Angry seals on my job

It was still dark.

The wind was shaking the house. I could clearly hear that some of the flimsy aluminum siding on this only a few months old house was flapping badly.

The snowfall was horizontal and only in drifts where there was a wind break.

Time for me to go to work at the power plant. Normally I would see it on the other side of the bay, but not today. All was white.

My photo

The car was not to be seen either in the lee of the house. I used the metal shovel carefully not to chip the paint or dent my car. It was, after all, under there somewhere.

My house and car

Finally, after a few back and forth wiggles through the snow drifts, I got to work.

The plant was running, making electricity for all the Nova Scotianers who still had a power supply, many lines had fallen.

The wind forces were terrific, the recording wind velocity meter on the roof, some 120 metres above ground, had blown away and the last reading was 185 km/h.

The large service door on the wind side had blown in. It was flailing in the wind and nobody could get near. There were snow drifts inside, all the way to the running air compressors and circulating pumps.

I felt like the engineer on a sinking ship, keep the pumps running.

Fortunately, all the operating equipment was hot enough that the wet and melting snow didn’t affect it. The snow accumulated around the cold and idle machinery, though.

The wind abated slightly at mid day, so we could secure the large door and almost make it wind tight again.

Then another problem, the air intakes on the roof had started to ice over and the vacuum built up inside the building. I climbed up and took a look at the air intakes high up. There was no way for any human to walk on the icy roof in that wind to even get close to the frozen intake grilles.

The vacuum kept increasing. No, we cannot allow the large door to be sucked in, open some other door for air.

This time we lifted the service door, facing the sea, about a metre to allow combustion air for the boiler to enter. 

The stormy air became colder and the wet snow turned to ice on the ground. The wind picked up again, but the pumps were running and we were making power, as we should.

Then, a call from one of the operators.

“There are seals in the plant.”

Stock photo

Yes, there were. Three seals had wiggled in on the bottom floor. They were totally confused about what to do in the very noisy place they were now.

We wisely styed away – and called the RCMP.

“We have seals inside.”

“We’ve never seen a seal that we couldn’t handle, we’ll be there shortly.”

Two officers arrived in a four-wheel drive light truck and walked inside the plant in a very authoritative manner.

RCM photo

The floor may have been flat but there were piping, wiring and equipment all round. We seriously feared that the seals would hurt themselves.

The seals were not to be spoken to. The leader, an older male with an imposing mustache, growled very threateningly.

“Let’s back the truck inside and see if we can get the male onto the truck-bed.”

The brave officer drove the truck around the plant and some distance away to execute the turn-around.

It wasn’t easy to see in the snow and he drove too far. The truck just about drove into the sea. Reversing and spinning all four wheels did no good, the truck was stuck.

We fetched our plant based four-wheel drive and backed it in.

The old seal was not interested in jumping up, or to wiggle up on a long plank.

“This doesn’t work.”

Next, the RCMP officer wrapped a rope around one of the wildly and dangerously swapping rear flippers of the male.

Only later did we learn that this officer was an accomplished sailor and had tied the rope with a quick-release knot.

He towed that male slowly backwards, toward the sea and the sea-foam coating us in the storm. The “ladies” followed their master in a much quieter manner.

We all stood well back, this was not a safe operation.

When closer to the shore, the seal realized where the seashore was and, rope and all, took off on his own.

Stock photo

This is where the quick release knot came in. The officer on the rear of the truck pulled that magic rope trick and – the seal was released.

He and his ladies were gone in seconds.

We used that same rope to tow the precariously resting RCMP truck out of its dilemma.

We often saw the three seals on the shore during the rest of the winter. By summer they didn’t come to us any more.

I kept the newspaper story, as reported by RCMP, in my belongings for a long time, but those papers are lost now. 

Pity.
-------------

If you want to read more about my rather adventurous life, please buy my memoirs here:

https://www.amazon.ca/Seasons-Man-Lindvall-family-friends-ebook/dp/B07HHGRGPP

My secretary who wanted to shoot me.

I fired my secretary - she came back looking for me with a gun in her hand.

In Montreal, Quebec.

