Dad hated zucchini. Refused to eat it.

He didn't always though. I asked him why and the story went like this.

In his early 20s, dad was a journeyman carpenter - just in time for the massive recession, and no jobs for carpenters. He found a job "teaching" at a very small Highschool up in Kitwanga, BC - initially in his trade, which was woodworking. Because he wasn't trained as a teacher, he was paid essentially minimum wage, and allowed to teach on a "letter of permission" from the Superintendent. 

There were problems. Namely, nowhere to live, and no money to buy food. He had to find ways to make it with moving and paying student debt, a toddler (me) and a new baby due any day (Rebekah).

Dad said the owner of the Kitwanga General Store was very generous and gave him a $300 line of credit there for groceries. This was enough for staples - flour, sugar, oil, tea, etc. Now they needed a place to live.

For finding a place to live, Dad lined up a cabin, which was a chicken coop for a while, and was now a cabin again. Very rustic, very basic, and most importantly - very cheap. 

Photo gallery of the "chicken coop" below, these from 2019. In 2019 it was literally on it's last legs - the foundation had mostly eroded and it was on the verge of collapse. 

The cabin was on a farm, and in Cedarvale, a small community along the Skeena only a few minutes southwest of Kitwanga. Word got out the Mom and Dad - and their small children - needed some food. So, as Dad told the story, a farmer generously donated a small mountain of zucchini squash. 

"Zucchini pancakes, zucchini bread, fried zucchini, baked zucchini... we cooked and prepared zucchini in every known possible way." - quote, dad.

"I never ever want to see another Zucchini ever again" - also quote dad.

"Get that zucchini out of my face" - dad, too

The combination of the line of credit and the mountain of Zucchini got my family through a couple of months of hardship until Dad's low-wage paycheques started rolling in. I don't remember him complaining about Zucchini when I was a kid (we weren't allowed to complain, so he had to lead by example, lol) but when we got bigger, he started refusing to touch Zucchini anything, and then this story came out. 

I've been meaning to tell it for a while. When I see the funny summer Zucchini memes I always think of dad, who made a meme out of Zucchinis before that was even a thing. 

Here is a photo of Noah, with one of his fav veggies to grow... Zucchinis :) 

Growing up, Dad was pretty anti-TV. He was strict about us not wasting our lives in front of screens - perhaps an easier battle than in today's world. He had an exception though - Friday nights. When we moved to Hazelton from High Level, Dad had a job again as a high school teacher, and access to some school equipment - namely the old VHS players and TVs. The school principals would allow Dad to bring home the ugliest, crappiest, oldest player and TV after work on Friday as long as no one noticed and he brought it back first thing on Monday. I suppose the idea was, if my Dad broke it, no one would really notice or care.

Looking back on it, this would have been quite the chore. The player and TV were nothing like modern-day panels and players - the photo here is of the actual VHS player he'd bring home. It was top-loading and gigantic - a "dinosaur" as Dad called it. He'd have to lug that darn thing plus the TV into the van, then unload at our house. It didn't stop there - as a no-TV family, our living room wasn't set up for show-watching - so he'd re-arrange the furniture, and set it all up. 

One of our favourite things was getting to go to the video rental store on Friday, where we'd debate and try and convince each other to rent a certain movie or favourite show. Occasionally Dad would choose a movie. We'd gather up the rentals and head back home in a state of excitement. 

Us kids would gather up around the TV, sometimes on the couch but often sitting on the floor in front of the couch. As the oldest, I often had the pleasure of putting the VHS tape in and getting it running (sometimes having to rewind the tape first). Dad would often make popcorn in a massive bread bowl as we started watching our chosen movie, and then bring it in for us. 

Sometimes if the show was interesting (he had a soft spot for Disney movies, and anything silly or off-colour) he would come join us, laying on the floor, sometimes with kids piled on top of him. It was in this environment, and with this old VCR that he first introduced us to Star Wars properly - and that original trilogy became one of my favorites. One of his favorite movies of all time was inspector Clouseau - he would howl with laughter, sometimes laughing so hard he would literally be ROFTL. One of my motivations for becoming employed ASAP (age 10) was to have a few extra dollars in my pocket to rent my own movies. 

Friday nights were special, and they'd often be followed up by Saturday morning breakfast - pancakes or Dad's famous grain cake with homemade syrup. 

I am happy to report that we mostly followed this model - we at times have been quite strict with our kids and screens, including allowing only 1 "screen night" per week. I am writing this because I was away on a long trip, came home, and we just had a Friday night movie night that felt very familiar. 

The difference is that I have it much easier - no lugging around dinosaurs so my kids can enjoy their Friday night movie :) 

I woke up this morning and realized - oh my gosh, I haven't done a post about Dad and his love of Tennis! When Bianca Andreescu had her amazing season and won the US Open, I thought - Dad would have LOVED that. Tennis was one of those rare indulgences he'd have if there was a great storyline happening - a crazy personality doing crazy stuff, an underdog going for the top, or an ancient rivalry playing out. Originally Dad played Tennis, and as I would find out, was a really good tennis player. 

Dad's Dad William (Bill) Beaton suffered a heart event while playing Tennis in Victoria at the age of 59. He then slid into a coma and passed away. Dad mentioned this to me a couple times when I'd ask for the details of my grandfather's death, but it never seemed to really impact his love and passion for the game in the way you might imagine.

There was infrequent TV watching in our household growing up, but exceptions would be made for the occasional must-watch tennis match. I loved watching Dad watch the game more than the game itself - he would hoot, holler, and exclaim while watching, and sometimes offer entertaining commentary. 

When Dad's Mom Marian was sick with cancer and in a wheelchair, I asked her what she'd like to do before she passed away. She thought for a minute and then shocked me by saying "I would love to see your Dad play tennis, just one last time." I asked why, and she said she used to love watching him play his heart out. I seem to recall a story or two about some epic Tennis battles Dad had with his Dad, until he finally was able to defeat him.

Dad was always super humble about his Tennis abilities around me, he never ever boasted or told personal stories about his personal Tennis battles with rivals, or his rise to Tennis fame in the family. I do remember seeing him playing once as a little kid, and seeing him flash around the court - but not knowing what was going on. When it finally wrapped up, I asked him "who won?" and he just said "I did" and we moved on. 

For a big chunk of our lives, we lived away from Tennis courts. When I was a teenager we moved to the Victoria area, and Dad introduced me to Tennis. He taught me how to serve and all the basics of volleying forehand and backhand. I should tell you I felt pretty horrible about my skills, and Dad was patient and always mildly encouraging. It is also worth noting that Dad never really "went easy" on me. He never "let" me win like some parents do with their kids (me). I didn't manage to win a single set against him. Once I remember *almost* winning a set, and him grinning and encouraging me, as he defeated me yet again and took the game 5-0, again. I also remember that he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and his skills seemed god-like.

I never managed to beat my Dad in Tennis. When I was 15 he started to lose one of his major nerves, and he progressively lost the use of one of his lungs until it was actually working against his other lung. The only time I got to see him in his glory (playing against other good players) was when I was in my early 20s. He was living in Duncan and had joined a weekly Tennis club at the bubble. I had been practicing daily with a Tennis friend, who was also very good. I was getting better and better (and was fit), so thought I was finally ready to share a court with my Dad. I bought a super nice expensive racket, and joined the same club in Duncan.

Those days are some of my favourite memories - I would drive the nearly hour there and back to play once a week, and I got to see my Dad play amazing Tennis - on only one lung. He had a very powerful forehand, and a backhand seemed to stretch for miles. He played very strategically and always seemed to be in the right place. The couples teams would be random, but if you won you moved up a court, and if you lost, you moved down. Dad always seemed to be playing up court. Other skilled players respected him. A few times I got to play with him, and sometimes against him, and it was so much fun. I loved it. I loved it because I got to see him play up close, and also because he was a fierce competitor who was never unkind.

Seeing him play with his peers helped my understand why it was such a part of his life. He was skilled and he loved the game. I haven't played tennis much at all since those days in the bubble, but am reminded of him every time I see a Tennis headline in the news. Much love, Jacob.

Hi Everyone, I posted this on my Facebook profile this morning, here it is if you'd like to read my thoughts about Dad on his birthday. Love, Jacob.

How normal is dropping in? Dad would drop in unannounced on friends, family, and acquaintances. He'd revel in surprise - dropping in on an acquaintance or family member who least expected a VW van with Dad and his family to roll up to their doorstep. Dropping in was a two-way street though, he'd also whole-heartedly welcome people who would drop in on us. Growing up as a kid, I thought this was normal - I thought everyone did this. 

We'd travel a lot. I'd lived in more than one house for every year of my life by the time I was 12, so there was the moving house kind of travel. On top of that there was the summer travel, when we'd be off so Dad could complete summer school, or so we could connect with family. We never stayed in hotels, so it was either camping, or sleeping in the basement of some unsuspecting host. 

Dad would become impishly happy in the hours and minutes prior to surprising someone. Sometimes it was a churchfellow who'd moved and given Dad their new address saying "if you're ever in the area, drop by!" Or a workfellow, like another teacher. Or a childhood friend. This happened many times. I can count at least a half dozen clear memories from when I was small of dropping in and staying overnight before moving on and pretty much never seeing those hosts again.

To be fair, sometimes Dad had called ahead, but he loved to under-promise and over-deliver - in other words, he loved to surprise you by showing up a day early. So he's say "we should be there Saturday night" and then Dad would gleefully show up on a Friday night. What a rebel.

I want to share with you a couple special memories I have about dropping in on Dad.

In the first memory,  I was 18 or 19 and was living in Vancouver. For some reason I now forget, I'd arrived in Victoria super early in the morning, and I knew Dad would just be getting up. I also knew he left his doors unlocked. So I snuck in - gleefully I might add - and discovered he was in the shower. Perfect. So I hid outside the door, and when he opened it I leapt out at him like an angry bear. Totally worth it. I remember him grinning ear to ear so pleased I was there (after the shock and adrenaline rush had subsided of course).

