Father Husband Best Friend

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