My son will be 38 in May. My mom was 38 the year I left home.

I was 15 in early September of 1973 when my friend, Del and I moved to Smithers to play hockey. Our moms took turns driving the ten hours it took to get there from Montney. We sat in the back seat excited and anxious. We were pretty sure that being assigned to the Smithers Nat’s, although only Junior B, was the first step on our journey to the NHL.

When our moms hugged us and said goodbye the next day they were crying. We were too cool to hug too tightly or to shed any tears. Our tears would come later when the homesickness set in.

In that busy first few days we met our billet family, started school and were re-introduced to the other fourteen or fifteen guys who had been invited to Smithers after the main training camp. The camp had been in Kamloops a couple of weeks earlier. While there we had competed against one another for our place on the roster but now we were meeting for the first time as teammates.

The guys were from places like Coquitlam, Vancouver, Quesnel, Kamloops, Yellowknife, Merritt, Prince George, Hythe, Fort St. James, and Smithers. Two of the guys were sixteen-years old, two were fourteen-year olds and the rest of us were 15.

The Pacific Northwest Hockey league spread along Highway 16 from Prince George (the Spruce Kings) in the west to Prince Rupert (the Halibut Kings) in the east. There were ten teams… five were senior teams and five were Junior B. Being in Smithers was handy because we were right in the middle.

Our team, the Nat’s, had won the league championship the year before and the players, it seemed to us, were heroes in the little hockey town. Because they’d done so well, most of them had moved on to play at higher levels, but when we started school at the old Smithers Secondary we were able to ride on their shirttails for a few weeks. We received lots of attention and were treated well. It may have even gone to our heads just a bit.

Once the hockey started in October, however, reality set in. We took some humbling drubbings. I guess our excuse could have been that we were so much younger and smaller than everyone else, but excuses don’t make losing any easier. And being homesick made it even harder.

One Saturday night in late November stands out for me. We played the Houston Luckies at home in Smithers. They were a men’s team who went on to win it all that year. Houston and Smithers have a rivalry similar to that of Fort St. John and Dawson Creek so the pressure was on.

They beat us 16-4.

After the game, our captain who was a fifteen year old from Coquitlam, started the obligatory pep talk. He said, “Every Sunday morning I phone my parents and every Sunday morning I have to tell them we lost again”… and then he started to cry. It was like a contagious yawn… in seconds the whole room was in tears. The losing and homesickness were bubbling over. A short time later we gathered our composure and began the process of “psyching ourselves up” for our Sunday afternoon game against the same team. We came to the rink the next day ready to play.

If Hollywood had written the script we’d have won in front of a cheering home crowd. Instead, we lost 16-4 again.*

The next year about half of us returned to Smithers. The team’s name changed from Nat’s to Chiefs (because we were affiliated with the Kamloops Chiefs of the WCHL). The fact that we were a bit older and a bit bigger, combined with the addition of a few really good rookies, changed our losing ways. The homesickness wasn’t as bad either. Our record flipped from 12-28 in 1973-74 to 28-12 in 1974-75.

Recently I’ve been in touch with a few of the guys. Our conversations have been so great. We all agree it was probably our age, losing and homesickness that brought us together and why, even though most of us would go on to play on several more teams, our time in Smithers had such a unique impact. We shared a lot of “firsts”… first time away from home, first stitches, first plane rides, first girl friends, and first heartaches. In a sense we grew up together.

I realize that I could go on and on… I could talk about the amazing Percy and Greta Benoit who were our billet parents for two years. I could do a bit of name-dropping and talk about the teammates who went on to play professionally. I could talk about how wonderful it was to arrive back in Montney after those first few months away…

Another day, perhaps.

 

*Several times over the years I’ve told the back-to-back 16-4 loss story to students and my own kids when they’ve suffered a tough defeat. (I don’t know if it made them feel any better or if they thought I was just trying to one-up their story!).

PS. I was so lucky that mom saved all of the newspaper clippings and pictures and made scrap books for each year. She must have missed me. 🙂

 

“One more time, gentlemen. With feeling!”