A few years later Dad was living in Duncan. I happened to be in town, helping the Cowichan Tribes with their pitch to host the North American Indigenous Games. The pitch went late, and a couple of the out-of-town celebrities that the Tribes had hired to help with the presentation ended up being locked out of their Hotel. I heard about it, and feeling out of options, dropped by Dad's house with the out-of-towners who needed a place to sleep. I had to wake Dad up. Despite the tiredness and surprise, Dad was super happy and welcoming, kind of shocking the guests with his kindness, and perhaps his bare-chested typical lack of clothing ;)  

We woke up the next morning, and Dad had cooked us a big breakfast feast. I remember the guests looking at me, shocked that he'd done so much. In that moment I felt like a wealthy guy, as they looked at me like I was the luckiest to have such a welcoming, giving Dad.

I inherited Dad's welcoming - we had a record number of visitors and drop-ins this year at our farm - and I love to cook for masses. I didn't take on the dropping in part. Poor planning? Sometimes, yea, that's me. I don't drop in unnounced anymore though. It's too nerve-wracking, and I'm not bombastic enough to make myself welcome the way Dad seemed to be able to. 

As I grew up into an adult, it gradually dawned on me how abnormal Dad's dropping in behaviour was. It really isn't done. But Dad was abnormal in many ways - he was generous to a fault. He got to know his neighbours no matter where we lived. And his doors were literally always open to weary travellers and other guests.

Did Dad ever drop in on you and surprise you? I'd love to hear about it.

When we moved back to Hazelton from High Level in the late 80s, Dad had a job teaching at the alternate school in 2-Mile. He was one of two teachers, the other was the admin, and the small school was basically split in half between them. He would have been around 32 years old. He got a homemade root beer making kit from somewhere, collected up some used 2 litres, and got to making root beer as an educational activity. 

Here on the farm the boys and I have made our first forays into fermenting food. I've learned that naturally fermented food creates carbon dioxide, and if you limit it to a sealed bottle, that carbon dioxide dissolves into the liquid as the pressure in the bottle increases. Experienced brewers will put the fermented brew into the bottles at just the right time, so that the pressure isn't so high that it will explode the bottle. Dad was not an experienced brewer. At all.

Normally when you open a carbonated drink - like a can of beer or pop - there's a little hiss as the extra pressure escapes, then you can go ahead and enjoy the fizzy drink. Something went a bit wrong with Dad's brew, because the 2-litre bottles became *extremely* pressurized. I looked it up, and modern plastic 2 litres max out around 150 PSI - to compare, your car tire probably has around 35 PSI in it. When you opened one of Dad's homemade root beer bottles, you had to hang on for dear life. It must have been up around the limit of the bottle.

Dad absolutely DELIGHTED in the difficulty and drama of opening his homemade root beer. He'd devised a method where the 2 litre would sit in a big mixing bowl. One person would unscrew the lid, while another would hold a large measuring cup (4 cups or larger), facing down, over top. As the cap came off, all the pressurized homemade pop would explode out the bottle, and shoot upward with incredible force. The person holding the measuring cup would need to keep a death grip until the bottle depressurized. The rocket stream of pop would hit the inside of the measuring cup, and flow back down into the mixing bowl. Afterward most of the pop would be in the mixing bowl, and a small amount would be left in the bottle. To get a rough idea of what this is like, check out Mentos + Coke fun.

Dad's favourite story was when he first brought the "finished" brew into school, and had the students help him open it. He had a student holding the measuring cup while the cap was unscrewed. When the pop exploded out and hit the measuring cup, the student screamed, let go, and ran away. By his telling, the force was so strong that it blasted the large measuring cup all the way up to the ceiling. The root beer mushroomed against the ceiling before calming down. He would proudly proclaim that the root beer stain is still on the ceiling of the alternate school to this day - and to the best of my knowledge, it still is! The last time I was in there a number of years ago, I was able to find the stain quite easily, and it was quite large - larger than a dinner plate.

Unfortunately I don't recall Dad attempting any more home brew after that, other than some strange miracle mushroom ferment, but that is another story. The exploding root beer at school was one of his many favourite stories to tell. 

Dad got his first "real" teaching job in Kitwanga, when I was basically a toddler. My parents and I lived in Kitwanga, then moved to a rustic cabin (Dad called it the Chicken Coop) in Cedarvale, then back in to Kitwanga. I was just about kindergarten age when we left, meaning we lived there and Dad taught there for a total of maybe three or four years. Last fall (2018) my wife, kids, and I got a deal on an old farm in Kitwanga, and we moved back to a small town that houses all my earliest memories. It also turns out it is a place where Dad - then known as Ian Beaton - is fondly remembered.

The General Store along with the neighbouring post office serves as the de-facto hub of the community. You run into folks and end up visiting in the isles sometimes for hours. We got to know the owners of the general store gradually over our first few visits. Both of them remember Dad fondly. Thys, the husband, said Dad was his teacher. "My favourite teacher I ever had, actually" he said with a smile. Dawn, the wife, remembers coming over with her previous husband and kids for tea and visits with mom and dad. "That was another life" she said with a smile. 

Dad would have loved the General Store - they have literally everything you are looking for, and more! Thys has been my go-to problem solver, I head over there with a problem and he has the tools and supplies to fix it, as well as the knowledge. "Dad would've known how to do this" I've said more than a few times, while Thys nods in agreement.

A few weeks ago we went to the store as a family. I had some texting to do before getting out of the car, and the kids headed in without me. "HEY, are you guys BEATONS?" I hear a voice call out to my boys. They both stop, Ezra replies "Yup!" I hear another voice "See, I KNEW they had to be a Beaton!" I jump out of the car and go say "Hi."
"Wow, you are definitely a Beaton! Are you Ian's son?" There are two men, one sitting in a minivan and the other leaning against it, wearing a hivis vest. "Yes" I smile and reply. "How is the old man?" They ask, eager. "Unfortunately he's passed away." I tell them. They go on to say that dad was their teacher. They are brothers from neighbouring Gitanyow.
"Remember? He was the little guy!" One brother says to the other, pointing to me. "Yes, I remember, Mr. Beaton used to bring him to the school, and sometimes to class." I am absolutely blown away. The recognized my kids as being Roderick/ Ian's kids, more than 35 years since having my dad as a teacher. He obviously left an impression.

Oh how I wish I could paint you a picture! Imagine a dog running around a gas station, my Dad hooting and hollering and trying to scoop freshly born puppies up off the asphalt and reel the momma dog in as it splattered blood all over the gas pumps and a shocked looking attendant and onlookers. Dad loved to tell this story, and him chasing Leesha the dog around the gas station while she was in the middle of giving birth (and mostly oblivious to it) was the shocking climax. Lets jump back a bit.

It was the early 90s, during the summer. My aunt and uncle had left for a cross-Canada-and-USA tour with their four kids and had left their dog Leesha, who was pregnant, with an unknown number of puppies, with us. Our mom was at summer school, because it was just Dad and us kids. He'd borrowed a camper from someone in Hazelton, and managed to install it on our severely under-powered but reliable 1980s propane truck that we'd come to call the rotten banana. I remember we were in love with the camper and the idea of camper-camping - going from a ratty tent to a CAMPER was like going from a Super-8 to the Hilton. We begged dad to magically make the camper ours, but he was firm - it was only a borrow.

Dad loaded up the crew-cab truck and camper and we slowly made our way on the 1,200km trek from Hazelton to Vancouver and Victoria. There was Dad, us four kids, and Leesha the dog, all jammed into the truck. The truck interior was anything but luxurious - it was a farm truck and was equipped with two bench seats and not a lot of space in between. We'd been driving for a day and the cab of the truck became cramped, especially with our +1, Leesha the pregnant dog. Dad decided as I recall to free up some space by moving Leesha into the camper. We were all restless and stir crazy from being pent-up, and when we finally pulled into a gas station toward the end of the day, we all piled out.

We'd stopped somewhere with rolling brown hills, so I am thinking Williams Lake or 100 Mile House are prime suspects. I remember the gas station had a few pumps, and we'd parked off to the side on the space of asphalt between the pumps and the highway. We were happy to be out, and must have looked like the brady bunch as we rolled out of the truck. and Leesha just couldn't wait - as soon as Dad popped the camper door to check on her, she bounded out before he could stop her. She was so happy to be out, she darted from Dad then quickly to each of us kids to say a quick greeting, her tail and rear end wagging furiously. It was around then that we noticed the blood splatters, as they sprayed on us and dripped on the dirty asphalt. 

Dad tried to call her and get her back into the camper to have her babies, but she was having none of it. She was too fast for him to catch. She wasn't done greeting people yet! There were so many people to greet! I was sort of frozen between terror, embarrassment, curiosity, and concern. Dad, seemingly immune to embarrassment, chased after her trying to get her to come while quickly issuing apologies to the shocked, frozen onlookers that Leesha was greeting one by one.

"Leesha, come here!" Dad would say, chasing her. Leesha would run up to someone, tail wagging like crazy, greet them for half a second, spray them and everything around with some blood, and then rush off full bound to the next person or vehicle or garbage can.
"Sorry! She's having puppies! Sorry! Leesha, come here!" Dad exclaimed, just as a fresh puppy flopped out of Leesha and onto the asphalt. This slowed Dad down as he carefully scooped up the slippery puppy and continued trying to corral her and get her back into the camper.

Dad's favourite part was the gas attendant. He was a teenager who'd likely never seen the miracle of birth before (this was before the internet), and couldn't quite believe his eyes and had no idea what to do. He was just agape standing between the two pumps. It's always good for a laugh imagining the poor guy in shock. I don't remember if Dad pressed him into action or not, or if it was me, or if dad scooped the puppies and corralled Leesha all on his own. 

Dad did get Leesha back into the camper, where she gave birth to the rest of her puppies. Instinct kicked in and she knew what to do. I remember how amazed Sophia (who was quite little) was watching this happen. Worried about the brand new puppies, Dad moved them and their mum into the passenger side footwell of the truck. Whoever got to ride shotgun had to hold their legs up over the pile of dog and puppies. I recall she had a large litter - they barely fit (One did pass away from suffocation in the pile on our return trip). 

