Egbert’s Free Spirit.  1992    Revised 2014       1092 word count

 

There was always a big painting in the bottom bay window of the old dilapidated cedar shake house on east beach. I had always intended on stopping in to see if there were more or who lived there.

 

I was on my ten speed one bright spring morning when I decided today was the day. I hammered on the door, assuming most of the activity of the house took place upstairs. A little, scrawny old man opened the door and I nervously rattled out I liked the painting in the window and asked if there were more. He said sure there were more, and led me in. 

 

I looked back at my bike, worried about it being left out on the main drag, so he motioned me to bring it in. Bring it in? I wheeled it in the hallway, and what a place! It was stinking, old, dark, dirty and dilapidated. He was busy eyeing up my bike as I was admiring that magnificent painting I learned he had done. He was an artist from Holland. A rather eccentric one at that. Egbert was his name. He motioned me to follow him, while asking questions about my bike - as I was asking him about his paintings. Tit for tat metered questions. We went upstairs to a full fledged dump. I bet it was months, if ever, since it had been cleaned. Old broken furniture, stacks of papers, magazines, and hundreds of dirty dishes and I mean hundreds. Two whole rooms full. There was a putrid smell but I accustomed myself to that. (Later I was to learn he ate garlic like apples which contributed immensely to the odor). Admist all the junk, there was probably 50 beautifully rendered paintings hung on every square inch of the wall space. Large, small, people, kids, landscapes, seascapes, framed, unframed. All magnificently mastered in painterly fashion. He certainly was an accomplished artist but seemed to pay no mind to his talent or his surroundings, and was more interested in this visitor and her bike downstairs.

 

After carefully looking at every piece, and taking in his fabulous talent, I commented on one. “One of my son’s playmate” he said. A boy aged 8 or so, crouching looking at something. Magnificent. I asked questions about himself and he answered that he came from Holland, was an artist all his life, and the display of work on the walls were visuals of his life, some professionally framed from gallery shows, other not. He was maybe 80 years old and his wife had died. He had one son “out there”. 

 

Egert had questions about my bike upon walking me out: Did all the gears work? How did the brakes handle? Was the seat comfortable. Was it heavy? We passed by a closed door and he opened it. I was shocked. I thought the upstairs was enough. Before my eyes was Mt. Shasta of wrecked bikes and bike parts. A stack- to-the-ceiling pile of twisted metal and various bike components. He said my bike wasn’t very good for me and to come back the next day and he would have a better one. He proceeded to tell me he was the family’s bicycle boy when he was growing up. His job in the family was to maintain everyone’s bicycle in the large Dutch family in Holland. He still rode himself. Anyhow, we shook hands on the pleasure of meeting, and agreed I’d be back the next day and would go on a bike ride.

 

That was the first of many enjoyable meanders. 

 

When I arrived the next morning Egbert had a girls aluminum 10 speed bike cobbled together from his mountain of mangled parts. The handle bars were made of old antenna pipe, the aluminum girls frame had a Sears logo with Free Spirit decaled on it, (for which it was forever known as). The seat had a softer better contoured shape. I sat on it wowed, and he adjusted it with my toes just touching the ground. Because he was an artist he knew the anatomy intrinsically, the mechanics between men and women, and adjusted the seat impeccably, not only height but depth and angle. We traded bikes for good and sealed the deal with a handshake. He told he it came with a lifetime warranty - his life, not the life of the bike. We both chuckled.

 

Off we rode down to Peace Arch Park and both border crossings, along Zero Ave running along side the US border. We meadered up and down hidden streets and shaded woods. Through the Reserve, over busy streets and highways to quieter backroads. Up hills and down hills, through farmlands and fields, we rode a couple of hours. He knew the most perfect places to tool around. 

 

We met that whole summer for bike rides. I tried at first to help tidy his life style, as he evaluated some of my art. But it was a no win  situation – I was truly a Sunday dabbler painter compared to his highly disciplined craft, while his lifestyle was much too familiar and comfortable to be tangled with. We settled quite happily for our outdoor adventures, stopping at a fruit stand or park picnic table for a break. 

 

One particular day, we were ending our ride down the very long subtle hill clipping along pretty fast. Him in front of me, the wind blowing through my hair, the sea air in my lungs. I closed my eyes for the briefest moment and titled my head to the sky. When I looked ahead, Egbert was at a full stop. Knowing I’d plow right into him, a few angry cusses trailed behind me before we piled up. Once untangled Egbert stood up with the proudest grin ear to ear and produced a wafer thin quarter on its thin edge between his pointer finger and thumb. I couldn’t believe it, a major crash three houses from home for a quarter!! I didn’t know whether to throttle him or hug him.

