical help readily available. In extreme adverse weather conditions, medical aid might not be available for several days, except possibly by helicopter. In 2014 a rock slide cut off access to the hospital in Penticton. The alternate routes, Nickel Plate Mountain Rd. and the Princeton- Summerland Highway take much longer and are vulnerable in bad weather. Also, had this particular emergency been on Hospital Hill (so called because Hedley had a hospital here many years ago in its boom time) even Mike’s ATV might not have been able to clear the street.
We are fortunate that our Fire Department is well organized and there is regular updating of skills. Often it is our first line of defense in an emergency.
I was 19, standing on the outskirts of Pouce Coupe in northern B.C. with my thumb out, hoping some compassionate soul would give me a lift. My destination was Abbotsford and I planned to travel there via Alberta. The few dollars in my pocket were sufficient to buy little more than a loaf of bread, a package of sliced meat, and a cup of coffee. Picking up a hitch hiker was not considered especially dangerous at that time, but I was to discover most drivers were not willing to stop.
My first ride was with two young couples on a Sunday morning drive. I’m still surprised they picked me up. Before long it occurred to them they weren’t going to the next point where there was at least a semblance of civilization. After some discussion they extended their drive considerably and dropped me off at the B.C. /Alberta border. I can only guess at what motivated their thoughtfulness.
At the small cafe on the border, I bought a cup of coffee so potent I worried it might be hazardous to my digestive system. Then, after standing too long on the bald, empty prairie stretching endlessly to the horizon, an elderly farmer in an aging rusted pickup bumped to a stop. He carried on well past his little farm because like the young couples, he didn’t want to leave me where drivers would be reluctant to pull over.
At the entrance to Grand Prairie, I was quickly picked up by three young men. An open case of beer was on the floor of the car and each had a bottle in hand. I was barely in the car when the driver glanced in his rear view mirror. “Cops,” he said and abruptly pulled onto a side street. I gathered they were just driving around town, hoping for some excitement. With his eyes frequently scrutinizing the rear view mirror, the driver made his way to the other end of town and dropped me off. Without that ride I’d almost certainly have needed to walk to this point. I appreciated what appeared to be an act of entirely unselfish helpfulness.
After a succession of rides, I found myself on the far side of Calgary. Dusk was approaching and I knew if I carried on, I might soon be standing in the mountainous darkness of Banff, hoping no bear would be looking for its dinner.
An elderly man in a grey station wagon pulled over and pushed open the passenger door. I was dismayed to learn he was only going to Banff, where he lived. Evidently he came to trust me during our conversation enroute. Discovering I had little money, he said, “talk to my wife. She might put you up for a few dollars.” Darkness had fallen and I was relieved when his wife said I could stay for one dollar.
The following morning this wonderful trusting couple needed to leave for Calgary. They showed me where they kept their house key, and suggested I leave my bag in the house and look around town before carrying on. I gratefully accepted their offer, and after a little sightseeing I resumed my trek to Abbotsford.
Since that time I’ve sometimes thought back to my little hitch hiking adventure. I still wonder what motivated a very small percentage of drivers to stop, while the majority raced by blithely. Did they want to make a difference in someone’s life? Were they unselfish, giving individuals? Did they understand intuitively that an act of kindness can make the world a better place for someone?
For me the question concerning motivation is important. I’ve observed a similar dynamic prevail in community matters. A small minority of individuals shovel the walk of a frail pensioner, or provide a ride to the doctor. Often it is these people who serve on committees and boards of organizations. In Hedley, a handful of individuals put on the popular monthly pancake breakfasts and other events. Lately I’ve heard several say, “we are getting old. We won’t be able to do it much longer.” Do we delude ourselves with the belief others will always be there to do what is required to make this a pleasant community?
To retain what we have, and build on it, more of us need to rouse ourselves and get involved.
On a visit to Mountain Prison near Agassiz some years ago, I encountered a number of round faced men, clad in drab grey prison garb. They were sitting on hard wooden benches set against long metal huts. Except for occasionally inserting a cigarette between their lips, they sat still and lifeless as sand sculptures on a forgotten beach. I approached them and asked, “what are you all waiting for?”