Coach Joe Voytechek would say that several times at the end of every hockey practice. I can see him leaning against the boards near the penalty box in the Camrose arena… his whistle in one hand, note book in the other. He wore a red jacket and vintage skates. It was during the last minutes of practice that Joe would ask us to do one more lap. Inevitably we did five or six until he’d seen one with enough “feeling”. And then he’d smile.

His practices were hard work. I’ve never been in better shape.

Joe coached me during the 1977-78 hockey season when I attended college in Camrose, Alberta and played for the Vikings.

By the time I met Joe, he was already a legend in Camrose having played for the Camrose Maroons (he was my dad’s hero when he went to school there) as well as coaching the 1974-75 Vikings to the Canadian Collegiate championship.

I don’t remember Joe spending much time in the dressing room, but when he was there he said things that were memorable. Memorable then, and maybe even more so now.

“Kopesetic, gentlemen. Kopesetic.” When he said this we knew that he was impressed by what he’d seen, and there was something about his manner that made me want to impress him.

He walked into the dressing room one time just as someone cursed loudly. He just kept walking but said, “There may be no ladies in this room but there might be some gentlemen.” He didn’t need to do or say anything more.

During the singing of the national anthem prior to each game it was Joe’s expectation that we stand completely still with our eyes on the flag. We did not move until the last strains of O’Canada were done. In some cases, when the organist or singer would drag the song out, we would be standing still on the blue line long after the other team had put on their helmets, tapped their goalie’s pads and skated to center ice for the opening face-off! I’ve not forgotten that and still find it hard to watch teams shuffle, spit, scratch or skate away before the anthem is over.

During a game late in the season I received my first ever 10-minute misconduct. Frustrated, I’d kicked the puck down the ice after the whistle. The referee took offence. To make matters worse, because it happened during the last 10 minutes of the game, the rules were such that I would have to sit out the next game as well. I was devastated and worried most that Joe would think less of me. Joe’s conversation with me after the game was calm, kind, and understanding. His big arm on my shoulder also spoke volumes.

Just over twenty years after my year with Joe and the Vikings I was working as a junior high school principal in Fort St. John. One morning, after a conversation with a student in my office, I thought of Joe. I thought of him and smiled because I realized that yet again I had used the word “kopesetic”. In fact, I thought of how many of his words and mannerisms had been right there in the back of my mind during conversations with students and staff. I decided to phone him.

I picked up the phone and dialed right away so that I wouldn’t be distracted by the many goings-on in a junior high school. Joe answered on the first ring. I told him it was Larry Espe calling. I could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “How are you doing, Esper*!”

I went on the tell him that he’d had a powerful effect on me as a coach and person. I told him that when he’d asked me to work at his hockey school in Bashaw, Alberta in the early 80’s I’d been flattered to no end. I told him that I was using his words and sayings on a daily basis, and that I still didn’t move a muscle until the anthem was over. I think I may have embarrassed him a bit but I also believe he appreciated the call.

I saw him only once since then for a brief visit while standing in his Camrose driveway.

Joe Voytechek, a consummate coach and gentleman, passed away at age 96 on January 12. My thoughts are with his sons (and my former Viking teammates), Wes and Jim and their family. Click to read Joe’s obituary…

 

*  Joe called me “Esper”. I don’t remember anyone else calling me that.

 

 

I posted the following on my “leadership.prn” blog in March, 2008. I was reminded of the story recently and thought I’d share it here. Right now the world needs to know there are good people lurking everywhere.

Yesterday, we drove to Camrose, Alberta to visit my dad.  We’ve made the trip literally hundreds of times and, for some strange reason (great conversation or absent mindedness) we actually ran out of gas a few kilometres south of Edmonton on the very busy Queen Elizabeth II highway.  (The embarrassing details about how you can actually run out of gas on your way “out” of town are for another story.) 

Once the truck rolled to a stop on the shoulder, we decided that I would walk back towards Edmonton in search of gas while Deb stayed with the truck and called BCAA (or the Alberta version). We were going to see who could get gas first.  As I walked/ran north toward Edmonton I started to realize that it was both colder and farther than I’d thought.  I was starting to feel a bit sorry for myself as three lanes of traffic sped endlessly past me. 

