AN OASIS OF NATURE, IN THE HEART OF A CITY.
Mill Creek was an oasis in the middle of the hustle
and
bustle of a major metropolis. A small
forest with a small creek meandering through it.
A small dirt road left the helter skelter of
roadways, and railway tracks that used the Low Level Bridge to cross
the North
Saskatchewan River, the train used the same bridge as the cars, and
gently
curved through the forest.
There were three or four wood frame houses along
the road before it crossed through the creek, there was no bridge, and
came to
an end in the yard on the other side.
South of the yard the creek curved East and then South where the
valley
widened again. At this point a bridge
carries Whyte Ave. over the canyon.
Just North of the bridge the city built a swimming pool. In the yard, 9422 98 St., North of the canyon,
my father built a house.
I don't recall what the house looked like. I know it had a basement and a kitchen. I do recall the brick fireplace under the
trees, near the driveway, they didn't have barbecues in those days.
And I certainly recall warm summer evenings when
my parents would have their friends over.
The home-built, brick, fireplace would be ablaze.
We would roast marshmallows and hot dogs,
washing them down with my mother's home made root beer.
To this day I can not find a root beer that
tastes as good.
Behind the house was a set of stairs that went up
the bank to a leveled area where my father built for, my sister and I;
a
playhouse, sandbox, and swings, surrounded by a high wooden fence, to
keep us
children off the train tracks. It didn't, however, protect my golden
cocker
spaniel which, I am told, was run over by the train.
I can't recall ever seeing the train but I do
recall riding on it. My mother took us
on the last trip before they closed it down.
I vaguely recall the interior of the cars. I
remember being excited about the ticket for the door prize. I have no recollection of the drawing so, I
assume, I did not win.
I remember looking out the window and watching our
house roll by and I remember going over the Low Level Bridge.
Below the hill, where our play area was, were
cages with rabbits. At the time I
thought they were pets for us children but my sister told, me recently,
that they
were actually for the kitchen table. I
am sure my father would have also found a market for the pelts. In our basement were many cages where my
father raised chinchillas, chinchilla coats being in vogue at the time. We were allowed in the basement but we
weren't allowed to play with the chinchillas which may be another
reason my
father had rabbits, to distract us from the basement, as we were
allowed to
pet, and play with, the rabbits.
I recall the kitchen because that is where our cat
felt safe from our dog. However, at
that time I had grown to where the counter was shoulder height and I
could walk
through the kitchen, sweeping the counter with my arm, dropping the cat
in
front of the dog. How I loved to see
the blur of colours as the two sped out of the kitchen.
Img.
EDU-0 
(Photo `04 Aug.) BENNETT SCHOOL (Built 1912)
Now, `04 Aug, Bennett
Environmental Education Center.
Though in the middle of the city we were in
the
middle of a forest and for my first year of school I had to walk about
a
mile. I don't recall the walk in the
winter but I remember the summer trips, walking past the city
incinerator where
there was a huge mountain of garbage.
My mother was afraid to open my lunch bucket when I got home.
Mother was more afraid to open my sister's lunch
pail. Where I would tarry at the
garbage dump my sister would dawdle in the creek. Where
my lunch bucket would be full of valuable stuff, my
sister's would contain: newts; frogs; and other oddities of nature.
On the other side of the creek, down the road a
ways, was a clapboard house wherein lived a lady of my age. My fist girlfriend (Crush)?
They called her Pidgey because, when she was
a baby, she sounded like a pigeon, cooing, when she cried.
One sunny afternoon Pidgey,
Elaine Brown, and I, were sitting on the back steps of her
home. Her bigger sister came up behind
us and clunked our heads together. I
went crying home and told my big sister.
My sister went back down the road, and with a long piece of
grass, gave
my Pidgey's big sister a whipping. No
one was allowed to beat me up, except my big sister.
+ + + + +
I don't recall the man entering the house or what
it was he wanted but I wouldn't get it for him. He
hit me across the back of the head with something when I
didn't move fast enough for him. My
mother told him to leave me alone, that I had fallen down the stairs on
my head
when I was little and was a bit slow.
The man told my mother to tell me to get it.
He held a knife to her throat.
I left the room but I didn't go to get whatever it
was the man wanted. I went to my
father's room and into the no no drawer.
Actually in our house our parent's bedroom was a no no room, but
I knew
where everything was.
A British Webley is a very heavy weapon. When my father had taught me how to shoot
it, father was a Dominion Marksman and was allowed to wear the gold
crossed
pistols and rifles, I needed both hands to lift it and my father had
had to
cock it for me.
I was a bit older now and was able to lift it but
it took all my strength to cock it. The Webley folds open on a hinge,
you place
the bullets in the cylinder, and fold it closed again.
As my father had taught me, I put one
bullet, dad didn't believe in beginners using rapid fire, in the top of
the
cylinder and closed the gun.
Unknown to me the back of my head was bleeding
profusely and my sister had followed the trail of red.
As I came out of my parent's room she
started to speak. Though smaller than
her I pushed her against the wall and put my hand over her mouth. Something in my eyes must have told her now
was not the time to throw her weight around but to obey little brother.
left my sister and as I entered the kitchen I
used both hands to lift the already cocked weapon.
Aiming, as my father had taught me, I centered the front site on
the side of the man's head. Something
caused him to turn as I slowly squeezed my hands.
A 455, a bullet about the size of your thumb,
doesn't have a lot of muzzle velocity.
The bullet didn't go through the back of the man's head the way
it does
in the movies. Forcing, and exploding,
the man's left eye into the interior of his cranium, the lead
projectile built
up a tremendous pressure in his head.
Blood and other matter erupted from his ears and nose and
followed his
right eye as it came out of it's socket.
His entire head swelled up like a balloon and then shattered
like a
watermelon, when it hit the floor, as he toppled backward.
Just before I collapsed onto the floor, into
unconsciousness, I saw my sister running over to the man and kicking
him while
berating him for hurting her little brother.
When I awoke I was in a hospital, I had a big
bandage on the back of my head. Though
I couldn't see them I was told I had four stitches, the first?, of many
to
come.
The man? A
recently released prisoner seeking revenge.
My father had arrested him and given evidence against him at his
trial. He had been charged with
possession of an illegal weapon. Only
policemen are allowed to have pistols in Canada. After
the trial the gun had been given to my father to dispose
of, part of his duties working in the boiler room.
The man was killed by the weapon he had once illegally possessed.
+ + + + +
All the houses, along the narrow winding drive, are
gone and so too is the creek. I have
been told that that part of the creek now runs through a culvert, and
the entire area is buried under many feet
of land
fill.
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