She was a liar and a drunkard. After THREE legal letters I had no choice but to tell her that she was now, finally, released from her job. Only later did we found that she was embezzling funds from the company too, in my name.

She was drunk again.

She left.

When I came to work the next morning she was there, by the Telex machine - (A precursor to the FAX, for you who aren’t old enough…)

She proceeded to overturn just about everything loose, threw the full coffee pot at me, and left screaming.

I went home to get a camera to record the mess.

On my way back, the building concierge stopped me at the garage entrance.

“Don’t go in, Mr. Lindvall, your secretary is walking around, looking for you. She has a gun in one hand and a flower pot in the other.”

I left.

• In the ensuing trial, she claimed unlawful dismissal.
• The Crown went after the substantial value of the incoming payment cheques that she had cashed - and the gun.

A few months later, my secretary was in jail for “possession of an illegal handgun” - a six months sentence by itself and for “theft over $ 15,000” at the bank over my faked signature. (I had no signing rights.)

The bank manager, her friend, fared even worse, with a lengthy prison sentence - (The two ladies had shared the take.)

The moral here: Don’t steal from a Canadian bank…

And me? 

Oooh for the hours of hours of interviews with the RCMP, FBI (I worked for a Canadian Division of an American company) and the bank security people. No blame fell on me, nor the HR department, all was done by the book.

So what was she doing at the Telex machine?

She had sent the same message to about 80 of our corporate offices around the world, before I came in that morning:

“This is your official notification, Bengt Lindvall is dead and will never respond to any more business mail.”

And the gun? It was a Russian made 9 mm gun, nicely chromed, that she had brought home as a souvenir from her time as a secretary, and mistress, to a Canadian General during the Korean war. (1953)

============

If you want to learn more about some other of my adventures, buy my memoirs here:

https://ayoungboysjourney.blogspot.com/2018/11/my-secretary-who-wanted-to-shoot-me.html

Why we never immigrated to USA

Before choosing Canada we had many countries to choose from:

The U.S.A. was another potential target. They loved papers even in those days. It was a long drawn out process to qualify but once it was done you were guaranteed a visa in very short order. The Swedish quota of immigrants of 24,000 was never filled. There may have been a few hundred, at best, going to USA each year in these days. We did it all, went to the doctor, got a police certificate to confirm our lack of criminal activities and the time came for the personal interview.

The interviewer was very enthusiastic. Everything in USA was seen through rose coloured glasses, everything was perfect and we would become millionaires in no time. The description may not have been in those exact words but the interviewer really loved his home country.

We had returned for a second, final, interview which was going really well until the officer started in on his pre-set questionnaire. Some time in, he leaned to look Monica in the eyes and asked:

"Have you ever earned a living as a prostitute."

Not a good question to a young newly married wife, considering they already had a police report to the negative. Her face looked strained and in a few seconds, she stood up, grabbed me by the shoulder and said,

"We leave now."

- and we did. The interview was wrapped up in the next few minutes and we exited. The immigration interviewer's last words were:

“We hope to see you again, soon.”

Some luck for that... - But we did actually receive a complete set of immigration papers to USA, addressed to us in Montreal about a year later, without any further action on our part. Strangely turns the wheels of immigration departments.

That ended our desire for going to USA.

Canada next?

To learn more about my very adventurous life, buy my memoirs "The Seasons of a Man" here

https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man

The blacklisted fighter pilot Sten, my uncle

Sten's fighter pilot career, 1929 - 1942.

Sten was the black sheep of the family, or at least the blackest of them. Born 1905 he was in the peak of his years in my teenage years and became almost like substitute father for me, or at least an important mentor.


Sten had joined the Cavalry at a young age and soon advanced to a Lieutenant there, after much riding and military life.


The Swedish army decided to set up an air force 1926. Because of the escalating international tension during the 1930s the Air Force was reorganized and expanded from four to seven squadrons in 1932 and a serious search for pilots ensued.


Sten, being an able cavalry officer saw an opportunity to get away from tending to the horses and applied.

He received Swedish military pilots license number 72 in 1930 and a civilian licence No. 507 in 1933. Since all pilots had to carry a license I suppose that this number indicated how many that had received their wings before him.