 

But that was Egbert, a free spirit, who ticked a little different.

 

Which some call eccentric. 

Arthur Adventures     1701words               March 2014

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Some of the most memorable non-memorable occasions I’ve spent are with Arthur. Three events that especially stand out are a Remembrance Day, a Halloween and an annual tulip trip to La Connor, Washington.

 

Arthur was a long retired chef and camp cook. Well into his 70’s when I met him through mutual friends, Arthur was as Dutch as Dutch could be. The language was a throat disease not a language he joked, tapping the dash as was his habit for emphasis. Arthur had a very bad back, literally bending him in half. He could straighten but the norm was 90º. I never did know exactly what the condition was, but he worked very hard at maintaining his range of motion and could stand straight with effort. After having to surrender his drivers license, he faithfully rode his bike and swam at the local pool like clockwork and I’d see him all over town. In later years he would trade his bicycle in for a walker, a large walker to fit his tall frame, even though he bent in the middle to right angles. 

 

Arthur loved the VSO and the opera. He always bought seasons tickets to both. The performances took place in downtown venues some 100 km away and getting there was always part of the event for Arthur. He had collected a long roster of names over the years, and would always be lining up his rides weeks in advance. Each driver was expected to drive, pay for a modest dinner at one of several regular resturants, and take care of the parking fees. In turn, Arthur supplied the concert ticket, two if need be. Which were beautiful seats. In all, it was a most fair, if not generous arrangement.

 

He called one rainy night to line up a ride for a Remembrance Day concert. A concert at the Orpheum with the Dal Richards Orchestra he said. Arthur would be a good person to spend Remembrance Day with I thought. I knew a little of his story which dribbled out over the years. He had an affection for the Canadian military. So when I got the invitation, I immediately said yes. 

 

Arthur had been a prisoner of war. The Germans occupied Holland and he was taken to a German slave camp. He was 18 years old. His brother also was a taken prisoner, although to a different camp. Arthur worked outside in hard slave labour, severely underfed, and undernourished for 3 years. I never knew what happened to the rest of Arthurs family, and could only shudder to think. Eventually, the Americans set all the prisioners free, including Arthur and his brother. But not before they had been reduced as human beings where it took over a year to recondition them back to mainstream life.  Arthur went on to immigrate to Canada, marry, have children and lead a long healthy productive life. He remarried at 78 – to a woman 27 years his junior and died at age 90.

 

So in a nutshell, if anyone had anything to be bitter about, particularily around war, Arthur was surely was one. But it was not the case. He had a heart of gold and much love for many. He had a special soft spot for the Canadian military who liberated Holland. He continued to be interested and involved in politics right up to the end of his life. He made many friends in that arena, as well as his cultured friends, his local church community, staff at the various concert halls and the local merchants. Arthur was known and loved by all.

 

I respected Arthur’s attitude towards war, which he deeply understood having lived it first hand. I knew spending Remembrance Day with him would be memorable for me. Plus I really liked the Dal Richards Orchestra, who were hosting it at Vancouver’s jewel, The Orpheum Theatre. It was stacking up to be a beautiful afternoon. 

 

We went for dinner as usual and took our usual seats at the theatre. Dal and the boys were already behind their individual podiums that had the script D on the front. Wearing their matching suits and ties looking their best as always, they quietly warmed up. A stray G note , or F chord would occasionally vibrate out. 

With the house loaded, the lights dimmed, Dal welcomed everyone. The audience was a terrific mix from grey and very grey, to middle aged, youth and children, with no real majority in one category, which surprised me. 

 

The band started out with some popular old-time wartime songs, unfamiliar to many, including myself, but embedded in others, like Arthur. I glanced over and he was bobbing his head, singing along, knowing all the words so very well. 

 

As the show went on, it turned out to be a beautifully arranged variety type show with maybe six vinquettes. Each one presented uniquely different from the other and was a brilliant array of entertainment. Tasteful and not too sensationalized. Dal himself, I’m sure, experienced war first hand so knew the songs, their meanings, and played them in context.  It was a standing joke with Arthur: their ages - Dal was older by five years. But who’s counting after 85!

 

One vinquette especially stands out. The stage set like a soda pop shop where servicemen in town came for soda. The pretty young waitresses and service men broke out into four couples dancing – exactly the same steps to exactly the same music they would’ve danced to in the 1940’s. Dressed so accurately for the part, girls in their sweaters with hair coiffured in great swirls and dramatic parts; men in their proud uniforms and collapsible caps on an angle. For me not being of age to have experienced this, it was a wonderful opportunity to see how some of the brighter spots of wartime might’ve played out. 

