Our Canada Our Country Our Stories

by Our Canada Magazine a Division of Reader's Digest

  Eventually, the novelty began to wear off and before long we abandoned our game. The slough became covered with hard snowdrifts and we moved on to more exciting winter activities.

  Spring came, our curling rink melted and the kettle sank to the bottom of the slough. Oops. Mom had to buy herself a new kettle. From time to time, she still wonders what happened to the original kettle. Personally, I think it made one of the finest curling rocks ever!

  —by Lynnae Ylioja, Macrorie, Saskatchewan

  The Debonaire

  Classy and timeless, this “old” boat is still a part of the family

  I was taking the kids fishing for the evening. Approaching the docks, fishing rods and tackle boxes in hand, my son’s friend asked,

  “Which boat is yours?”

  “You see that fancy orange one that says ‘Moomba’?” I replied.

  The boy’s eyes widened, his mouth beginning to form the words,

  “No waa…”

  “Ours is behind that one,” I said.

  Back in the summer of 1979, my dad decided our family needed a boat, and I recall the exact instant when this decision formed in his mind. We’d been out fishing on a big Manitoba lake in a friend’s 12-foot fishing boat with an ancient sputtering engine when a summer storm blew in. Miles from the boat launch and with nowhere to take shelter, we proceeded to drive headlong into the wind and waves—as you are supposed to do, my dad assured us—for what seemed an eternity.

  Somewhere between trying to keep his cigarette lit and ordering us to sit in a way to balance the tiny boat—which miraculously seemed to keep the three-foot swells from spilling over the bow and gunnels—the thought must have crystalized in my dad’s head. “We need a bigger boat.”

  In 1980, a “bigger boat” meant something different than it does today. Back then, for our family of four, a bigger boat meant a 16-foot aluminum boat with a 20-horsepower engine equipped with—and I cannot overstate the importance that this feature held for my older brother Darrin and me—a steering wheel.

  My dad pulled the shiny metal miracle into the driveway one cool spring evening and the impression it left on me has never waned. The boat glimmered. Made entirely of polished and buffed aluminum, it reflected light like a kaleidoscope. It had a windshield, bow, steering wheel, a gear and throttle control console, and a canopy with zip-out windows. On the “dashboard” was riveted a stylish bronze crest that said “Aroliner.”

  That evening, Darrin and I crawled all over the boat. We looked under the bow, sat in each of the possible places to sit, and, though the boat was on a trailer in the driveway, we fought desperately over who got to “drive.” We took turns making engine sounds and steering the wheel—avoiding imagined icebergs, tidal waves and bad guys. I remember asking, “Can we sleep in it?”

  “Maybe some night, but not tonight,” my dad said.

  We were shuffled off inside wondering when that night would be. As my brother and I made our way to bed, we looked out at the boat. Now it was his turn. My dad crawled all over the boat, looked under the bow and sat in each of the seats. Then he sat in the driver’s seat—I remind you that the boat was on a trailer in our driveway. We watched him light a cigarette, then dangle it off the side while placing his other hand on the steering wheel and practiced slow graceful turns. I always imagined he was making engine sounds.

  The Aroliner Boat Company manufactured aluminum boats in its St. Boniface shop in Winnipeg from the 1930s through to the early 1990s. I recall passing the boat shop as a kid and seeing all the boats in stock neatly organized, stood on end and leaning on each other like men standing in a line. The boats came in a variety of styles and names, each connoting a certain characteristic of the design. Our boat was from the Debonaire line. “It means classy,” my dad said.

  Docked humbly in the shadow of today’s brightly painted and more garish vessels, there continues to be a subtle class to the old Debonaire. With timeless, smart lines, the Debonaire was the everyman’s entry into the world of boating. Humble. Smart. Practical. Classiness is like that. Debonair remains the best word to describe the old boat that again sits smartly among its louder, larger, often tattooed descendants.