Looking back I still wonder at all Dad did to keep us fed, dressed, safe, sound, and cared for - and he always made room for another - even a mom and puppies! 

We lived in Pot Hardy, I was a teenager and out for a long jog. I got to the bottom of a long hill and came across an accident scene. A small crowd of people was gathered around a large sized fluffy rez mutt dog who had been run over. The driver who ran him over was there and distraught (and very sorry), as well as witnesses and the family of the dog who'd rushed over from the neighbouring reserve. I jogged up, very worried, and like everyone there, was paralyzed for a moment with indecision on what to do. I then said "I will run home and get my DAD. He will KNOW what to do." A look of relief swept over everyone's face as I ran back home as fast as I could to get the one person I could think of who would know how to handle this crisis.

At home, dad immediately started our old pickup (a mid-80s dodge converted to propane) and raced to the accident scene. The driver was offering to go home and get his rifle and put the dog down. Everyone was in tears or close to it. Dad ran up, took off his jacket, and started telling people what to do. He asked who the owners were, and if they had a warm place in their house where the dog could be brought to die peacefully. The big fluffy dog had been run clean over - twice - according to the driver, as it wasn't just the front tires but the back ones too that ran him over. The vehicle was one of those long 1970s looking muscle cars long past its prime. We learned that this big dog - barely grasping at life - was called Hamburger. The owners said they did indeed have somewhere in their home where the dog could rest in peace.

Dad enlisted help and he very gently slid his jacket under the dog. He then had three other adults help lift Hamburger gently into the back of our truck, the jacket acting as a makeshift stretcher. Family members and bystanders piled into the back as we slowly drove Hamburger home. Once there, we gently moved him from the back of the truck into the furnace room of the house. Dad checked in with the family, and satisfied that Hamburger had been delivered into a loving warm place to breathe his last breaths, we went home.

A period of time later, I don't know how long, I was working outside in downtown Port Hardy. I saw a bit of commotion in the bushes, and out popped a couple of dogs. "HAMBURGER?!?!" I exclaimed with great surprise. One of the dogs was fluffy and large, and looked exactly like the twice-run-over definitely near death dog Dad had gently taken home. Hamburger perked up immediately, smiled with a big lolling tongue, and ran over to me, tail wagging. He wiggled up beside my leg. "Hamburger, I can't believe you're alive!" I said, and reaching down, I could feel where his ribs and bones had broken and somehow healed. There he was, smiling happily away and wagging his tail, against all odds, definitely ALIVE. I couldn't believe it, and neither could Dad. It was amazing.

I told this story to my sons a while ago, and forgot about it, until my youngest reminded me a few days ago. Another story about Dad being a hero, for father's day. XOXO. -jwb

How Dad was like Calvin's Dad

Dad told me that engines turn over. So there I was, looking over the engine, while dad tried unsuccessfully to start it. "It's not turning over" I said, expecting the engine to physically roll or twist around in the engine bay. "Yes it is. It is turning over" "No, it's not" I argued. He then invited me to look closer and the engine would turn over. It never did any acrobatics, and it was years until I finally understood what "turning over" actually meant! For years I thought the engine secretly "turned over" when the hood was closed and I wasn't looking. Sometimes dad just liked to play around with me that way, just like Calvin's dad in the comics :) 

Other times he wouldn't know the answer and he'd make things up. Like the years he told me any berry he didn't know was poisonous. I was about 4 or 5 years old, and I was playing on the church sidewalk, throwing red mountain ash berries for fun. I remember him coming out and telling me "stop playing with those, they are poisonous!" He said the same thing about most berries we'd come across when we lived up north. It turns out that mountain ash berries are indigenous to BC and not only aren't poisonous, but were harvested and used as food in the old days. I thought they were poisonous until I moved back up to Hazelton in 2006 and we had ash tree in our front yard - the birds would come eat the fermented berries every fall and then promptly fly into our living room window. Thank goodness for Google and YouTube - I've since learned that almost all berries up here are NOT poison (they just taste bad), and I've also properly learned how gas engines work!

I also can't count how many times dad told me to go work on things I didn't like doing as part of character building, or how he'd refuse to give me answers right away, instead encouraging me to figure things out on my own.

Unschooling and late night jam sessions

We "unschool" our kids, and some of this goes back to my upbringing and how dad chose to educate us. As a pre-schooler I was encouraged to play outside, and most of my surviving memories are of creating and playing outside on my own. He would praise my creations, wether they be mud cakes or a string hooked up to a branch that I used to open an imaginary door. When it was time for me to go to Kindergarten, dad was worried. I have these memories of living at the family cabin near Comox for the summer. I had a lot of freedom for a pre-schooler, and would spend many hours at the beach playing imaginary games. One night, I have this clear memory of sitting on the love seat with dad, and him making very serious tones. He was worried, because I would be going to school. He was suddenly concerned because I didn't know the alphabet or my numbers. I remember sitting and playing as close attention as I could (not very successful), because Dad was very serious. I remember him working on a lined note pad, desperately wanting me to understand, worried that he was sending me in to school woefully under-prepared. It was a late-night-pre-kindergarten jam sesh.

My childhood was punctuated with these jam sessions. I remember him drawing out fractions in the dust of our driveway at the end of another summer. I remember him reading to me in butchered french one night when I was in grade 3, hoping it would help get me caught up. Later in elementary and high school, I would manage to rope him into some major project I thought up. One year he called in an electrician friend to help us figure out why my model nuclear power plant wasn't generating current (we never figured it out). Another year he helped me build an only modestly successful working model of a hydro dam. Although there were many partially complete projects and some failures, the memories of having him by my side those times are still solidly with me.

He carried on some of this tradition when we lived in Vancouver, and Noah pressed him into pumpkin carving. He also dutifully completed our paper maché volcano project and facilitated a number of "explosions" at the request of his grandkids!

I'll finish up my thoughts for now with what I said over three years ago when he died:

"My heart is broken. My Dad Roderick McKye Iain Beaton - Daddeo to my kids - died last night. Creative spirit. Problem solver. Visionary. Hard, hard worker. Leader. Playful spirit. Lover of outdoors. Teacher. Storyteller. Loving father. Generous. Care-giver. If you see any of these in me, I received this gifts from my father. I miss you so much."

We still miss him so, so much. XO.

-Jacob

Otherwise known as the time I got Dad drunk.

This story makes me laugh, and I laugh even more imaging re-telling it with Dad around. He'd emphasize certain points and add the blustered flair of fake-denial to other parts of it. The true story goes like this:

Dad was single-parenting in the basement in Brentwood Bay with three of his four kids. I, the eldest, was overseas in Europe and came home to finish my final year of highschool. When I came back, some Germans smuggled wine and beer through customs for me, and I not-so-subtly smuggled the beer and wine into the basement apartment. I thought I'd test the boundaries at home by cracking open a tall can (called a "tallie" here but a normal beer in Europe), putting my feet up, leaning back and taking a bite out of a stale pretzel I'd taken out of my suitcase. 

Let me step back for a minute and set the stage. Some of you knew Dad as the whiskey-drinking-poetic-kilt-guy. This was years before that. In fact, when I was raised by my parents, they were both teetotalers. They never drank alcohol (and yes, LOTS of tea), and I was told in no uncertain way that alcohol was evil and that if I drank all kinds of terrible things were bound to happen to me.

Living in Europe I was quickly cured of my Teetotal upbringing (and many other things thank god) and I came to appreciate and enjoy a great brew, excellent food, and tasty wines. Coming back home there were a number of uncertainties - one was: "how would Dad react to me drinking alcohol?"

According to Dad, watching me walk in the door and promptly crack a beer, relax, and eat a pretzel was a bit of a shock. He wasn't sure what to make of it in that moment, other than I'd changed. I remember him sitting at the other end of the table and smiling. Or was it half smiling and half grimacing?

A few evenings later, it was late and just Dad and I were awake sitting at the table. He asked me "Do you think you could teach me how to drink?" He was serious. He got up, turned around toward the fridge, opened a bottom left cupboard, reached in, and pulled out a dusty bottle of some no-name spanish red wine with a red bull on it. He said "I got a couple bottles of this stuff that a co-worker gave to me at a secret santa last year. I didn't know what to do with it." I grinned, slapped him on the back, pointed at the bottle and said "I can DEFINITELY teach you how to drink that!"

I got out a couple of tall water glasses, and we sat beside each other at the table pictured below. I cracked the bottle and showed him how to smell the wine, identify the "notes," (at this point Dad would interrupt and say something clever like 'I always wondered why people play mandolin better after drinking' or 'I never could hit those notes') swoosh the wine around in your mouth to aerate it, swallow and appreciate. It was a thick red spanish wine, not all that good but an easy drink. Dad did as instructed and declared that "it wasn't half bad" or something like that, and quickly downed his glass of wine, drinking it a bit like juice.

A while later, we'd nearly drank the bottle, and things got interesting. Dad started laughing extra loud, his face was flush red, and at one point he actually fell off the bench and onto the floor! The fun part though is that he sprang back up and said "I don't know why I did that!" I said "Dad, you are DRUNK!" and he replied "I am NOT DRUNK!" Smiled, sat down and drank some more. Offered for him to try some of my wine, and we did. He started giggling so much at one point he leaned forward onto the table, looked up at me, and said between breaths "I don't know why I can't stop laughing!" I said "Dad, you are drunk!" and he said "I am NOT drunk!" This went on for a while until I told him it was time for him to go to bed. We had a good time, the whole time Dad falling one way or the other, giggling and laughing, and denying that he was drunk. 

At the end of the night I, at 17, guided my 41-year-old plastered Dad to bed. It was great fun, and a good memory. From then on I could usually convince him to join me for a glass of wine (and later, scotch), but that was the first and last time I got Dad right proper drunk. 