An elderly man with a balding scalp roused himself and responded quite amicably, “we’re waiting for the ringing of the lunch bell. Then we can go in and eat.”
On subsequent visits, I saw the men there many times, often arriving long before the bell summoned them. For some, meals were the most significant events in their day. In time I understood that prison life had fostered a toxic lethargy in them and most had no realistic goals or vision for anything better. They seemed not to grasp they could be preparing for the rigours of life awaiting them beyond the high chain link fence around the prison. Inside the fence they were able to blame others for their plight. Outside they would need to deal with reality. They feared reality. Although they admitted it only rarely, some felt safe only within the fence. They reminded me of T.S. Eliot’s “Hollow Men.”
Seeing these men was a reminder to me that it is in the storms of life that we grow strong. I realized how true this is later when I was working for the One Way Adventure Foundation in Hedley. Each summer we took small groups of Young Offenders on a Bowron Lakes canoe expedition. The trip consists of portaging, canoeing on lakes and rivers, and camping in a pristine wilderness. Once on the lakes, we had no means of communicating with anyone outside our group. If a canoe began to leak, we had to deal with it.
On one trip our crew consisted of 3 leaders and 9 adolescent boys travelling in 6 sturdy, Frontiersman canoes. The youths came primarily from poorly functioning homes. They generally arrived at our campus with a distinctly uncooperative attitude, often with a swagger. They attempted to portray themselves as tough and street smart. Having no chain link fence to protect them from life’s harsh realities, they had donned a mask to hide their sense of insecurity.
We wanted to expose them to mosquitoes, horse flies, paddling or portaging all day, sometimes in incessant rain. We considered it important that they feel the discomfort of a canoe yoke digging into their shoulders on portages. The experience would plant a significant memory in their psyche. A memory of grappling with unaccustomed and unexpected challenges, and discovering they had the stamina to persevere to the end. They would see that we, the leaders, were also being ravaged by the insects and the elements. Masks would begin to slip as we all contended with a reality we could not ignore.
It was an overcast Thursday morning when our little contingent emerged from the fast flowing, dangerous waters of the Cariboo River onto Lanezi Lake. A powerful headwind was already whipping up waves. Spray blew into our faces and we could scarcely move. Our canoes bobbed like corks on the restless water. Because the towering mountains descended on either side to the edge of the lake, we could find no refuge there. Fear gripped the boys. They were city youths and had never paddled in turbulent water like this.
Fear in their voices concerned me. It was quickly eroding their inner strength. I needed to do something to give them confidence. I started singing, “row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” Initially they looked at me as though doubting my sanity. Sensing my confidence, a couple of the older boys began singing with me. Their voices weren’t much better than mine but in the blowing wind, it didn’t matter.
“Row, row, row your boat.” Soon we were all singing and whooping and paddling like mad voyageurs. Suddenly, we were lusty and strong and free.
I looked at the 2 straining, sweating boys in the canoe closest to me and both of them grinned broadly. They were having too much fun to be scared. Three hours later, in the safety of our rustic camp, with tents set up, a camp fire warming us, and hot food in our bellies, we knew we had conquered our fears.
Now, with a new year dawning, this is a good time for all of us to decide we won’t be content to sit on a bench mindlessly waiting for our next meal. This is a good time to think about how we will respond to the storms of life that may descend on us in 2015.
Early on Christmas morning, while many people were still sleeping off the effects of partaking too lavishly of wine and turkey, Linda and I walked through the Brydon Park wetlands. We hoped it might be a more effective strategy for coping with last nights’ feast and preparing for another one in the afternoon. In Langley, the park is near the home of our daughter and her family where we stayed a few days.
Heavy rain at times causes flooding and makes the path impassable, except possibly with a canoe. This morning it was muddy in places but with watchful stepping, we were able to keep our feet reasonably dry.