  We used the Debonaire for a number of years—the important years. My uncles bought similar boats and for about a decade we would make an annual fishing trip somewhere in Manitoba or northern Ontario. An extended family fishing derby was established and I recall the thrill of the convoy as three or four carloads of uncles, aunts and cousins—shiny aluminum boats in tow—would rendezvous, then wind its way from the Prairies to the dark forests of Whiteshell and Nopiming parks.

  On a return trip to the Manitoba lake where the idea to get a bigger boat initially took shape, we set up a day camp on a small island. Fishing from the shore with Darrin and Mom, I remember watching Dad repeatedly cruise towards us at full speed, turning away at what seemed like the last minute, leaving a generous, frothy trail in his wake. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. I wondered if something was wrong with the engine or if he was testing to make sure the steering was working. “He’s having so much fun,” Mom said. Fun. Oh, right. It wasn’t a word we often associated with my dad, but as he sped past again, I could see him smiling, one hand on the wheel, the other dangling a cigarette over the side. Fun. So that’s what it looked like. We didn’t say anything. We just stood and watched and smiled with him.

  Long before I would be able to drive a car, I’d honed the careful art of steering and navigating a boat: Careful, intentional, planned. Nothing jerky, nothing sudden. Once the criteria of learning to prime and pull-start the 20-horsepower Evinrude was mastered, permission was a mere formality. Learning to drive the boat on my own was a bigger rite of passage than getting my driver’s licence. Probably because I was only 13 years old, the significance of being trusted by my parents to take the boat from shore to a fishing hole for an hour or two was a form of freedom that is hard to explain. But Darrin and I experienced it often. We took the boat. We fished. We smoked.

  We caught a lot of fish in that boat and we confidently navigated many stretches of rough waters, laughing as it bumped and rocked its way to many ports of call. But, with time, the boat eventually frequented the waters less and less. Like many “old boats,” it became a bit of a yard fixture, a default storage container for life’s odds and ends, the buffed aluminum hidden for years beneath raggedy blue tarpaulins.

  “You should come and get it if you want it,” my dad said a few years back in a moment of downsizing. “If you don’t want it, we’ll probably just sell it.” We made the epic late-summer journey from our home near Saskatoon to Winnipeg to retrieve the old boat. Our Debonaire was built in 1964. We’d bought it in 1980. It was a classy boat in its day. It served us well. I wondered if times had changed. I wondered if I had. Did I really want the boat? Would it serve my new family well?

  The Debonaire’s new port of call is just east of Prince Albert National Park. Its motor still starts in a single pull. After dropping my kids off at the dock, I often take it out for a solo cruise. I cut smooth, steady curves and occasionally look back at the s-shaped wake that slowly disappears into the surface waves, the boat’s signature, its past. If I still smoked, I’d dangle my cigarette over the edge.

  —by Brad Nichol, Rosthern, Saskatchewan

  An Occasion Fit for a Queen

  Owning the first television on the block made for an anxious but thrilling Tuesday afternoon in 1953

  We got our very first television set in 1953, the year of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation. For weeks, Mom, desperate to watch the ceremony, had cajoled, nagged and begged Dad to buy a TV. Being a frugal man, he had put up a good fight, but we all knew that in the end he would lose.

  My two sisters, Elaine and Joan, and I jumped for joy at the 17-inch black-and-white monster. We felt pretty special, as we were the first ones on the street to own a TV.

  It took Dad two days to set up the television in the den. He struggled with the “rabbit ears” antenna,
dangling it just right in order to get the test pattern to come in clearly. It was well worth his effort: We spent the weekend indoors watching all the grainy programs while Mom organized her coronation party.

  On the morning of June 2, the day of the coronation, Dad was not happy. Mom, convinced that the TV room was too small to accommodate all the people she expected, insisted that the TV be placed on the sideboard in the dining room. Moving the TV, struggling with the pattern and knowing that he would have to repeat the procedure and move it back into the TV room after the coronation program made for a very frustrated person. Not a man to swear, I won’t mention what words quietly escaped under his breath.

  Mom spent her morning in a kitchen that smelled of minced ham, celery and eggs as she made large platters of sandwiches. The crusts she’d cut off the bread ended up being our lunch, as there was enough of the filling left on them to satisfy our hunger. I brought the completed sandwich platters down to the cold storage in the basement and lingered as I secretly ate one of each kind.