Just as the adventure was becoming a miserable experience, the driver of a small black car honked his horn and pulled over on to the shoulder just in front of me.  I looked into the car to see a smiling young man waving for me to get in.  I was too cold to worry about him being a serial killer so I thanked him profusely and happily accepted his offer.  He said that he’d recently had the same thing happen to him and he knew how I must feel.  As we drove south to Nisku to get some gas he told me that he’d been living in Edmonton for about a year but that he is originally from Dawson Creek. His name is Mike, and it turns out his dad is a retired school administrator so we know many of the same people.  It was a bonus that he too is an old hockey player (although, I’m a much older hockey player than he).

What makes the story even better, and makes Mike’s actions even more impressive, is that he actually saw me walking, drove past the truck, put two and two together and then drove all the way to an exit, got back on to a north bound lane, found another exit, and looped back to pick me up.  He drove me to Nisku to get gas and then back to the truck where he insisted on waiting until I got it started.  When I offered him some money for his time, he wouldn’t take it.  Instead, he shook my hand and said he’d be happy if I would simply stop for someone who was in the same boat some day. Then he said, “it’s the nothern way.”  

It still makes me smile to think that after all the years Dawson Creek and Fort St. John hockey players hacked and slashed at each other on the ice, one of them would step up to rescue the other in the middle of a cold and busy highway some seven hundred kilometres from home.

 

 

 

My cousin recently posted pictures of my mom’s older brothers and sisters who served in the military.  I am extremely proud of their service.

 

Left to Right… Uncle Jack, Aunt Myrt, Uncle Jim, and Aunt Mary

Their oldest brother, my uncle Bert Doonan, was a member of the Royal Regiment of Canada. He died at Dieppe on August 19, 1942. In 1979 I found his grave in France. A Nova Scotian musician named David Stone wrote a song about my experience. I’ve shared the song and some pictures every year since he recorded it in 2005. Click here to watch.

I wear a poppy to remember their sacrifice. I do not wear it to glorify war. Wars are fought mainly because of policies based on greed, racism or religious belief. Most of those policies were/are developed by old guys like me. It still saddens me that Uncle Bert, a young man who probably didn’t know or care about the difference between Beaverlodge and Berlin was probably killed by a young man from Germany who probably didn’t know or care about the difference between Beaverlodge and Berlin.

I believe strongly that armies worldwide should not be able to enlist soldiers who are under the age of 55. I think that would help.

 

 

Gord Strate played for the Detroit Red Wings when there were only six teams in the NHL so it was a big deal when he started playing for the Fort St. John Flyers. I wasn’t very old when I started going to Flyers games with my dad and grandpa but I can still remember the night that I watched Gord calmly carry the puck up the ice while blood dripped down the side of his face. His head was up, his Brylcreemed hair was perfect (he wore no helmet), and he was in control. He was cool to say the least. I don’t know for sure but I’m guessing that if he’d needed to be stitched up that night it would have been done in the dressing room between periods and he would have continued the game.

Over the years I played in quite a few hockey games and, although I’m able to say that I never lost any teeth, I ended up with stitches in my face of several occasions. Each time I tried hard to be like Gord Strate when the bleeding started.

Most of my lacerations were caused by sticks and pucks (and on one occasion, even a skate) during on-ice “action”. Most of my stitches made for good stories which, especially if a couple of beers were involved, could become great stories.

However, the very last time I needed stitches didn’t happen quite the same way. I was playing in an recreation league tournament at the Kid’s Arena in Fort St. John. I’d just come off the ice after what was probably a long shift. I was sitting on the bench huffing and puffing with my head almost touching my knees when I heard one of my teammates shout, “Duck!”. Being both alert and inquisitive, I sat up quickly to see why.

The puck skimmed over the edge of the boards and hit me just below my right eye. I don’t remember it knocking me backwards off the bench, but the boys watching from up in the beer gardens said it did.

Other than a bit of a sting it really didn’t hurt much, but because it was right on the cheek bone the skin split open a bit dramatically and bled quite a bit. I was on the bench holding a towel over the cut when one of the fellows from the beer garden showed up behind the bench to help out. Mike (sadly, I don’t remember his last name), who had been a trainer when I played for the Flyers, took a look and then made a couple of butter-fly bandages from a roll of white hockey tape. They seemed to work fine, so I continued playing.