A light mist shrouded the wetlands and the adjacent lagoon. At least
Ducks in Brydon Park Lagoon
a dozen ducks were waiting for some thoughtful soul to throw them tidbits of food. It was a magical moment in a mystical scene and we were alone in this wonderland. The aura fostered thoughts of a pre-historic setting where humans rarely ventured and the environment existed untarnished.
I said to Linda, “I should have brought the camera.”
“Should we go back and get it?” she asked, also enchanted by the pristine beauty surrounding us.
Fetching the camera and returning to the lagoon entailed at least a 2 kilometer walk. In the meantime the mist might lift and the sense of mystery would evaporate with it. We did make the trek through the muddy wetlands to the house though, and returned with the camera.
My concern had been justified. The mist had indeed lifted and the aura of mystery dispelled. For me it was a reminder of Napoleon Hill’s statement that “success comes when preparation and opportunity meet.” The scene had changed The sense of magic was gone. Even so, we did get some shots that please us.
The Brydon Park wetlands and the lagoon are a gem near the heart of Langley. Next time we venture to the coast, we hope to be given another opportunity to capture the sense of mystery when the mist again casts a shroud over the lagoon and the wetlands. It’s worth waiting for.
It’s been a busy baking week for Linda. Brown bread, white buns, and sugar cookies. The bread and buns are pretty much for
Art Icing the Sugar Cookies
Christmas meals with family and friends. The sugar cookies are to give away, in some cases to people we hardly know, or don’t know at all, but would like to know. We’ve had a number of new people come to town this year, either as property owners or as tenants. In her Christmas letter local realtor Susan Collins said 9 properties have changed ownership.
Back to the sugar cookies. Last year Linda made them in several shapes. This year, to economize on time, it’s just Christmas trees. I offered to help with applying icing and sprinkles. Although until this time I had no experience, Linda agreed to let me assist.
As soon a I began though, she ceased applying icing in mid-stroke. I quickly became aware she was scrutinizing my efforts. It was a certain indication my skill level was deficient, at least according to her standard. I resolved to try harder.
In spite of my increased concentration, she apparently decided I required some tutelage. I didn’t mind. Actually, I was pleased she saw enough potential in me to make the effort to train me.
Patiently she instructed me in getting the icing to the very edge of the cookies. Not too much icing and not too little. It was also important to spread the sprinkles on the cookies, not on the floor.
We completed the job in a spirit of harmony and I think she might have been willing to give me a C for effort. I didn’t consider it wise to ask.
Last year Mike, who lives down the street with his brother, expressed a lot of appreciation for the cookies. “My mom used to make them when I was a kid,” he told Linda upon meeting her on the street. “I haven’t had sugar cookies in years. I love them.” With that level of endorsement he is definitely on the list again this year.
We enjoy giving away the cookies. It gives us a reason to knock on the doors of some people who don’t participate in community events. Some we virtually never see.
We have been amazed in our time here at the way some individuals reach out to help when there is a need. These people are a tremendous example to us. They make Hedley a gentler community, a good place to live and to grow into the senior years.
Certainly a few cookies is not a significant gift. However, when people show us a small kindness, we take it as an indication they value the relationship. Giving cookies is our way of telling the recipients we value them as friends and members of our community. We hope that even if they are busy, or don’t want human contact, they will feel blessed.
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Christmas is at hand. We had a nice 15 inch snowfall about 2 weeks ago. There will certainly be more. Presently it’s pleasant in Hedley with the mercury hovering at about zero this evening.
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I invite you to watch for our Christmas story, “Only a Child, Only at Christmas.” Coming soon.
On a dark street near the outskirts of a prairie community, at age 13
Janet Christie and her son Cole
Janet Christie had her first taste of alcohol with a friend. It would be a life altering moment. At 21 she bore Cole. She didn’t realize at the time that because she had continued drinking during her pregnancy, her baby’s entire life would be severely impacted. Their story is one of turmoil, trauma, terror, and ultimate victory. For anyone contending with difficult circumstances, especially alcoholism and its consequences , they are a beacon of hope. Janet is telling their story because she wants women to be aware of the crushing toll that may be exacted if they drink while pregnant.