 

I’d glance over at Arthur and he would be wiping a tear, or tapping a toe. He literally had gone back 60 years in his mind. The intros by Dal were so well articulated, he placed the scenes so well. At one point we stood to sing the national anthem, and at a another point, a solitary bugle rang out a lovely version of Taps. The afternoon flowed seamlessly. Even the children were mesmerized and captivated. 

 

The show was a very full two hours and very entertaining. I was glad I got the call for this concert. This show ended with a ballad as a tribute to all the service men and women, past and present, gone but not forgotten, and one couldn’t help but be touched. The lights came on and no one stirred.

 

After a few moments, I asked Arthur if he was ready and we gathered our belongings. All the way home you could hear a pin drop, we were lost in our own thoughts. It was truly an honor to have spent Remembrance Day with someone like Arthur who could have so much to be bitter about but had so much gratitude instead. 

 

To me, those are real heroes of war.

 

 

** *

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Another Arthur highlight was one Halloween. At the Orpheum. “Kind of an oxymoron don’t you think”, I mused out loud. But after hearing the concert synopsis I jumped at the invite. The idea of the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra performing the score to the original 1925 B&W silent film Phantom of the Opera at the Orpheum had me fascinated. 

 

The Orpheum itself was a very ornate Spanish Baroque style theater built in 1927. Complete with the BC wall of fame on the third floor featuring an 8x10 glossy of every big BC entertainer; the lovely floor-to-ceiling picture of our own Diane Krall on the 1st floor, and the plush red carpets with sweeping staircases pulling it all together. Ah yes, The Orpheum. 

 

In addition to the film, the theatre itself hosted a Hallowe’en costume contest. Of course being a first class venue, all of the costumes were rented and professional. No Value Village throw togethers here. At intermission it was spectacular to see Batman, an astronaut, and a pack of leprachauns lining up for a glass of wine. Or a cat adjust her whiskers and tail in the ladies restroom. After intermission we settled back in our seats, and the top 10 costumes were asked on stage where audience applause chose the top three prize categories. The Egyptian Pharaoh won the trip to Mexico. It was a delightful dazzling show to watch and participate in. And that was just the side kick.

 

The 1925 version of The Phantom of the Opera silently crackled by in black and white frames portraying great ingenuity with the costume and set designs. The text frames were right out of the Dick Dasterdly damsel-in-distress flicks complete with curly borders. I had never seen The Phantom and found myself completely absorbed by the story, and the scenes were remarkable for something done some 80 years previously. The two projection screens were modest in size, nothing compared to the mammoth overkill of today, but there wasn’t a bad seat in the house. 

 

The VSO accompanied each scene to a tee, they didn’t miss a beat. They captured every nuance, every innuendo. The conductor led 58 instruments through the gushing waters of the city’s underworld to the hidden hollows of an elite concert hall. They knew just when to danté and when to thrust full steam ahead with dramatic horns or frenzied percussions. It simply was beautiful.

 

When the film ended and the suspense vanished with the Phantom being taken away in the back of a 1925 cruiser, even the house lights inching up to full tilt couldn’t break the spell.

 

A 5-star Halloween if there is such a thing.

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2012    763 words.    Quality Shoes

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     How teachable life can sometimes be, like my one hundred and twenty US dollar shoes in Charcoal Creek. It was the highest price I ever paid for shoes and hard evidence to the fact that sometimes the harder we try, the further off we are. As my Easy Spirit shoes from San Diego’s Fashion Valley attest to.​     Always on the look-out for a bargain, and especially shoes to feed my fetish, I hit upon a pair in JC Penny’s in the States while on a mission. They were $120 US when the clerk saw my serious interest. She wandered over and offered me 30% off right off immediately, then an additional 20% if I signed up for a credit card. Which I never do, but today I made an exception for half price since the shoes fit

all my needs. They were feather light, easy to get on, a comfortable good fit, and most importantly they fit my brace in a stylish way. Besides I could write them off on my income tax as an aid to my mobility issue. I started humming my friend Wayne’s favorite song, Quality Shoes by Mark Knoppler as I smiled at my good fortune.

   What the clerk failed to disclose was the 30% off was hidden behind a promo pull tab. An unknown pull tab. I held her to task and we ripped through a six inch stack before we came across a 30%er. Then we had to fill out all the paperwork for a credit card. Another 30 minutes since it was a more complex version being from Canada. But the thought of 50% off kept me pleasant, kind and humming. When the statement arrived a month later, they dung me a $40 ‘Canadian set up fee’. Buggers. Knocked down a notch but not deterred, they were still my “good shoes”. 