Sten, 25 years old in 1930

Sten was always happy with the bottle and that didn't change with his flying status, for sure.

His father had a large 1927 Buick family car. Sten totally demolished the car when he drove it off the road and into a mountain side when totally drunk in 1932. He did seriously injure his knee, an injury that he aggravated in an aeroplane crash in 1933. First class pilot, or not, he limped a little for the rest of his life.

The offical file photograph of Sten's crashed airplane in 1933.

One wing was broken, the enginee crankshaft was bent and the engine mount was ruined. It was sold for scrap.

As I entered the army, years later, I met a few of the old officers who still remembered my uncle Sten.

I also was given a few newspaper clippings about when he got into trouble with the authorities.

This story relates to an event that took place in 1933, at the Jungbyhed flying school in southern Sweden:

-------

A very popular and pleasant Fokker pilot was Lieutenant Sten Rosholm from Karlshamn. As a civilian he was first in line to inherit his father's meat processing plant and used to say:

“In my civilian life I makes sausages and in my military life I tow sausages (targets), but to eat sausages, that I will never do.” 

The only “problem” with our friend Rosholm – seen strictly from a military point of view – was that he didn't seem to strive for any military glories but was quite happy with joking and enjoying life, in general.

The summer of 1933 we were all stationed at the F3, near Kristianstad for target shooting and bombing exercises. One Saturday night most of us got an irrestible urge to go to the city for some girl watching, or more. Lieutenant Rosholm was on station-service duty so he, obviously, could not go.

We dragged out the official squadron military motorcycle, complete with side car, and set off. Much later when it became time to return, who did we meet in such a compromising situation but the on-duty Lieutenant Rosholm.

“But what meets my eyes,” he said, “the Chief of the guard with our official motorcycle?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“… and we also have the fire department chief here, as well?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

.. and the man in the side car is the on-guard NCO?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“... but where is your official badge?” (A large silver plate medallion to be carried around the neck, while on duty.)

“Here, Lieutenant”, says the guilty and hauls the medallion out of his pocket.

“I see. Well, I have my badge in the pocket too.” “Could I get a ride back with you. Surely, we can all make it on the motorcycle if we squeeze together on the seat.”


(Leif Staverfelt 1977)

---------------


All pilots were issued a service pistol, to be carried at all times when on duty. One story about his pistol occurred while they were based on the island of Gotland.

Being quite far north on the globe, summer sunrises were early. Sten often partied late and was not very enthused when awoken by the birds singing outside his open window in the morning.

He took the pistol and, unbelievable as it may sound, hit a bird in the tree. 

Unfortunately, any shot that early in an otherwise quiet morning would draw the attention of the guard. After a frantic search for enemies, it was determined that Sten was the guilty shooter and also had pistol with a magazine that missing a few cartridges.

He got written up and got another black mark, adding to many, on his record, 

Eventually, after a few far more serious misadventures, he was demoted and barred from all future flying. That was still years away, then.

WW2 had started in August 1939. Sweden was ill prepared, it had all of 170 aeroplanes and probably no greater number of qualified pilots as it stood then.

Finland was invaded by Russian troops on November 30 that same year. The Finns started an immediate mobilization and young patriotic Swedes soon joined, too.

The Swedish free brigade was assembling on an island just off the coast of Finland near Helsinki. Some 8 200 Swedes volunteered to fight the Reds, fortunately only 12 of of the volunteers died in Finland. The Finns lost some 30 000 soldiers during the three month war, the Russians over 500 000. 

The war ended badly for both the Finns and the Russians after a peace accord the following March. Russia was deemed to have invaded illegally and was promptly kicked out of The League of Nations, the precursor to The United Nations, which was formed later, in 1946.

Sten was by this time stationed on the island of Gotland and, again, doing routine recognizance flights only. 

No war there.

Early one December morning, he and another officer friend decided to join the Swedish brigade in Finland. They took off long before sunrise and found their way north to Finland, about a three hour flight for them.

They landed, taxied up to the commanding officer's office, stepped out of the aeroplanes, saluted and stated.: 

“Captain Rosholm and fighter aeroplane number 86, reporting for duty.”