PS: He also trusted me, and never expressed worry or concern about my drinking (I was, and never have been a big drinker). He was a good Dad, and I enjoyed my grade 12 year with him and my siblings and family in the basement in Brentwood Bay. After I graduated I got a job with the RCMP, and the first time I drank underage in a bar was with a bunch of cops!

As with other family fun days like Halloween and Christmas, Easter was a sacred family time for dad. 

I remember being about four years old and watching dad hand-make easter baskets out of coloured construction paper. He was carefully cutting it into strips and then weaving it and shaping it into baskets, secured with staples and tape. It seemed like everyone else had gone to bed but dad laboured away for hours, and allowed me to stay up late and "help." 

Each easter I remember dad was the 'bunny' and would hide our eggs around the house. As we often didn't have money when I was smaller, it was often one chocolate treasure hidden with our name tags on it. He'd always try and one-up his hiding spots, and it was always a thrill trying to find our chocolate. Sometimes they'd be in really odd-ball locations and he'd giggle watching us search.

The day before easter dad would prepare, and I understand this was a Beaton tradition. He'd bake bread, make eggs or baskets or whatever needed to be made. As a small child, on easter mornings depending on where we lived, dad would wake us up early and go for a sun rising church ceremony on a hillside or at the local church. We'd then hunt for chocolate. Later in our childhoods we'd relax at home, and start with a hunt and then have a big Beaton breakfast. Sometimes dad would go to church and make it optional for those of us who were interested. 

Waking us up in the morning Dad was always cheerful and would say "HE IS RISEN!" with a big smile. We'd shyly respond "he has risen" and sometimes he would say it again with even more gusto to see if he could get us excited.

This easter I was appreciating dad again, as I remembered watching him work hard to make sure our easters were memorable. 

-jb

A Man's A Man For A' That

1795 Robert Burns

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine; 

A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,) 

That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

Dad performs For A' That for Noah and Ezra in Feb 2014

THOSE THAT KNEW DAD would know that Halloween was one of his favourite times of year. Dad was creative, outgoing, generous, social, and he loved performing. Halloween was a perfect storm for many of the things Dad was good at and loved to do.

Dad would make our costumes, and get excited in the days before as he would hear about great costumes and try re-create them with us kids. He made me into the "headless horseman" with some thrift store supplies when I was eight, and I remember winning 3rd place at a Halloween party (I won a ball). I've re-created that costume a few times since. One Halloween, in a rush, he grabbed a blue plastic disposable plate and stapled it (with paper staples) to the face of a small blue windbreaker, cut some eye holes in the plate, put it on my littlest sister and called her "the blue ghost." She played the part and was a hit that Halloween. For the record we never, ever bought a costume. Ever. Always homemade.

Trick-or-treating was an excuse for Dad to go visit his friends and pay his respects around town. We'd all pile in our vehicle and Dad would take us to select homes around town - Ward Marshall's, Alice Maitland, other teachers, past students, and church friends. I think he enjoyed this part as much as the creative costume making. I recall a lot of laughing and joking as he would greet his friends, and often we'd be ushered in for a "quick visit." 

Dad was also a prankster and would tell stories of the pranks he would pull in his kid-days. As a dad, he mostly pranked our pets and he would delight at seeing their reactions to our costumes, the more scared our dog would be, the better! 

As we grew up Dad took a back seat as we started creating our own costumes. He'd take a lot of joy and pride in our creations. For some reason I remember Jonathan's the best - a "Cereal Killer" when we lived in Port Hardy, and a mega-death reaper (him on drywall stilts) in Brentwood Bay. 

The last Halloween I enjoyed with Dad was back in 2012. We'd just moved to Vancouver and Dad and Marny came to visit for a day on the Halloween weekend. Dad carved ALL our pumpkins under Noah's supervision, and he was a more than willing zombie victim and played with his grandkids.

Have any Dad halloween memories? Please do share. Love,

Jacob

It's been over a year since Dad died and we had his funeral and memorial song circle and hang out. I thought I'd remember more of the condolences, but after a year only a few memories and stories told remain. Here they are:

1. A long line of people shook my hand after the funeral, and I remember what a bright sweet energetic elderly lady said. She was dressed mostly in white, and seemed about half my size. She stepped up and grasped my hand warmly and gave me a huge smile. "This is the BEST FUNERAL I've EVER been to!" she exclaimed cheerily. "And your Eulogy was the BEST!" Then she leaned in, still holding my hand with both of hers, and said with a grin "... and trust me, I've been to a LOT of funerals! Yours was the best!" Her full on smile and cheer really made an impression amongst the somber handshakes and hugs and half-hugs. 
2. A nervous musician who came to the music circle afterwards. He approached me and said he didn't really know my dad well but he wanted to come because of something amazing my dad did. He said that he knew of someone suicidal in the music scene who had become a recluse. Dad wrote this person a positive personal post card every day for months until the person made contact and re-emerged. According to him, Dad had gone out of his way to save a stranger's life. It still brings me tears, and reminds me of the loving postcards I would occasionally get from him the last couple of years.
3. A teacher who told me that dad used to cook big pancake and waffle breakfasts for his students, using griddles that he's fixed or restored himself and with students. He said dad made a big impression on him as a teacher and that he'd never seen that before.
4. A musician who I met outside, who said he hardly knew dad, and got to know him just months before he died. He said Dad had heard he was having trouble with renovations, so he came by with tools and asked if he could take a look. He said he was at wits end, and two hired professionals had both tried but been unable to fix his basement wiring, leaving him with part done jobs and his electrical not working. Dad came in to his basement, after a few minutes of looking around said "I see exactly what happened here. I will fix it." Dad went by every day for a week until he got the job done - and apparently didn't ask for a dime to do it.

It is still hard to believe that he's gone and has left us. I wish I'd been able to record more of your stories to my memory that day, but it was quite overwhelming. For me I miss my Dad, a loving, wise man who helped me feel better about myself every time I talked to him or felt his hugs. He still inspires me when I think back to these stories of things he did to brighten up other people's lives.

-jb

Nov 16/ 87

A couple “simple” things happened today that precipitated this writing. We ran out of stamps and Sophia greeted me with a cheery “Hi dad.” This, the last child, 1 1/2 yrs old and so aware already is sure of her world and dad’s a part of it. The stamp that was missing was on a life ins cheque. Patricia dropped a note inside to High Bradford that I’d like to increase my insurance. After my talk with Cam Cavasso this summer, I can see the wisdom in his council. And I was thinking how little is written to my children. Sophia is 1 1/2 Rebekah is 6, Jonathan is 3 and Jacob is 8 (and doe II is about to whelp). 

Sophia loves to dance. Although you can’t “talk” yet, you will take a hand, and put it where you want it to be. “Pet doe” or “dance” or “draw with a pencil around my foot.” If you don’t get what you want from mom or dad you will try someone else. Rebekah is usually “tuned in” and will get you what you want. Jonathan is quite concerned that you don’t know how to hold a book the right way up yet, but you turn pages like a pro. 

Rebekah loves artistry. You have made me numerous papers cards and bookmarks with “I love you daddy” in your own hand. You spend time colouring in your Bible colour book and readily share space with Aliah and Janice when they come over. I appreciate your tenderness to your family and friends.

I call Jonathan “Mr. Justice.” You have an acute sense of fair/ unfair practices (especially against you). You are a bomb of happiness when everything is O.K. and people love you for it. You are showing the creativity of your big brother in drawing, constructing and generally making “things” for various applications out of wood, paper, etc. 

I enjoy watching my children “create” even if I’m often tired or grumpy when you seek my approval. 

Jacob started it all. Your creativity is infectious to your siblings and cousins. You’ve built forts, caravans all sorts of vehicles. Last weekend you showed me it wasn’t all play by helping me at Eric McCooey’s barn. Sometimes I worry that I’ve taught you to be “too serious” about life, but then I see the pleasure you bring to other people and I think “maybe it’s a good balance.”

Just discovered this today in a box of memories dad kept. I am publishing it because it is mostly a letter written very much to us kids. I transcribed this diary entry as exact as possible, I only added paragraph breaks and bolded our names to make it easier to read, otherwise it is exactly as Dad wrote it. -jb

First, start with a recipe that will loosely resemble your finished product. When we had a box of recipe cards, dad would look at the card and make something that loosely resembled what was on the card, or maybe not use the card at all. When the digital age struck, dad viewed the original and never actually followed recipe, as sacred and never to be touched. Instead there were notes throughout on how to modify the directions to get the results dad wanted. 

Whenever I asked for cooking directions, It was clear I was expected to know basic things about baking. lIt should be slightly softer than bread dough or add just enough water to the pastry so the dough sticks together, but is not sticky. Luckily, I learned these things from stealthily punching the bread down for him while it was rising and eating the bits of pastry when I thought no one was watching.

On week days it was cereal and milk before school, pancakes with some sort of preserved fruit from the summer was usually tossed in on the weekends and often Grain cake was the staple food in our house on Sundays. Mom or dad would whip up a batch with the grain of the week and we would eat it with peanut butter, berries and syrup. I’m not sure where the recipe I have came from, but I think it was originally sent to Rebekah

I use melted butter and sunflower oil and separate the eggs.  I turn the yolks into an emulsion by slowly adding the hot oil while I whip it, then I add the sugar slowly and keep blending until the mixture is stiff like whipped cream. I use 1/2 yogurt and 1/2 water because we never have milk in the house. I omit the flour completely and use wheat bran and germ instead. Because these other parts of the wheat seed are so fluffy, I increase that to a little less than 2 cups. I use 1/2 to 3/4 Cup brown sugar. 

Today I added 2 tsp cinnamon, 1/4 cup sunflower seeds, a dash of pumpkin seed and some raisins. I always use a 9” square pan instead of a 12” one. Make sure you set the oven to 200°c. That’s about 390°F. Enjoy!