  After lunch, we placed all the chairs we had in the house in rows throughout the living and dining rooms. As the afternoon progressed, Mom’s anxiety became more evident. She talked too fast, kept running up and down the stairs to put things away, fluffed up all the pillows, put out extra ashtrays and barked orders at my sisters and me. We could hardly wait for the guests to arrive.

  Her stress was understandable. Since we owned the only television on our block, Mom had sent out an open invitation to the neighbours on our street. She had no idea how many would show up. What would happen if everyone came? Or worse, if no one came? I kept thinking of the delicious sandwiches downstairs and hoped for the latter.

  As broadcast time approached, a stream of neighbours marched into the house and filled the chairs; many were left standing. Like the ringing of a bell, at the sound of the national anthem, everyone became quiet and stood up. Dad, a member of the RCMP, almost saluted. From then on, people talked in whispers, entranced with the wonder of watching the solemn ceremony being beamed into our living room.

  An hour after the program began, Mom had not moved from her chair, mesmerized by the sights and sounds on the television.

  “Mom! Aren’t you going to serve the sandwiches?” I asked.

  “You do it,” she answered. I fetched the sandwiches from the basement, my sister Elaine got the cheese platter and we served them to our guests.

  By the time the coronation party was over, Mom was all smiles at the success of her get-together and all the sandwiches were gone. God save the Queen! The only thing left to do was move the television back into the TV room, but that job would have to wait for tomorrow. Why ruin a good day?

  —by Louise Szabo, Nepean, Ontario

  Achieving Their Goal

  By working as a team, this determined prairie family made their hockey dreams come true

  The dream of six aspiring hockey players began on our farm in Grassy Lake, Alberta. Their ultimate goal was to become a renowned hockey family, enjoying the winter sport they cherished. In 1937, making a living on a dry land farm made it difficult to feed ten children, never mind outfitting six sons with hockey equipment. I had six brothers and three sisters; I was the youngest, and not yet old enough to play.

  With our meagre living conditions, my brothers knew they could not afford the necessary hockey equipment, so they talked our mother into making it on her Singer sewing machine. Using her creativity and sewing skills, she fashioned elbow and shin pads, hockey pants, gloves and a set of goalie pads, all out of canvas. She then stuffed the protective pads with straw and Eaton’s catalogues.

  With such a large family to care for, the only time Mom had to sew was after bedtime, usually well past midnight. Imagine how difficult it must have been, sewing this hockey equipment by the light of a coal oil lamp; who knows how many needles she must have broken sewing through canvas and padding. After Mom completed her work, my six brothers—Rex, Lloyd, Pat, Bert, Jerry and Jack—pooled their money together and bought Toronto Maple Leaf sweaters from the Eaton’s catalogue.

  Due to the limited number of hockey rinks in the small Alberta towns of Grassy Lake, Burdett and Bow Island, my brothers, along with our dad, decided to make their own hockey rink on a coulee on our farm. Using horsepower and a slip scraper, they levelled the earth for a rink. They then hauled water from a free-flowing artesian well, three miles away, using a wooden-wheeled water tank. It took eight trips to make a single sheet of ice.

  In those years, temperatures on the Prairies could drop as low as –40°F, but the boys persevered and hauled water over a number of days. If a warm southern Alberta chinook blew in, the process would have to be started all over again.

  Once the rink was built, the boys realized they needed a shack to change in. With Dad’s help, they found an abandoned 15-by-20-foot shack and, after lifting it onto skids, they used horses to haul it rinkside. Overcoming all odds, the Knibbs family began to realize their hockey dream; my three sisters, our mom and I became the fan base.

  It didn’t take long for word of the coulee rink to spread to nearby communities. The Knibbs “Leaf” hockey team began challenging other teams from surrounding towns to games, with hockey players arriving by horse-drawn sleigh, car or on horseback. Every weekend, the sound of clashing hockey sticks and bodies echoed through the hills, while cheering fans surrounded the rink.