Not so fast, the aeroplane belonged to a neutral nation, Sweden, and was certainly not the property of any “Captain Rosholm” who was still on active Swedish duty.

A diplomatic row developed, soon calmed with the order to Sten and his officer friend, still in Finland to:

“Fly your aeroplanes back to your Gotland air base and report for duty.”

Fokker F 9 (1928)

A court marshal was to follow and did. The outcome was, however, filed away. Sweden had far too few pilots to let any one go out of duty to go to jail then. 

Sten continued flying recognizance flights out of Gotland. But not for very long. He soon lost his wings.

Now, the no-war was at a new routine as far Sweden and Russia were concerned. The Finnish winter war had ended. 

Every sunrise, a lone Russian aeroplane would fly down the east coast of Gotland, starting at the northern tip. It had a large hole in the bottom, obviously for an aerial camera.

Sten or one of his colleagues routinely scrambled to intercept the enemy, which obediently would turn out to sea, only to return farther south, some half our later.

Some time after the beginning of this dance, Sten got a bit annoyed, let this be stopped.

He used the not so impressible capabilities of his double wing Fokker aeroplane, equipped with one single machine gun and – shot down the unarmed Russian observation plane.

Not good – the female pilot parachuted out of the burning aeroplane. She broke her leg in a hard landing and became safely ensconced in a Swedish hospital. This pilot had some very clear ideas of who had shot her down. She gave the identification letters from the aeroplane and also described Sten's facial features clearly. He had many red dimples from a recent bout with adult onset smallpox. They flew open cockpit aeroplanes, remember, and had been very close more than one morning in the past.

She was soon returned to Russia on a Russian aeroplane, especially sent in to pick her up.

Now Sten was in serious trouble. 

The ensuing court marshal brought out the records of all his misdeeds, mostly involving alcohol. The newspapers had a hey day, telling about how lil ole neutral Sweden had bravely defended itself but also gone too far.

Sten, who was a captain at the time, lost one star, and became a Lieutenant again. He was promptly sent back to the regular army in Northern Sweden to keep guard against the Germans, who had occupied all of Norway. 

Sten was a stern officer, earning the respect of his men, some of whom I met in later years. The duties were probably boring beyond belief, live in tents and walk a few kilometres of scraggy mountainous terrain against invading Germans, far north of the Arctic circle, in constant daylight in summer and constant darkness in the wintertime.

Sten with troop in the Summer in Northern Sweden

Sten, being a personal acquaintance of Hermann Göring, the chief of the German air force had a good time. Görings first wife, Carin, was from Kalmar where Sten was stationed for several years.They first met around 1929 when Sten was asked to chauffeur Hermann Göring and his wife in a military car. They then met regularly during Göring's visits to Sweden, where Göring had spent considerable time in his youth. In the early 1920s, he was living in Stockholm and working for the Swedish airline, Svenska Lufttrafik.

Sten was more than a closet Nazi, he was a real one. This wasn't a problem in Sweden then, it was a well known fact that a great number of the officers were German and Nazi sympathizers.

I can well understand why Sten was, eventually, placed so far out of harms way in the north. He spoke fluent German and soon made friends with the Germans who were equally bored on the other side of the Norwegian – Swedish border.

They took turns partying in each other's camps as the years, four in all, wore on. No bullets were ever fired and not much of military value ever happened.

Some 20 years later, in 1955, Sten had located three of his German officer friends from the Norwegian border, now living in East Germany.

He travelled there by tourist bus, entered East Germany by a regular bus, illegally of course, and, again, caused a diplomatic row.

After a few days with his German friends, it was time to return to, then, West Germany. Since Sten had no documentation allowing him to visit East Germany, he certainly had no such papers for leaving. He got a ride across river Oder in a motor boat that was intercepted by the East German border control.

It all came down to a “diplomatic misunderstanding” and Sten returned to Sweden some time later, not by tourist bus but by train. He hated the Communists with even greater fervour after that event, he even forced me to change out of my red swim trunks one summer day. Nothing “red” was allowed in his line of sight.