I'd use olive oil instead of canola and egg whites instead of eggs and cut back the sugar to 1 cup substituting applesauce for sweetness.  It should be a thick dough but a little more fluid than scone dough.  xo  O.k. now get back to studying for the next hour. (-;

Ingredients

* 4 eggs

* 2 cups sugar

* 1 cup cornmeal

* 1 cup plain flour

* 1/2 cup canola oil (or any similar)

* 1 cup milk

* 1 tablespoon baking powder

Directions

   1. Pre-heat the oven at 200°C.

   2. Lightly oil (or butter) a non-stick 30 cm cake pan.

   3. Mix the eggs yolk with sugar and oil.

   4. Boil the milk and pour on the cornmeal, on a separated bowl,mixing well.

   5.Mix this to the eggs mixture.

   6. Sift the flour with the baking powder and add to the mixture.

   7. On a clean bowl whisk the eggs white and fold into the mixture.

   8. Pour this to the prepared pan and bake for 30 minutes or until the tester come out clean.

I was making whole wheat pancakes this morning when I was reminded of a story dad told me a couple times. 

When he was little - and still called Ian Beaton - his family had to make it on not much money. One outcome is that they would always cook and bake with whole wheat because it was cheaper than refined white flour. He used to tell me you could make everything out of whole wheat - even pastry. He thought regular people were crazy for thinking you 'had' to use white flour in certain recipes. 

Dad and his siblings used to go to Bible camp - up in the Cowichan I think - and one summer when he was a teenager there was a major disaster. The camp was supplied with tons of whole wheat flour instead of white flour. As he told me the story, this was a major major problem, because at camp they ate wheat like it was going out of style. Pancakes for breakfast, bread for sandwiches for lunch, pastries for dinner and dessert. There was mass pandemonium in the kitchen, because the cooks and everyone there claimed that you could not possibly cook and bake with whole wheat. It just didn't work. At all.

Apparently Dad goes in, and says, you guys are crazy - of course you can cook and bake with whole wheat! And they say, no way, and he says yes way, and they say - prove it. So he cracks open one of the gigantic bags of whole wheat and starts cooking in the kitchen and shows all those adults how it's done. 

He amazed everyone, and from then on they'd ask him to work in the camp kitchen and show people how to cook and bake with whole wheat. According to him, they were most amazed with his pies - they never thought you could do 100% whole wheat pastry - but for dad, he'd never known anything else. He said since he grew up only eating and cooking with whole wheat, it was first nature for him.

I got the sense he loved working in the kitchen and cooking for so many people at camp. As I recall it also granted him some special privileges and access to the pantry :) 

When we settled down in Hazelton in the late 80s/ early 90s, camp dad came to life as he would take us on lengthy camping trips for much of the summer. The camp dad you know was really born here, as he'd always rig up some new invention or process to make camping better, more efficient, and a bit more like home but outside.  He taught me to roughly plan meals and properly pack ingredients. He loved to stick to the basics, and always had a white gas coleman stove. He pretty much never threw away a piece of kit - one of the last times we camped with him, we slept in the same tent we had as children.

I think of him often, daily, and today it was camping as I whipped up a big batch of 100% whole wheat pancakes for us and our 4 guests this morning. 

Love, -jb

Here are a couple more video clips of dad that the boys and I found the other day:

We love watching Peter and Dad jam and figure out how to play this song together. "Daddeo was a very good musician" Noah said. "I miss Daddeo" said Ezra.

I interviewed Dad in this clip about what he remembered about my birth. Dad was up visiting and waiting for his first grandchild to be born in July 2006. Noah said "Daddeo was a really good cook!"

-Jacob

Do

Dad's relationships with animals evolved as he grew as a person. I remember hearing stories of "mutt and Jeff," a dog and cat my parents had before I was born. The first pet I remember though was a female dog named Do (pronounced the same as doe, as in doe a deer). The story is that I couldn't say "Dog" just "do" so my dad named her Do. Do was one of my best friends for the time we had her. You can see some of Dad's notes on the photo below.

I remember playing outside and a badly injured dog showed up. I don't know what happened to it, but it had some bad wounds on its shoulder and side. Dad had taken to scaring off dogs from our yard and following up with a shot from his bow, so I was scared to tell him about this injured dog that had shown up. I remember him coming out, and instead of shooing it away, he felt immediately sorry for it. He went back inside and came back out with a mason jar full of liquid. I watched in amazement as the dog drank every drop and then after resting for a while, moved on.

We eventually moved on ourselves. We moved to Victoria and we weren't allowed to bring pets. Mom and Dad found a home for Do before we moved. I was about four years old. I still vividly remember being in Victoria and getting a phone call saying that Do had to be put down. She'd been caught and beat up by a dog pack. I remember clearly seeing Dad's young body sag, and then him telling me with a lot of sadness that my dog was going to die. He explained that she'd been "torn up" by other dogs and couldn't be saved. We were both very sad about that.

Doe/ Do II

We went a couple of years in Victoria without pets. To me this was eternity, to Dad it was a long time. We then moved to High Level Alberta and Dad went out and got Do II. Dad later told me that he'd heard about a litter of Shepard cross pups in town that needed a home. He went and had a look, and picked out another female dog for us. I woke up on a cold crisp morning, the first one in the house out of bed. I went into the kitchen and heard whining outside on the back deck. I opened the door and saw this little puppy in a cardboard box with a blanket inside. It never crossed my mind that this was our puppy. I thought it was lost, or maybe an angel had delivered it. I remember running into my parent's room and jumping on the bed, and saying with amazement that there was a puppy on our deck! Dad groggily beamed and told me it was OUR puppy.

Doe grew up to be an insanely tough dog. In our year out in the log house, Doe grew into our protector and a very efficient hunter. Rumour is that she was part wolf - when Dad picked her up the owner claimed she was 1/4 wolf. This may or may not have been true - up here in small-town-ville everyone claims their dog is part wolf... but Doe certainly acted part. She developed into pure muscle, which dad encouraged by making her run from the highway all the way to the log house every time we'd go in and out of town. Dad would yelp with amazement at how fast she could run and how we were never really able to leave her behind on the dirt road. I remember looking behind us and seeing her legs all a blur, and he muscles rippling up and down her chest, with her ears flat back as she ran like the wind.

She'd hunt deer and even attack porcupine, coming back with a mouth full of quills, which dad would dutifully pull out with pliers. Dad would proudly recount the "bear" story, when Doe relentlessly attacked a mother bear to protect him and my cousins. There was no messing with Doe.

One day someone came home with a special treat - Donuts! We sat outside on the small front landing eating, and Doe sat behind us keeping watch. My littlest sister Sophia took a bite and then relaxed her arm backwards behind her head. I remember this scene almost like it was filmed - the donut, in her hand, goes behind her and almost is put right in Doe's mouth. Doe gingerly takes a bite, likely thankful that her little human shared with her. When Sophia realized what happened, she burst into tears and wailed. Dad came storming out and gave Doe a huge beating. I remember feeling very upset and very sorry for Doe, who was pretty much innocent of any crime.

As I said Dad's relationship with animals seemed to closely mirror his own growth as a person. He would be both very loving and caring with our animals, and at other times incredibly harsh and abusive. In terms of punishment, he firmly believed at the time that animals and kids learned lessons through physical punishment only. He told me, seeing my sadness and feeling sorry for our dog, "that is the only way they learn." This would be hard for people who knew Dad later in life to imagine - as he grew he moved away from the physical aggression and punishment to the point where I never saw him strike a dog again.

We moved in to Two Mile, to a small 2.5 acre hobby farm in town. Doe, who had developed into a super tough bear-fighting dog, did not fit in. Unlike Do I, Do II didn't take any shit from the dog packs, handily defeating any of them that dared challenge her to a fight. I recall a time when she accompanied us to the bus stop, and the local pack tried to put her in line. At the end of the scrap, it was her bus stop. 

She also started hunting sheep, and badly maimed two. My parents decided she needed to be put down. Dad cried hard, and so did I. It was a horrible, traumatic thing. Dad swore off dogs, again. We had a multi-year break after losing Do I, now we seemed destined for another break after the trauma of losing Do II so young.

Horses

When we bought the 2-Mile house - the first house my parents ever bought - it came with two horses "for free." One was Skeena - a crotchety old black Arabian mare, guessed to be around 20 or more years old. The other was Keetar, a part Appaloosa young gelding (meaning balls removed) who was a deathly-afraid-of-puddles gentle giant. 

As I recall Dad had no experience with horses but that didn't stop him from trying to connect with them from time to time. Mom and us kids got riding lessons - but Dad decided to show us how it was done and ended up upside down in the saddle :) As he would say - the stuff of legends! 

Dad tacked up the horse himself, and then took Keetar for a ride in the park across the road. He didn't cinch the saddle properly, and the saddle (with dad in it, feet locked in the stirrups) rotated slowly from on top of the horse to underneath the horse. I think Dad said something like "woa woa woa!" as he slowly rotated. Keetar, the gentle giant, stopped moving shortly after Dad ended up upside-down under his belly, but dad still managed to fall and break a rib. We marvelled afterward how great Keetar was, and how hilarious Dad was - showing us how it was done!!

Dad would always save money wherever he could. With the horses, this meant that we'd get our own hay right off the field. This was at least a twice-a-year chore. I remember being amazed when dad - so strong - could throw a bail of hay from the back of the truck in to the top of the barn, where I would hoist it in and stack it. I tried this recently and I could hardly pick up a bail let alone throw it!!

The horse chores landed on me, as the oldest child. I got to feed them every morning and check them every afternoon on my way home from the bus stop. Dad would sometimes stake the horses in our yard to let them eat our grass. I also remember him administering ointment to them when one of the horses tangled with barbed wire.

Skeena was a smart old horse and dad was amazed that she figured out how to open the barn door with her lips and raid the bin of oats. She'd decided on retirement and didn't appreciate being ridden or generally being told what to do. Despite her attitude though she was social, attached to Keetar and attached to our home. When we put her to pasture for a summer, she was so upset that she went on a hunger strike and we had to go get her and bring her home. 