In a phone interview from her home near Victoria, she permitted me to enter some of the dark inner recesses of a past that is not pretty. “After I had that first taste of alcohol,” she said, “life was never the same again. In the beginning it was fun. Then it was fun with problems. In the end, it was just problems.”
Janet grew up in a church going family. Photos indicate she had stunning looks. There were positives, but they were over powered by her thirst for alcohol. Partying took over her life and Cory, her boyfriend, had a similar wild streak. He was 5 years older and had plenty of money. For them the well of alcohol had no bottom.
Janet was 18 when they got married. She became pregnant with Cole 3 years later. Intuition suggested to her alcohol might be harmful to the baby. “My doctor told me the placenta would not permit alcohol to pass through,” she said. “His words didn’t convince me entirely, but I had no control. Also, we were having serious difficulties in our marriage. Alcohol helped me cope. ”
She experienced great relief when Cole entered the world with no apparent complications. “He appeared totally normal, a beautiful lovable baby. I soon decided he was very bright, maybe even a genius,” she remembers.
The marriage ended abruptly and suddenly she was alone with Cole and her addiction. Fearing he would be taken from her, she didn’t seek help. “I wished I had never taken that first drink,” she said, “but how was I to know it would rock my world and catapult me through the gates of hell?”
When he started school, Janet’s consternation level soared, but she didn’t understand yet that by drinking during the pregnancy, Cole had also been catapulted through those same gates.
“My son, who I believed was brilliant, had great difficulty learning the alphabet and numbers didn’t make sense to him,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “I knew something was very wrong when he failed grade one. With each increasing grade, life became more difficult for him. Other students told him he was stupid and he reacted by fighting. Teachers accused him of being lazy and not trying. Not being able to learn like the others, he became disruptive in class. Teachers made him sit on a chair in the hallway. He couldn’t tell time until he was 10, so frequently he was late for school. A number of schools expelled him.”
“At home it was equally difficult,” she said. “He became so frustrated and angry, he punched holes in the walls. In one apartment his fists went through to the outside. We were evicted. He thought he must be stupid.”
Janet admits she was rarely in a state to give Cole constructive direction or provide supervision. By his 12th birthday, her life was rapidly spinning out of control and consequently so was his. “He was hanging out with older guys and doing drugs. I had lost my job and rarely left the apartment except to get basics, mostly cigarettes, milk and booze.”
One morning she awoke and the smell of cigarette butts and the empties scattered on the kitchen table made her stomach churn. In a rare lucid moment, she became frantic. “Suddenly I needed to know where Cole was. I wanted to know if he had come home last night. Was he ok? My son had become a crack addict. I knew I would lose him if I didn’t make a radical change. In desperation, I appealed to a recovery support group. That day my healing began.”
She hesitated, gathering courage. I wondered if there were tears. “For Cole it was almost too late,” she said. “A week into my sobriety, the phone rang in the darkness of the night. A voice at the other end told me Cole was in a closet in a crack house and the police had a gun to his head.”
Janet called government services, institutions, universities, vainly seeking help. One worker told her, “you created the problem. You fix it.”
“Finally when Cole was 20, a paediatrician diagnosed him with partial FAS. I was then able to explain to him that his problems were my fault. He forgave me long before I forgave myself.” Her voice faltered for a moment as she recalled this scene.
“With the diagnosis, I had a better understanding of my son. He needed someone to believe in him, be patient with him, love him and help him.”
Now 36, Cole has a siding application business. He is in a relationship with a woman who is understanding and helps him manage his affairs.
Janet finished by offering this advice, “I wish to say to women who have been drinking and find themselves pregnant, stop. The brain is vulnerable the entire 9 months of pregnancy, and the moment you stop drinking is the moment the damage stops. If you can’t stop, get help. Today. Contact your nearest alcohol and drug service (1.800.663.1441). There is no shame in asking for help. You have no idea the power each drink has to affect the rest of your life and your baby’s life. Forever. FAS is FOREVER.”
A small town perspective on people, community, politics and environment.