A few shifts later I was out on the ice taking a face-off. The linesman dropped the puck and my opponent and I both swept at it. Our sticks connected with the puck at the very same time sending it straight up between us. The other guy batted it out of the air with his glove and, quite by accident, bounced it off of the cheek bone just below my other eye. The cut was small enough that it didn’t need so much as a band-aid but I was pretty sure it would leave a mark.

After the game, and a quick visit to the beer gardens, Deb drove me up to the hospital. I was given nine stitches and a bit of a scolding by the doctor for using hockey tape instead of a real bandage.

The next day two black eyes were looking back at me as I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth. Being a junior high school vice principal at the time, I was pretty sure my eyes would receive some attention when I got to work that morning. I was right. There were lots of looks and several comments but one comment in particular has stuck with me. As I met a young science teacher in the doorway to the staffroom she looked at me with what seemed to be teary eyes and said, “Oh, Larry… that is a stay-at-home-face.”

It turns out she may have been right. I guess getting two black eyes in the same game sounded a bit far-fetched to some, so they speculated about what else may have happened over the weekend. For example, Deb, who was teaching at the high school at the time, heard more than one student share his idea that I’d been in a bar fight of some sort. The truth is I didn’t try really hard to dispel the rumours… wanting to maintain my “tough guy” image.  🙂

Since then I’ve only had to get stitches once. I cut my thumb with a utility knife while working with drywall. It’s really hard to make that into a good story, let alone a great one. 😦

Post Script:  Gord Strate passed away in 2012. At that time I posted some words on my Peace River North blog about how he, and several other Flyers had been such wonderful role models. Click here if you are interested.

 

 

 

 

I found an old VHS tape in a box yesterday. The label on it said, “Larry’s Grad Speech 1993” in Dad’s writing. I put it into the old TV/VCR combo that we have at our Mameo Cabin and watched the grainy image of myself looking significantly younger than I do now.

That year I had been invited by North Peace Senior Secondary School’s graduating class to be a guest speaker at their graduation ceremony. Although it was a huge honour to be asked, the crowd was a big one and this Montney boy was painfully nervous. Thankfully, I was joined at the microphone by a good friend, and great teacher, Donna Sheh. At the time, Donna and I were each working at one of the two junior high schools in Fort St. John. She was the art teacher at Bert Bowes and I was vice-principal at Dr. Kearney.

During our speech, we took turns reminiscing about members of the grad class as we’d known them during their junior high years. They were a particularly memorable group. At one point during our presentation, we referred to them as risk takers and then each gave a few examples. One of the grads that I referred to as a risk taker that day had been accepted into the military and had dreams of being a fighter pilot. It was that part of my speech that made me remember this story… (here is a 30 second clip).

 

 

Dave Pletz was a kid that everyone liked. While he worked hard at every aspect of his schooling, made the honour roll and all of that stuff, what I remember most was that he seemed to avoid the traditional junior high cliques and was inclusive of everyone. I also remember seeing him, on several occasions, out running with his dad who was a member of the RCMP.

I remember receiving a call from the Royal Roads Military College in Victoria. I was asked if I could provide a personal reference for Dave. A few days later an officer showed up in my office in full uniform. We met for almost an hour. I remember telling him, bottom line, that Dave was about as good as it gets.

Sometime later, I was standing in line at the grocery store where Dave worked part-time. He rushed up to me with a big smile on his face, thanked me for the reference, and announced that he’d been accepted into Royal Roads. I said that was wonderful news and congratulated him. Then I asked him what he hoped to do as a member of the armed forces. He told me he wanted to fly fighter jets. I said good luck, and then cockily added that maybe he could give me a ride someday. He smiled again and said he would. As you might imagine, as top notch as Dave was, I couldn’t help but think his fighter pilot dream may be a bit ambitious.

The years went by…

To make a long story short, Dave came back to Fort St. John to take part in the annual Air Show. He was flying a fighter jet.