Keetar was basically a big dog, and Dad used to laugh at his antics. Keetar broke BOTH our front AND back decks trying to get into our house! He thought he had the same rights as our dogs and cats, but he was way too big to even make it through the door. That didn't stop him from trying! Dad was forced to fix up our decks and replace some broken rotten planks after Keetar walked up them and broke the steps.

One day I remember Dad waking me up in the morning. "Put on your clothes, hurry" he said to me seriously "you're not going to school today." I immediately knew something was wrong. "it's the horses." We rushed out of the house and he gathered up some shovels. I don't remember what he said on our walk, but I remember he briefly put his arm on my shoulder. We walked over to the park, where he'd tethered Keetar and Skeena the day before in some long grass and then left them overnight. He'd brought Keetar back but Skeena was missing.

He'd found her stuck in a hole. A massive, huge, deep hole. It was perplexing - you couldn't even see her, but could hear her breathing. She was completely obscured in the tall grass. Her whole front end and half her neck were below ground level. Her hind end was mostly above ground, but one of her back legs was trapped down with her front end and we couldn't see it. Her head was laying jaw-down on the ground. As some point Dad cried, and didn't really know what to do. I remember kneeling down by Skeena's head and running my hands over her - she was wet. Sweaty. Cold. I ran home, got a bucket of water and remember her drinking it all. We put blankets over her and tried to warm her up. But it was all too late.

We fought hard for hours - we dug like madmen with the hand shovels, and gave her a path out of the deep hole - which it turns out, had been dug a year before by a volunteer for two new outhouses, but it wasn't marked or advertised. Word spread like wildfire in our small town and soon a small army of helpers showed up, including one with a backhoe. We tried to lift her out, but she'd had enough and with a last sigh the life went out of her eyes and she was gone.

Dad had a hard time with this, he blamed her death on himself. We buried Skeena in her hole in the park. Not long after we gave Keetar away and didn't have horses again. Having horses had a big impact on us kids though - and my sisters especially fell in love with them and dreamed of horse-centered careers.

Pussy Willow

Dad was never a cat person, but he made an exception a couple times. The first exception that I remember was Pussy Willow, a fluffy, easy going, super sweet gray coloured male cat. Dad was working on building a deck for my uncle Matt next door. Us kids would play around the construction site. At this time in our lives, we were discouraged from encouraging stray animals as my parents did NOT want any extra animals. 

One day a kitten showed up while we were playing, more dead than alive. It quietly perched on some lumber and watched as all eight of us kids played around outside. We noticed the strange, obviously stray kitten but dutifully ignored it and abstained from encouraging it by giving it any attention. When we were done playing - which took hours - we headed back home to our house, and the kitten followed us. I remember the kitten being quite silent - no meowing or anything. He followed us as far as the horse fence nearest our house, climbed up a fence post, and then sat there. He sat for hours. With my conscience eating me I checked through the back window as dusk was settling in - and the kitten was still there. I decided to tell dad, and hoped he would solve the problem.

I still remember Dad's reaction - I expected him to be harsh, to scare it off or something - but he immediately melted when he went out and saw the kitten. By his recounting, the kitten seemed to have barely enough energy to sit up straight. He was skin and bones, and his long fur was matted in spots. He gathered it up in his big strong hands, and brought the kitten in and started nursing it back to good health. We named the cat Pussy Willow because he was fluffy and gray. He ended up being the most gentle, loving, tolerant cat we ever had. Dad was amazed at how he let Dad clean out his very infected ears, and how he would let dad do anything he needed to do. It was like Pussy Willow knew he'd been rescued from certain death and he was just thrilled to be alive - and was going to love us as much as possible.

Pussy Willow bonded with our uncle's dog. The dog would curl up on our porch, and he would curl up on top of the dog. Dad would laugh when my sisters dressed Pussy Willow up in doll clothes. He was so tolerant he would even purr as my littlest sister packed him around in a mesh sack. He was so easy going he didn't even scratch or bite when a visiting toddler decided to pick him up half by his balls and half by his tail. He was the best cat we ever had, and we got to enjoy him thanks to dad.

Dogs Don't Go to Heaven... Or do they?

We were raised to believe that we would go to heaven, so when we'd traumatically lose an animal that we deeply loved, I initially took some comfort that we'd see our pet again in heaven. I mentioned this to Dad after Doe died, and he sadly but very seriously told me that dogs definitely don't go to heaven. 

As dad softened with animals and started changing to be more loving and gentle, he started to shift his stance and beliefs. We had a couple amazing dogs who ended in tragic ways. One was named Hero and another was Mompst. Dad took Hero's death really hard. Hero was a rescue dog, similar to Pussy Willow he found his way to us. Hero broke the moratorium on dogs by being a fantastic pet, one who brought some balance to our family for a while. Hero would gently look out for us kids and had so much personality he seemed part human. A couple quick examples are that he would take our hands gently in his mouth on walks, and he'd "hug" us when we cried or where having a hard time.

Dad blamed himself for Hero's death - Hero had been hit by a car and badly injured, and after a few days of bed-rest inside dad's harshness kicked in and he insisted that Hero sleep outside rather than inside. Hero froze to death that night. I remember Dad crying - hard - when he brought his body out, and loaded it up in the back of his truck. We held an impromptu funeral and memorial at the tailgate of our truck, attended by ourselves and some extended family. In his grief, dad declared - looking me in the eye - that dogs do go to heaven. I still remember the exchange - me saying something like "dogs don't go to heaven" and then dad looking me right in the eye and sadly but clearly saying "I don't believe that anymore. This dog is going to heaven."

Rescue Ranger Dad

Many years later, when dad was single parenting he came home with a kitten that he'd named RC. RC was short for "rez cat," because he'd rescued her from the reserve he was working on. He was on break when he noticed some kids throwing kittens up on tin roof and laughing as the kittens slid down. He chased off the kids but the kittens bolted too. He told his co-worker "if you get your hands on any of those kittens let me know, and I will take one."

RC was probably one of Dad's first full on rescue projects. Girl, Hero, and Pussy Willow had arrived somehow on our property. RC was the first animal that he went out and rescued. Later with Marny he'd stay active as an animal rescuer with both Roxy and Kale.

Hawks

Dad captured hawks a couple of times. I am not sure where he learned it, but he was really good at capturing wild animals using only his wool toque and/ or his shirt and/or jacket! 

We once rescued a hawk that had been hit by a vehicle. Dad took off his toque and put it over the head (and most of the body) of the hawk to keep it calm (by covering it's eyes) and make it manageable. We then held it in the back seat while he drove. The hawk ended up recovering and we released it out in the wild. I've since used this technique a few times to rescue birds and it works well.

Our favorite hawk story though is the one where dad captured a hawk who was raiding our chicken coop. Dad was amazed this raptor had figured out how to get in the fully enclosed coop, and he dedicated a few hours to sleuthing to see how the hawk did it. He then ambushed the bird and leaped on it like a ninja. He threw his jacket on the hawk and scooped it up. I still don't know if I'd have the nerve for that! That was a big bird.

He then devised his 'lesson' for the hawk. He made a tether for its' leg. He tied a rope to the tether and staked it in the middle of our yard. The hawk tried flying away a few times, realized it was trapped, and then just sat down in the middle of our yard looking around. 

My dad's favourite part is when our cat decided to stalk the hawk, probably thinking from a distance that it was a small bird. The cat got close, all of a sudden realized this was a big bird of prey, leapt in the air, spun around, and ran away as fast as he could.

Dad figured the hawk had enough and let it go after a couple of hours. I remember watching the hawk fly off.. and you know what? It never came back. 

The end

It was fitting that dad died in the water with his dogs. He loved animals (and people!) whole heartedly and deeply. He went through a lot of hardship in his life and with animals - and suffered a lot of loss and trauma along the way. He always had to do the hardest stuff with our animals - the most emotionally difficult and bravest tasks. Toward the end he was nothing but love and patience with animals and it was a wonderful thing to see. Every time we'd see dad, a dog would pop out of his vehicle from somewhere. Knowing dad and his beliefs, he's in heaven, swimming, playing, and reunited with his dogs who went before him.

With much love and memories,

Jacob

Note - I will add more photos if/ when I find them.

Another entry today in the "Dad and Animals" category 

February 1, 2009, 6:00pm - Sent from roddymacroddy@shaw.ca

Hi all

This by means of an introduction.

My name is Roxy. I was recently adopted by Roderick and Marny Beaton. Roderick sez that since I am part Retriever, and since they are close relatives to the Nova Scotia "Troller" Retriever, that my middle name should be Roxy Troller. My other part is Chow, thus explaining my part-colored tongue. We have been down to the beach a few times, and I had no idea that water could be so much fun, or that the Gulls and Ducks enjoyed me chasing them soooo much! 

I am a good house dog, but have to also live on the leash during the day. I am a bit of a houdini so Roderick has had to use chains and wire to keep me in the yard. A new fence is in the works. Marny's little smarty has a space for me in the back with a safety grid. On the way home from the SPCA, she talked to me ALL THE WAY, and kept me calm. I love her and keep her always in sight. Roderick has also made a space for me in the back of the truck and we went yesterday and tried it out, then to church today and up to a snowy field for a good romp. I'm really good in the house and quite quiet except when I get surprised, but I don't bark much.... just a woof now and then, to let every one know I'm a real dog!

Last Friday I got my cone head off and my stitches taken out at the vet, my first bath, and flea treatment. 

I like cheese. An' bones, an' biscuits. I'm a bit underweight after having two litters in rapid succession, so some extra treats are just what the doctor ordered! They even said to give me extra fat in my meal! Life has taken a good turn. I am happy.

-roxy troller

Girl and the Shoes

I was removing my boots after a walk to the beach with Roxy. She sat and watched my activity with disinterest. It must have been her askance attitude that shook a memory loose. A memory of Girl trying to look innocent around footwear of any kind. You see, Girl came to live with us barely old enough to eat dry kibble, and as much as she wanted to be around us, she was pretty much as certain that she belonged outside. A point of tension to be sure. 