  The Knibbs “Leaf” team lineup was determined by their abilities. Jack, the sixth son, was in goal and Rex, the eldest, and Jerry, the fifth born, manned the defence. The forward line consisted of Lloyd, Pat and Bert, sons number two, three and four respectively. Our father, Jack, was the referee for the weekend hockey games, but showed no favouritism towards his sons. He taught us the values of determination, sportsmanship and honesty. When a penalty needed to be called, Dad did it immediately and never hesitated to send one of his own sons to the penalty box.

  Unfortunately, the Knibbs family coulee hockey dream only lasted for two years, from 1937 to 1939, due to the onset of the Second World War. Rex, Lloyd and Pat were drafted into the army in 1940 and sent overseas. By the grace of God, all three returned home safely.

  Although the hockey dream had ended for the older Knibbs brothers, Bert was selected to play for the Lethbridge Maple Leafs hockey team, which represented Canada in the 1949-1950 World Hockey Amateur Championships in Paris. The team came home victorious after winning the trophy and, thanks to Bert’s success, the Knibbs family fully realized their hockey dream.

  Bert became an inspiration to many of his nephews and other young players in southern Alberta. Throughout his life, he coached many of the youths in the town of Bow Island, where he lived. One young player named Troy Loney, who Bert mentored, was later drafted into the National Hockey League.

  Throughout the years, our six brothers were an inspiration to my sisters and me. I was only three years old back in 1937, but the memories of those days and our family’s coulee hockey team are an important part of my past. The lessons learned remain with me to this day.

  —by Bill L. Knibbs, Medicine Hat, Alberta

  The Georgetown Boys

  A proud Armenian immigrant gives back to the country that welcomed him as part of “Canada’s Noble Experiment”

  From a humble orphan’s beginnings to an outspoken public figure, my father, Albert Papazian, served his country well. Born in Aintab, Turkey, in 1911, Dad would have been around five during the dire Armenian genocide that occurred from 1915 to 1917.

  Along with his mother, brother and sister, he escaped to Aleppo, Syria, after his father died during the First World War—presumably as a result of the genocide, although Dad never confirmed that. Fatherless, the family roamed the Middle East for about three years. My dad said, “As a boy, I remember being hungry and cold a lot of the time, wandering from one place to another, scrounging crumbs here and there and sleeping wherever we could find shelter.”

  In 1921, his poor mother, who died a year later, surrendered her children t
o an orphanage in Lebanon. Dad was only ten at the time. Five years later, Dad and his brother were sent to Canada. Fortunately for them, they were selected to be part of an experiment in refugee support. “Canada’s Noble Experiment,” as it was called, was the first humanitarian act on an international scale by our country.

  An article in the Toronto Globe on February 28, 1923, titled “Shall We Let Them Die?” enlightened Canadians to the plight of the many Armenians in Aleppo, Syria. It described how the Armenian Relief Association planned to bring about 100 boys, mostly teenagers, to a farm in Georgetown, Ontario. The first group of 50 arrived in Georgetown on July 1, 1923.

  The Toronto Globe continued its effort to encourage and publicize Canadian efforts in support of the Armenian refugee cause. In an item dated April 18, 1923, under the title “Little Armenians Will Be Welcome to Home in Canada,” it gave the little town of St. Marys, Ontario, due credit for its campaign to raise funds. In another article on April 23, Woodstock and Oxford County came in for praise for having pledged the sum of $4,000 in aid.

  Dad arrived in Georgetown in 1926 at the age of 15; by 1927, a total of 100 Armenian orphans had arrived there. Dad spent only about a month at the Georgetown orphanage before being indentured to a Dunnville, Ontario, farmer. He put himself through high school by taking night classes while working full time.

  At 27, he entered the Ontario Agricultural College in Guelph, one of the few Georgetown boys to receive any post-secondary education, and graduated in 1942 with a Bachelor of Science degree in agriculture. After marrying Molly Gilmore, an Irish immigrant, he bought a farm in Winona and they continued to work it till 1990.