I was unable to attend the airshow, but some of my teacher friends were. One of them came to see me soon after and, although I may never know whether or not he was pulling my leg, he said he saw Dave there. He also told me that Dave was hoping I’d be there so he could take me for the ride he’d promised. On one hand, I was disappointed, on the other, relieved!

Dave went on to become a Lieutenant Colonel and flew CF-18s in Eastern Europe for which he was awarded the Meritorious Service Medal. Governor General Julie Payette made the presentation at Rideau Hall in 2018.

“Lieutenant-Colonel Pletz deployed to Romania and Lithuania from May 2014 to January 2015 in response to the escalating crisis in Ukraine. The excellence with which he handled his assigned diplomatic, mentoring and training duties ensured increased operational capability with a key NATO partner. In particular, Lieutenant-Colonel Pletz’ remarkable leadership, dedication and operational performance during the Baltic Air Policing mission in Lithuania resulted in significant operational successes for Canada in support of NATO operations, thereby solidifying military co-operation within Eastern Europe.”

Dave isn’t the only success story to come out of the Class of ’93. Like Donna and I said in our speech all those years ago, they were a memorable group of kids.

PS: It is interesting, and a tad scary, to think that the “kids” in that grad class, including Dave, are now several years older than I was on the day I spoke at their ceremony. Yikes!

 

Once upon a time Montney was famous, or maybe infamous, for its dances. Originally, I remember them as community dances that were held every two or three weeks. I learned to dance at an early age because, with my dad usually up on stage playing, my mom needed someone to dance with. At that time there was no such thing as dancing with the same person all evening. In fact, the bands would play “sets” of three. Three polkas, three foxtrots, three waltzes, and so on. At the end of each set the gentleman would walk his partner to her seat and then, if he still felt like dancing, he would go ask someone else. I remember my “duty” dances with my mom’s friends, and I also remember the awkward slow-dances with Montney girls a year or two older than me that I had crushes on.

As years went by the dances became more and more popular. Lots of people, especially young people, started coming out from “town” to attend. Younger bands, like “Danny and the Comets” played what I’d call a great mix of country-rock and the dance floor would hop.  Sadly, the three song “set” went by the wayside and sometimes the dancing was interrupted by trips outside to watch a fight or to go have a drink in someone’s pick-up truck.

It was during the latter era that my Norwegian grandmother’s dance lessons stuck in my head. With that amazing accent of hers she would remind me to “never pump my left arm up and down” or “stick my bum way out” while dancing. She taught me how to “lead”. She also taught me the difference between a waltz and an old-time waltz.

Now the rest of the story…

When my family travelled to Norway in 1967 we came home with a 45 rpm record that had Dad bought. He’d heard a certain song played by a local band at a community dance in the Jostedal valley so he shopped around until he found the original. The record was made by a band called the “Hep Stars” and the two songs (one on each side for you younger folk) were “Jag Vet” (I Know) and “I Natt Jag Drömde” (Last Night I Dreamed). Dad had fallen in love with the second song, so had my grandmother, and so… so did I.

Back in Canada, my gramma (or “Bestamor” in Norwegian) played “I Natt Jag Drömde” over and over while we danced in her living room. It is a classic old-time waltz, she’d say. My left arm would stay still as her hand rested in mine, my “bum” would be perfectly in line with my shoulders, and, because it is an “old-time” waltz, I’d be on my toes at the end of each step.

For many years I believed that both the song and the band were Norwegian. Several years later I found out I was wrong. Both are Swedish. The Hep Stars included Björn Ulvaeus who went on to Abba fame, and the song, while sung in Swedish, was actually written by U.S.-born, naturalized Canadian folk singer Ed McCurdy. It had been an anti-war favourite in the 60’s.

It basically takes three chords on the guitar, so I’ve played it many times over the years. I still only know the first verse and sing it in what I hope is my very best Norwegian/Swedish.

This story took, what I believe to be, a really interesting, exciting and cool turn last month. Deb and I were having dinner and drinks at the wonderful Crow & Gate Pub with our friends from Alberta, the Donovans. As has become a bit of a tradition there, Simon, Jimy and I were playing some tunes in the back room. Jimy and Simon play the newer stuff, sing harmonies and know all the words while I play older stuff and mumble the first verses.