Wanting to be near humans, their warmth and smell, yet needing to be out and free too. I’m sure it was that juxtaposition that created the situations with shoes. She often could not seem to help herself; she would take a shoe out to the middle of the yard and lie down with her face resting on the footwear. 

There were 6 of us living in the house, and for the most part, our footwear was left out in the porch. Girl would take one, and only one and carry it off. Never chewed on. It was not that king of comfort required. Just sweet dreams of the last playdate, child-filled games of race and chase and keep-away. 

She would be found out, chastised, told “no” and “baaad dog!”, but still she would occasionally need some comfort and a shoe would take a trip. The owner then, if all the other shoes were gone elsewhere, had to either retrieve the shoe in stocking feet, or try to hop the distance on one shod foot, all the while berating Girl while she tried her best to look penitent. 

As the children grew up and away, and Girl was home alone for most the day, she found comfort from neighbours and admirers walking by, and the shoes remained for the most part on the porch where they belonged, but she always found comfort in laying her wooly head on a pair of old boots or sneakers, and the porch never felt quite right without a pair of something there… and not necessarily in their right place.

-Roderick Jan 2011

Girl ended up being Dad's dog. She was dumped on our property along with her sister - unwanted mutts. Dad ended up naming both of them. We already had a dog - Mompst - and we expected to give away or re-home these two pups abandoned in our horse field. Because we weren't keeping these dogs, us kids declined to name them. Dad called one of them "Girl" and the other one "Jen" - short for "Generic." He thought he was hilarious. 

Dad shows us Girl's bag of tricks in 2006

Dad told the story best - that one of my cousins came running into the house - "uncle Roderick, there is an animal under the barn with BIG EYES!" Thinking it was some sort of predator, dad went marching up with a head full of steam - and ended up pulling out two scared balls of puppy fur instead. 

Girl was probably the least awesome dog we ever had. She was a total coward, and yet would gang up on other dogs given half the chance. When she was spayed, the vet allegedly said she had the "thinnest abdominal muscle wall" he'd ever seen in his life - something dad was proud of! In other words, she was close to a literal sausage with legs. 

For some reason when we moved and kept 1 dog, Dad chose to keep Girl over Jen. Jen had far more Joie de vivre, but Dad claimed that she was too energetic for the town we were moving to. He thought Girl, with her super lazy temperament, would be a better fit.

I actually think that Dad chose Girl because she was so imperfect and he felt some kinship with her, some sort of understanding. She was incredibly quirky, and he enjoyed that. Girl would walk on fences like a cat - the only Dog I know that did this often - and Girl would delight in walking the fence and torturing the neighbour's dogs by perfectly walking the line. I remember the neighbour calling - "uh, did you know your dog is, uh, on... the fence?" That just tickled my dad pink. 

Her other quirks Dad loved included sleeping in the bonnet of his old Volkswagen car - he liked to surprise people by popping the hood of his car, and instead of an engine a dog would pop up and the unsuspecting stranger would leap backward and maybe even yelp (it was a rear-engine car).

With Girl, Dad gave up his domineering ways with animals and he just loved her for what she was - a lazy, sometimes sour tempered, very quirky, scared-of-fire-hydrants dog. One of the highlights of Dad's life was writing a story of Girl and having it read on-air on the CBC. It was one of his favourite party stories about Girl, and if you know Dad, you probably heard that one.

Today I was looking through some old video clips with my son and found this one of Dad and Girl. Dad had come up to visit and brought Girl in the back of his Nissan truck. She was very old at this point.

>> read some of Dad's words on Girl here.

>> Dad's introduction to Roxy, his next beloved dog here.

By Bryan Beaton

Roderick's birthday is four days away.

Every year we would connect. January 16. Always was, and always will be, a special day.
Last year I reached my brother in Mexico ... calling from the harbour in Hong Kong. Close and connected across time and space.
Who will we call this year on "his" unforgettable day?

Christmas with Dad - Jacob's Memories

Christmas was one of Dad's favourite times of year, and I have nothing but good memories of Dad at Christmas. He loved song most of all, and in every Christmas memory I have of him, I can see him smiling at me. 

Advent Wreath

The first memory I have of singing the advent song is when I was around 6, and we lived on Helmcken Street in Victoria. I clearly remember gathering around the wreath - which was on a small rickety wooden table between the dining and living rooms - and singing the advent song and lighting candles. According to mom we adopted this tradition from a church ceremony. We lit one candle each sunday, and I remember the excitement building as we got closer to lighting the white "christ" candle in the middle on Christmas day. He would often, but not always, have his mandolin as we sang. He would give us each a turn lighting the candles, which was handy because there eventually would be four of us and there are four candles around the outside of the wreath. 

Rebekah remembers the words to the advent song as follows:

Light one candle for hope
One bright candle for hope
He brings hope to every heart
He comes, he comes

Woodworking

Dad was an amazing woodworker, one who got better and better with age! When I was quite small both Mom and Dad would make us presents - and Dad's gifts would often be made of wood. When I was bigger he took me to the woodworking shop at the high school and started to teach me how to use each of the machines safely - the router, bandsaw, table saw, and so on. 

One year he took me and invited me to make presents for whoever I wanted, and he would show me how. I would ask "Dad, can we make a sword?" and he would say "sure, it's easy!" then he would show me how. I remember asking if I could learn how to make toy wooden cars and was surprised when he smiled and said "sure, it's easy!" The most amazing thing is he would show me, and then leave me to make them on my own. I remember clearly working with wood and building things for hours, while he worked away in other parts of the shop, and every time he looked over at me he would smile warmly. 

I remember making a wide array of mostly wooden weaponry - the sharpest swords and daggers I could craft. I also made a couple of cars that I thought were the most perfect thing ever. I remember proudly giving away the weapons to friends and family, and then learning after that I think without fail every single one was confiscated by their parents for being too dangerous! In hindsight it was great that Dad didn't criticize or judge my creations, he left me with my impression that they were the best things ever - and I think he was just happy to see me creating, no matter what.

This Christmas season I have been working to pass on this creative spirit and experience to my kids. The kids were thrilled when we made a homemade wreath, but were over the moon when we made homemade swords and daggers yesterday! Noah even requested - on his own volition and in memory of his old wooden cars - to make a wooden car. A photo of his creation is below. Daddeo would be proud!

Getting a Christmas Tree

Every year we lived up in the north we would go out and harvest a Christmas Tree from the forest somewhere. Dad would turn this into a fun adventure, often packing hot chocolate and treats for the road, and when we were bigger he would pull GT racers behind the truck (Jonathan remembers that Dad would never go fast enough!). 

Christmas Tree Prayer

One of the traditions he would practice that made a big impact on me was the prayer of thanks for the tree's life. After selecting a tree, we would gather around and I remember dad putting his hand on the tree, closing his eyes, and leading us in a prayer of thanks for the tree. It instilled a gravity into the ceremony of getting the tree and made me aware that we were in fact taking a life - that of a tree - in order to enjoy a christmas tree. 

The prayer for the tree is something we've continued to practice (in the photos below we bring a small offering for the forest and tree, and say a prayer for the tree - from 2014).

Creative Christmas Dinners

Truth be told I don't think that turkey was a sacred part of Christmas for Dad. One Christmas, when we were living in 2-Mile (part of the Hazeltons, and as I recall Dad), through some process that involved us kids, decided to make bombastic homemade burgers and fries for Christmas dinner. Us kids were thrilled - we LOVED homemade burgers and fries! Our visiting family were far less than thrilled (and went out to a restaurant for a "real" christmas dinner later that week).

I also remember dad 'experimenting' with different parts of Christmas dinners. He didn't settle for the tried and true ancient recipes - everything was up for "improvement!" 

Singing Carols

Dad was a singer, and he loved to sing Christmas carols. My favourite was "drummer boy" and I remember going caroling in Victoria when I was about 3 or 4, banging on a plastic drum and dad smiling lovingly at me, which only encouraged me to drum more. I am quite sure I was drumming way out of time and probably singing out of key, but I dad never let me know. One christmas he asked me to sing Drummer Boy in front of family and friends at Christmas. I remember standing up on the couch, and dad sat beside me strumming his mandolin and smiling at me. I suddenly got stage fright and couldn't sing. Dad just kept patiently strumming and told me to take my time.

When I was a teenager I remember Dad would go off on his own to sing for homeless and low income people at christmas dinners. He'd leave with his mandolin and then come back home smiling. 

Today we carol, although this year we didn't get organized enough to do it on our street. It is a favourite memory for our kids and I hope to pick it up again next year. This year we will be caroling at home, singing off dad's songbook that he left (forgot?) here after one of his visits.

Christmas Cake

Dad started baking christmas cakes when I was a kid. As an adult he would bake cakes and send us a few, one for us and a couple for "the marshalls" in Old Hazelton that we would deliver. I never much liked Christmas cake as a kid, especially Dad's. It was strong flavoured. As an adult I thought I'd give his Christmas Cake another crack and wow - I liked it! I seem to recall eating it all pretty much on my own last year. I always thought the Marshall connection was simply dad keeping in touch with old friends, but I learned a little more about it this month.

We were down in Old Hazelton for the Christmas celebration, and Laura Marshall stopped to give me a hug and condolences. "Well I guess no Christmas cake this year, hey?" she said "unless you're going to make it?" and smiled at me. I laughed "well, I don't have the recipe. He never shared it with me." She pulled back a bit and smiled more "he got that recipe from my mother! I have it, would you like it?" All of a sudden it made perfect sense - I could imagine Dad over at their house many years ago, heartily eating a richly flavoured Christmas cake that is too strong for most people, and declaring it the best cake he'd ever had and asking for the recipe. I can imagine a deal being made - the recipe in exchange for one of the cakes - and then dad keeping his end of the bargain even when he moved away. 

