The Walk Downtown

The Walk Downtown 

By Norm Richards

I was a young man. I walked downtown with dad. We went downtown often. In my hometown, there was a gathering place. The post office. It was on the corner of Fisher Avenue and 2nd street. Our walk took us west on 3rd street. I remember every bump in the path to get downtown. First, we left the house my grandpa built before I was born. We turned right on Patrick to the corner past two houses to reach 3rd street. Broadway Confectionery on the corner was the store where I bought gum. Going down 3rd facing west there was a set of rail tracks crossing through our neighborhood running from the mainline nearby going northeast toward the lumber company. Once I stepped over the tracks there was a distinct smell of burning metal. On the right, it was a blacksmith shop. You could see bright flashes inside the shop. I thought it must be hot in that building. Sparks flew through an open door. I looked at dad. He said, " Don't ever go in there, my boy." I looked up at him in acceptance. It scared me. " Okay," I said in reply. 

When we reached the next street looking left where the rail tracks crossed, two streets were joining together there. Bignell avenue was the longer street and it ran parallel with the main rail line that went northward and trains went by every day. Dad said it was called the Hudson Bay Line. We crossed these tracks on foot. I was careful not to get my toes caught in the rail where there were cracks. I didn't want to get hit by a train. Just over the tracks, the smell of chips hit my nose, French Fries are what people call them today.  There is a little white building called the Hi-Spot. I don't know what kind of food you could get in there but chips were my favorite. Salt and vinegar all over the chips made them taste best. Yummy!

As we proceeded, a large low-slung building was on the right. It was TPCI which was the high school for the older kids. Across the street from it was a modern-looking building called the provincial building. It was a couple story's high. I was curious about what went on in that building. It seemed important. Past the school, I smelt something else. The newspaper building was right there. Ink to make words pleased me. Across the road, a brown building was the liquor store. Men were coming out with brown paper bags in their hands. Each man had a grim look as he hurried to get in his car. 

More tracks to cross leading toward 1st street. There was a hardware store we stopped at on the way back home. It was on the same side of 3rd street as the liquor store. Men were moving boxes into a truck on this side of the street. Groceries packed in boxes had their own smell especially if fresh vegetables were being moved to local stores. As you turn the corner of 3rd street and onto Edwards Avenue you left the main buildings like the bank on the southeast corner, Union Fashion on the southwest corner, Cambrian Hotel on the northwest corner as we proceeded up the street. We usually walked along the west side of the street past a Chinese laundry where the man sold chips in small brown bags. His were exceptional but greasy. Jones Grocery, another bank next to the movie theatre that filled my dreams at Saturday afternoon matinees. After the pre-views everyone threw things in the air greeting the start of the feature. I still have dents in my head getting hit with popcorn boxes. I loved seeing Mr. Magoo's cartoons. 

Next to the theatre in the same building was a barbershop. Just outside the building a taxi stand stood. A boxy little room with a couple guys drawing on cigars and spitting snuff out the door. They always had hats or caps on and some wore ties. Dad immediately started yacking away in another language with them. I asked dad what language he was speaking. He said with a big smile, " Uk a rain e in " as he said phonetically. I replied, " You mean Ukrainian, " Yaaa, " he said with a chuckle. So much fun hearing dad talk in fluent Ukrainian. Some of the guys in the taxi stand laughed while others responded in surprise that this man with dark skin features clearly not Ukrainian himself, spoke Ukrainian so well. Mom told me later, dad had grown up in the farming community where the farmers were originally from Ukraine. He lived and worked with them, attended school with their kids, and spoke daily in their language. Wow, I was gobsmacked. 

Making it around the corner to the post office was another experience. You entered a room full of small metal boxes each numbered to correspond to your family name and address in town. All the mail you received was put into these little boxes early in the day before you came to open the front of them with a key. Each family in town would own or be assigned one since you were resident in town. While retrieving your mail, if you looked up and someone else was doing the same, you would say hello and often conversations were had between the locals. Dad was one of them. I was tagged along to observe. 

One of these men, about the same size as my dad, was fair in complexion, not native or Indian like many you saw every day in town. Suddenly, the man started speaking in that familiar native tongue I often heard spoken. Dad answered him back in the same language with a big grin on his face, as though he didn't speak in that tongue often. The man looked down at me. Dad said, " This is Tom Lamb. " I reached out to shake his hand. He gripped my hand and I could feel my fingers pinch beneath his grip. I noted a very warm smile underneath a calmness about him. Dad chuckled while Tom said something else to him in the Cree language. Dad had a swagger about him because this man was including him in his day. That told me the man was important but I didn't know why. Later over dinner, mom said, " You see that red airplane flying over the house, " At that moment there was. I looked up. " That's Tom Lamb, " she said. That was enough to stagger me into realizing how special it was to have met Tom Lamb. 

Those walks downtown were routine for some, necessary for others. For me, they were an education, wonderful memories. For years after working as a writer and film and television producer, it's been my ambition to tell a story about knowing Tom Lamb. I've written articles about him and his flying sons. In the early 90's I approached the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation to tell a story. The television network division agreed to develop a screenplay with me as producer. CBC was soon struck with government cutbacks on their operational funding and was unable to continue development with me. It's taken me a few decades beyond to complete a screenplay which I have mailed to the network again recently and along with others for consideration. We'll see who wants to co-produce this important story with me.  My script is titled NORTH BOY. It's my story of meeting and working for Tom Lamb.