Just as we were thinking it was time to pack up the guitars, a group of guys walked by us and went up to the bar to order their dinner. Someone, and I can’t remember who it was, mentioned they were musicians who were in town for the folk festival and, by the way, some of them were from Sweden. Normally my worst fear is to have real musicians show up while I’m playing, but as I’m not getting any younger and I’ve sworn to try new things, when Jimy suggested I play my “Norwegian” song, I did. Soon after I started to play and sing the first verse of “I Natt Jag Drömde”, I saw one of them (it turned out to be Erik, the drummer) look over his shoulder and smile. He spoke to the others and soon they were singing along in Swedish. I kept strumming and they sang the whole song!

 

What happened after that will always be special to me. We created, what Jimy refers to as, a “moment”. The boys (I’m an old guy so they are “boys”), Adam and Martin Dimpker played and sang with us until closing time. We were also joined by Sam Lewis from Nashville who writes songs like a Townes Van Zandt.

(To try and describe how good these guys are wouldn’t do them justice. Please check out their music by clicking on these: Dimpker Brothers , Sam Lewis)

A highlight of the evening for me was when I sat with Adam and Martin to sing ‘I Natt Jag Drömde” one more time. I know I stepped on their toes but they humoured me. I mentioned my history with the song and how proud I am of my Scandinavian heritage. Adam and Martin promised they would call me “Lars” in the future.

 

A few days later we attended the Vancouver Island Folk Festival in Duncan. We saw the Dimpker Brothers Band (Adam, Martin, Erik Lundin and Sam Collmar) on stage, bought their CD, got it signed, and had the chance to say good-bye.

 

 

Deb is still talking about us going to Sweden to see one of their shows the next time we travel to Norway.

Bottom line… I’m sure glad Dad bought that Hep Stars record in 1967 and that Gramma and I listened to it so much. I look forward to old-time waltzing with my granddaughters to the very same tune.

Post Script:  Here are the words to I Natt Jag Drömde in English

 Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war
I dreamed I saw a mighty room
The room was filled with men
And the paper they were signing said
They’d never fight again

And when the papers all were signed
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads
And grateful prayers were prayed
And the people in the streets below
Were dancing round and round
And guns and swords and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground

Last night I had the strangest dream
I ever dreamed before
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war

 

 

Dad made his final trip out to Montney on July 6, 2019.

On a sunny Saturday morning a small group of family and friends went up the hill past Dad’s old store and laid his ashes to rest alongside Mom at the Montney Cemetery. Long-time family friend (and one of my “Montney moms”), Cathy Busche led us through the inurnment (yes, that is a word).

The words she said were perfect. She helped to guide us as we lowered the urn (that grandson Cy had made) and then place individual flowers on the grave.  Ferlin Husky’s “On the Wings of a Dove” played in the background on a portable speaker. As is tradition in Montney, we shared two shovels and backfilled Dad’s grave by hand.

Later that day, about 150 people met at the Montney Hall to celebrate Dad’s life. Two of the boys who also grew up on the Montney corner were responsible for making it, in my opinion, exactly what our family and Dad’s friends needed.

Kevin Busche grew up across the road from us (in Montney it’s a road not a street). His family owned the Esso station and they lived in a house beside it. He was the MC. He also read the eulogy and sang songs that Dad had played when he’d been part of the “Espe Orchestra” back in the day. Kevin told how Dad and his brother Thor, along with friend Peter Hlushko, had played at dances for free in order to help pay construction costs for the then “new Montney Hall”. He also mentioned how he and I, as boys, had climbed on to the roof of a lean-to that had once been attached to the hall so that we could watch and listen to the band play. I remember that Kev could hear a song once and repeat it… I think he still can.

Del Parker grew up on his family’s farm on the north side of the road. Being the same age, in the same grade and on the same fastball and hockey teams for most of our young lives, we spent a lot of time together. Del got to know my parents almost as well as I did. Del made great speeches at Mom and Dad’s 40^th and 50^th wedding anniversary parties. He made another great one on July 6. He told stories about Dad’s patience with us as kids and his political views, but mostly he spoke of his generosity and kindness. His stories brought both laughter and tears.