   Not long after, I had to get a new leg brace and it fit only in those shoes. So as Murphy would have it, they became my ‘everything’ shoes overnight. Black in summer. Leather in winter. But oh well, they fit my brace and for the amount of winter walking I did, they looked half decent. ​

   One brilliant April day, after being cooped up all winter, Brinkley and I took a drive through Turtle Valley to Falkland. We stopped for a pee break at Charcoal Creek, a  pull out right on the side of the secondary highway. As we drove in 50 feet, we hit pay dirt. It was a quaint government park beside a crisp babbling brook with matching tidy outhouses and two picnic tables with fire pits. A picture-perfect scene even though it was only for a fast bathroom break - I really had to go. And Brinkley needed to stretch and have a drink.

   But I got more than I bargained for. Besides an unlimited glacier fresh water bowl, there were endless gopher holes, many live. My chances of a quick pit stop dwindled fast. Pouncing on holes in no particular sequence, Brinkley’s tail flapped faster than my windshield wipers in a storm. I held out a Milkbone but was lame in comparison. She just looked back at me as if I thought she was stupid and sprang on another hole. I chased her to and fro, from river bank to picnic table to holey ground and back again, dragging the bad leg through cinder dry pine needles, over round river rock and around dozens of small dirt piles giving my ankles a workout trying to catch her. But the more I tried, the more exuberant the game became, wiggling butt and wagging tongue. 

   I finally surrendered on the bumper of my hatchback to wait it out. With nothing more to do, I gazed down at my dusty, scuffed, and scratched up Quality Shoes wondering if they were still my good shoes. ​

   Having time to reminisce on the tailgate, I concluded the shoes clearly illustrated want vs. need: I wanted those shoes, I didn’t necessarily need them. Even though they had some definite attributes, I had shoes that were quite adequat. But the shoes weren’t the problem, I was. The fever of ‘having to have them’ was. It’s funny how I can justify just about anything, and when it turns out to less than anticipated I look for blame. I wondered where else I steered off course in the name of a good deal, putting wants ahead of needs then rationalizing it all the way to the bank.

   I wouldn’t have stopped long enough to ponder my Quality Shoes if it hadn’t been for Brinkley playing with live gopher holes that day. How teachable life can sometimes be. When the student is ready.​

   Thanks Brinkley.

•••

Revised 2013     582 words.  (Original 1993).  The Transaction    

    It was cold February day and the rain finally stopped. It had been pouring especially hard this past few weeks. Typical west coast winter weather. I got off the bus and was walking on my way to work in the downtown Eastside on Powell Street. A smartly dressed woman in and about the skids looked somewhat out of place. But then again the core was filled of all walks of life.

    The bundle of kraft paper towel was broken open and scattered a full two blocks long down the sidewalk and in the gutter. The sheets were absolutely saturated and stuck down tight. The rain had all but reduced it to pulp, which then seemed to morf right into the concrete. It bothered me to step in, on, and through the mess. Right outside the downtown eastside mission church no less.

    It was still there on my way home at 5 o’clock. I stopped and was scraping up some of the pulp fiction with the edge of my boot, but at the same time anxious not to miss my bus.

    A middle aged drifter passed by in torn clothing shielding him against the cold. He didn’t have a toque, gloves, or several of his front teeth. I shouted out, “Hey wanna make $2?” His eyes lit up as though I’d said $50. It seemed a fair price to the task at hand and I could see him assessing and calculating. He set down his crumpled bag of wares anxious to get started and asked if he could have the money now. He asked twice if he could have the money now.

    I nodded and looked to see if my bus was coming, then back at him. I make eye contact to see if I was going to be duped for two bucks. I reached for my wallet as he made his first trip to the dumpster with a double batch of soggy roughage. He truly was in earnest. The job wasn’t too bad after all, they sort of all stuck together like a wet blanket. As I went into my wallet to make good on my part of the deal, it just so happened I had a brand spanking new two dollar bill (back in the day when we had two dollar bills). It was earmarked for this guy I swear.

    As I snapped the crisp bill into his hand, the man genuinely nodded his approval. That he earned something on his own No handouts, perhaps for the first time in days or weeks. This street fellow with wrinkled clothes and ice blue hands resonated pride. It was truly a business transaction. As I looked down the street at my oncoming bus, I extended my hand to quickly seal the deal and express my appreciation to him for keeping our streets clean. We shook hands in earnest.

    There was an unpretentiousness about him that made me respect him more. He was on the level, regardless how he looked on the outside. He emphatically assured me he would get the job done. It seemed like years since anyone trusted this guy, looked him in the eye, or treated him with any value at all, let alone a wholehearted handshake and an unbent two dollar bill.

    I walked by the next day and true to his word not a scrap was seen, not even the usual litter from the corner store.

It might have been only two bucks and a sincere thanks but its value was right up there with the widow’s mite. 

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