Laura said "you know, I think he made it even better than my mother." What a compliment! A day or two later, a vehicle pulled up while I was clearing snow from our driveway, and Laura gave me a bag, and wished my and my family and siblings a merry Christmas. In the bag was a Christmas Cake and her mother's recipe.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas! To carry on some of Dad's spirit at Christmas this year, consider:

• Singing a lot - even if offbeat or out of tune!
• Giving generously to those who need some extra love this time of year
• Say a prayer of thanks to your tree - or to those who made it if it's plastic
• Get creative and make a gift for someone rather than buying
• Spice up those old recipes that could use just a bit of something creative

Hugs!

My heart is still broken. I woke up the other morning after dreaming about Dad again. As with my other dreams, he was there talking to me - and then I'd realize he is dead, and he'd be out of reach. This last dream he was across a river and I couldn't find a way across to him. It still seems unbelievable that he is gone. In some ways the pain is more acute now that the reality that he's gone is really sinking in. 

Noah woke up before me and called out from another room while I was surfacing "Dad, who is Ian Beaton?" I explained that Dad's name was Ian before it was Roderick. Noah was flipping through a photo album that Dad had looked through and made sticky notes in the last time he was here. He never told us and left the sticky notes for us to discover after he left.

Here are all of his sticky notes from the album.

Jacob

This is a story about our stay in High Level AB. Dad shared parts of it at various times with friends. I've tried to tell the parts of the story that Dad used to tell. This all happened in '85/ '86.

Before High Level

We were living in Victoria, on Helmcken St. in Victoria. This is the place where Sophia was born, and is the place where Dad felt poverty and touched desperation so many times. He was working odd jobs and contracts as a journeyman carpenter but wasn't making ends meet. He worked hard over the previous years to get his teaching certificate and finally attained it - but he couldn't find a job for a brand new trades teacher. A few factors would come together and lead to Dad moving our whole family 1,800kms to northern Alberta, for a free house that wasn't actually free and a teaching job offer that was retracted after we got there with all our belongings.

It's not what you know, it's who you know....

Mom (Patricia Vickers) has an older brother, Matt, who the year before had stayed with us while he was going through medical treatment. He and Dad bonded around tennis and other things, and they became closer friends. Uncle Matt also loved us kids, and would later, along with his wife at the time, see us as a true extension to his family. Matt knew that Dad was looking for work, and he was living in a small town in northern Alberta called High Level. He asked around and learned that a teaching job was just opening up at the local High School. He lobbied hard and got Dad an interview... and ultimately was an important part of Dad getting offered the job.

Dad would sometimes defend his decision to move us to northern Alberta: They offered a rent-free house. He'd have a high school job teaching what he was trained to teach. We had family in High Level. And no one was hiring teachers in BC at the time.

The Move, the Condemned House, and the Teacher on the Run

After what seemed like endless months of poverty and stress Dad was happy. 

He had a job offer, and he had a small moving allowance. Things were looking up, way up. I had the pleasure of riding with Dad in the loaded up "Budget One-Way" moving van, which had one seat for the driver, and one seat for me, the passenger. I was six at the time, almost seven. Mom and the littler kids including baby Sophia would follow behind in the Volkswagen van. Dad was truly happy on that trip. I remember all his smiles, and his energy seemed infectiously happy. We stopped to look at mountain goats. He treated me to ice cream. Life was about to get a whole lot better and after many years of struggle he'd finally "made it."

I remember, quite clearly arriving in northern Alberta. Dad was euphoric as he leaned forward over the steering wheel for the last few miles. We drove the moving van down a dark road, as Dad searched for the address. "This has to be it" he mumbled. We turn down the driveway, and the headlights highlighted a small, run down house that was completely boarded up. I remember dad just leaning against the steering wheel, staring at the house as if looking at a disaster happening in slow motion. He got out and checked. Yep, that was our house, all boarded up.

Dad's happiness turned to anger, and embarrassment, but he didn't give up hope. Despite it being late at night, Dad drove to the principal's house to straighten things out. I remember sitting at the dining room table, staring around at all the brown decorations on a mostly brown wall, and feeling Dad's anxiety go up. 

The house had just been condemned. The principal gave a half-hearted apology. Sorry, we didn't get to let you know it had been boarded up. Apparently the fire department inspected it and deemed it unfit for occupation. No, there wasn't another house. We'd have to find one and rent it - even though Dad didn't have money for rent. But there was more bad news coming.

In Dad's telling of the story, and I've never heard it disputed, the teacher who had the job had committed a serious crime (like murder) and gone on the run. He had not been apprehended yet, and therefore hadn't been served his termination papers. The teacher's union wouldn't allow the school district to fill that position until they'd gone through "due process" which included doing paperwork with the accused teacher in person. Dad was informed that not only did we not have a place to live, they couldn't actually hire him. We were in High Level Alberta - no money, no house, and no job.

Moving in

With help of uncle Matt and some pavement-pounding, Dad got a job teaching grade three at the school on reserve at Meander River, a First Nations community at least 45 minutes north of High Level. As he'd point out, he didn't have any training teaching primary school at all. The job also paid less as it was on Indian Reserve - as Indigenous schools were underfunded then as they are today.

While the free condemned house wasn't available, we were offered a new fully furnished teacherage. It was a typical CMHC box house of the 70s and 80s. It was a prime location for us as it was short walking distance from school. It was one of the nicest houses we'd ever lived in, and had a lot of room. The only problem with the house was that it cost money to rent.

Mom recalls that it was here that they verged on bankruptcy and were under orderly payment of debt. I remember that we were clothed entirely with donated clothes. There wasn't too much to complain about though, as we had a roof over our heads and Dad finally had a full time job - even if it wasn't at all what he'd trained for, and was about an hour drive away each direction.

Teaching at Meander River, being humiliated and deciding to leave

Dad had taught First Nations students before, in Kitwanga, but it was in High Level that he'd be galvanized through his experiences teaching on reserve. The school was government run, and Dad recalled that it was designed to not teach the native students anything. In the Alberta public system, you were expected to read and write in grade two - and if you couldn't, you'd be put in special education. In Meander River, Dad would say that not a single student could read or write in his grade three class.

He'd become convinced that the government-run native education system - at this time only a few years removed from the formal end of residential school - was conspiring to sabotage and hold native people back. He would years later express similar frustrations in other teaching jobs where he saw that native students were not only not getting a fair shake, but that they were being oppressed by the education culture and system.

Dad described text books and a curriculum that seemed designed to keep native students from learning anything [I seem to remember him mentioning a useless textbook called rocket ships and raisins?]. Frustrated, he went to his Principal and submitted a new curriculum that would teach his students how to read and write. The principal signed off on the proposed curriculum and Dad worked hard to teach his students. He took a huge amount of pride when after only a few months of love, attention, and an appropriate curriculum, almost all of his students could read and write. He would always underline this point - there was nothing wrong with the students, it was all in the system.

One day the Superintendent came in to Dad's classroom unannounced. He told Dad to stand aside. In front of Dad's grade 3 class, the superintendent raged - and cleared off Dad's desk, pretended to look at papers and then threw them in the air, and dumped out his drawers onto the floor. He then told Dad to follow him to the principal's office.

The Superintendent yelled at Dad and told him to either start teaching the government curriculum immediately or be fired. Dad was humiliated and embarrassed. In Dad's recollection the principal sat back and didn't say anything, despite signing off on the changes. He never forgave him for that. After this experience he decided we had to leave Alberta as soon as possible.

Living in High Level, and leaving High Level

There were highs and lows living in High Level. It was blazing hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. There were some very harsh people and also some very generous people. I remember coming come and finding bags of food hanging on our door handle, once a few grouse, another time some moose or beef. We went for a while to a "Reformed Free" Mennonite church, the most liberal church in town. Mom and Dad made friends with mainly two families in town, the Reedykes and the Quists. Mom ended up working as a part time bookkeeper (even though she had no idea how to keep books) for the Reedykes.

You could choose between two churches in High Level: the regular Mennonite, or the Reformed Mennonite. Mom and Dad chose the reformed one. We got excommunicated after singing a Jewish song and encouraging the congregation to dance when it was our turn to share at the front of the church. Apparently dancing was not permitted - even in the liberal church.

Sophia learned to walk here. Jonathan was little, and stayed at home with Mom. Rebekah and I went to the elementary school, which was a couple blocks away. We usually walked except when it was too cold out. Mom ended up taking a part time job to make ends meet. Dad played his mandolin and still loved to sing psalms and other songs from the bible. He also opened our home a couple times to people who needed a place to stay. We also adopted Doe II, a shepherd wolf cross dog - the dog that battled the bear in the log house. 

Dad made us homemade sleds in the winter. He also taught me to skate and swim here - I have a very clear memory of him literally throwing me in the deep end. I was cautious and he had grown impatient. I remember panicking, telling him I was drowning, when I in fact had my head clear above the water and was doing a fine dog paddle. I remember him smiling and laughing, saying "look - you are swimming!!"

I should add that people in Meander River seemed to appreciate Dad and his efforts. He took us kids out there a few times for community events, and he received some gifts from the community in our year there.

The last time I asked Dad about our time in High Level, he finished the story by saying "as soon as I had two dimes to rub together we got the heck out of that place." Uncle Matt had moved to Two Mile near Hazelton, and had found a job for Dad teaching at the two-room alternate school there. The vice-superintendent really liked Dad and between Matt and the vice-super they made sure he got the job. It wasn't his dream job but at least it was teaching high school. We packed up, moved in with Uncle Matt again, found a small trailer to rent, and Dad went into his first proper teaching job of his life.

Maybe why you've not heard this story before...

I recently asked Mom for her memories in High Level and she basically said she doesn't remember much - only that it was not a good time of our life. Dad essentially said the same thing, but I think he was galvanized by some of his experiences there. A lot of those experiences were negative and cut so deeply that he was only just starting to see the humour in it before he died. He'd tell his close friends some of the stories, especially his teaching experience.

Thanks

- Thanks to Mom for scanning the photos
- Thanks to Uncle Matt for finding Dad the jobs all those years ago!
- Thanks to you for reading this whole story to the end!

-jacob