I don’t have enough ways to thank Cathy, Kevin and Del for taking the time to make the day so special. Having delivered eulogies myself I understand what an honour it is to be asked, but I also understand how difficult they are to prepare and ultimately present.

Dad left Montney 40 years ago this year. Our family was very touched that so many people would take the time to help us honour his memory after all those years. Thanks to them for coming, and thanks to the Montney Recreation Commission for allowing us to use the hall. Special thanks, and hugs, to Verena Hoffman, Noreen Kramer and George and Doreen Kantz for helping to make the day happen.

 

Post Script:

I can’t stop thinking about the last song Kevin sang. He played “Don’t It Make You Wanna Go Home” with a reference to Montney thrown in. There could not have been a better way to end the day. Not just for Dad, but for me too.

Whoa, the whippoorwill roost on the telephone pole
And the Montney sun goes down
Well, it’s been a long time
But I’m glad to say that I’m
Goin’ back down to my home town

Don’t it make you wanna go home, now?
Don’t it make you wanna go home?
All God’s children get weary when they roam
Don’t it make you wanna go home?
Don’t it make you wanna go home?

 

 

 

 

Two weeks ago, with my sister holding his left hand and me holding his right, our Dad passed away. Thanks to wonderful caregivers and modern medicine, his passing at the St. Mary’s Hospital in Camrose was peaceful. There was no last big gasp. Four months before he would have been 87 years old, Hans Espe, the tall handsome Norwegian from Montney, just quietly stopped breathing.

There is no way to describe in one blog post the multitude of feelings and emotions, let alone tasks and duties, that a family must deal with in the days following a loved one’s death, so I won’t even try.

There is one story on my mind this morning, though.

First, I have to go back a few years.

In 1939, when Dad was seven years old, his appendix ruptured. My panicked grandmother, Kari, wrapped him in a blanket, picked him up and started walking towards Fort St. John. Once on the main road she flagged a big old coupe of a car and asked for a ride.  The elderly couple in the back seat, and the young driver up front, decided there wasn’t enough room for them, and drove on (Dad never told me this part of the story until I was much older). Gramma then carried Dad the roughly 2 km to Clay Martin’s farm. Clay hitched a horse to his cutter and drove them 20 km, give or take, through the snow to the hospital in town. The legendary Dr. Kearney removed Dad’s appendix and saved his life. From the scar Dad was left with, it looked like the doctor used a scoop shovel.

Dad remained in critical condition for almost a week. My grandfather, who had been away working, trekked to town to be with him and Gramma. However, after a couple of days he was forced to return to the farm to care for their livestock. A day or two later, with no other way to communicate with anyone regarding Dad’s condition, Grampa took the only money he had up to the Montney corner (about 2m from the farm) to make a phone call. The “lady at the store” would not take his money for the call.

Sadly, I don’t know who the “lady at the store” was because at one time there were three stores in Montney and I just never asked. I’m guessing it could have been Mrs. Bissett, Mrs. Tucker, or Mrs. Titus… or some lady who simply worked for them. Regardless of who it was, my Grampa never forgot her generosity and compassion.

The coin he had taken with him that day was a 1934 US silver dollar. It became a prized possession. He scratched “Montney BC” onto the eagle side of it and put it in a safe place.

I’d heard this story several times over the years, but I don’t remember ever seeing the coin and didn’t know where it ended up.

It showed up last week when my sister, Carol and I began our “executor” duties with a visit to Dad’s safe-deposit box. The coin was there along with some envelopes, three pocket watches and my Grampa Olaf’s pocket knife. Holding those things, especially the coin, brought the appendix story back to me in full colour.

Montney memories are almost always on my mind in some way. Right now, they are on my mind more than ever.

PS:  In 1984 I began teaching at Dr. Kearney Junior Secondary School. One day in early September, the staffroom banter was about home towns. Teachers were taking turns sharing where they’d come from. Vancouver, Saskatchewan, Nova Scotia, Jamaica… When it got to me I simply said, “What if I told you that my dad had his appendix removed by Dr. Garnet Kearney?”