Before his return, we had read in the Swedish newspapers about this “Swede who was retained by the East Germans.” Only later did we find the name. Our very own Sten.

Sten Rosholm 1905-11-04 - 1982-12-03

-------------------------------------

To learn more about Sten and other memorable persons in my life, buy my memoirs "The Seasons of a Man" here

https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man

Have you ever been to a bordello?

I have, many times. 

The first time was when I was a seaman and visited Brazil for the first time in 1959. 

(Never after I came home, there were enough willing ladies around me that I never, ever had to think about paying for sex again.)

After our time in Rio de Janeiro, seeing all the near naked women on Copacabana beach, it was onward to Santos, Brazil, which we reached after a short 24 hour trip. It was the very opposite of Rio de Janeiro, just another very busy industrial city. We were there to offload paper and reload with grain.

The grain elevators lined the harbour. But, there didn't seem to be any way for pedestrians to leave the area. The truck gates were very narrow and heavily used by enormous grain carrying trucks.

Fear not, all the bars in the lower level of the warehouses had two doors, one on the harbour side, one on the city side. Some of these bars weren't only bars serving liquor, they were bordellos as well.

Bordello in Brazil, 1959 (Not my photograph)

As you entered you were immediately received by an usher who made sure you got your first drink - on the house. Then you were encouraged to take your time and choose your favourite girl. They were all introduced as “famous for offering anything you liked". It was hard for many to just pass through on the way to the city. The facilities were not really very posh. The ones who had chosen which girl and what activity they preferred carried on in one of many booths along the walls of the large room, booths with only a curtain for privacy.

Some paid a price for these and other conjugal visits. Several of the members of the crew had contracted a souvenir illness, probably Gonorrhea. They had to see the first deck officer when a few days out of port, he was in charge of the penicillin supply and authorized to administer "the seven-day cure" with a thick and painful injection needle.

Me? Your guess…

After this my ship was in Japan, Indonesia, South Africa, France, Belgium, and Germany. There are bordellos in all of these countries. I was 19 and horny.

Read more about my adventures, sailing around the globe before my 20th birthday, here:

19 - I sailed around the globe

...or buy my memoirs "The Seasons of a man" here

https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man

Being poor in Sweden

After several years of studies, I finally graduated with my degree. 

I started my first professional job as a first-year engineer. 

Then I filed my first full year income tax return. It felt so good. Finally, I was earning a real wage from one and only one employer. 

Not so fast. Unbeknownst to me, the income tax department had renewed an outstanding, now over six years old, tax debt. I had received a small pension from my father after his untimely death ten years earlier. I never even knew of this pension. It had been paid out for five years, in my name, to my mother at her address. 

At Christmas break 1964 we arrived at my mother’s home for a joyful holiday with my family, we hoped. 

Among the Christmas presents for me, under the tree, was a pair of good quality winter shoes, much needed as I had suffered much cold from my old, leaky and totally worn out shoes that fall.

My wife had worked extra hours, in addition to being a full time student, and saved up money for those shoes.

I happily put them on and paraded them around the Christmas tree in front of the family.

My mother quietly left the room and came back with a few papers in her hand.

“If you have enough money to buy those expensive shoes, certainly you have the money to pay for this.”

It was the accumulated tax bill for the five years of my pension she received after my father’s death plus another six years of tax penalties, all on one statement. I had no idea of the existence of either the pension or the unpaid taxes.

It was a huge amount for us, far more than my wife’s and my combined monthly income.

My mother gave this to me at the same time as the rest of the family were opening their presents.

I swallowed hard but kept my calm for the duration of the Christmas holidays.

On return to work in the new year, I received a reminder from the taxation department (Skatteverket), this time addressed to my home. My mother had “corrected” the address.

I travelled to see the tax collector about an hour away, entered the office and started to explain my situation. I just didn’t have any savings to pay that enormous bill.

“Don’t you know that your taxes always have to be paid first?”

I literally went down on my knees praying for some sort of relief. He repeated the same sentence one more time.

My next few months' paychecks had 2/3 taken off, leaving me with what I needed to pay for the rent and nothing for any other expenses at all.

No money for food?

My wife was still living 100 km away at the university residence and we only met on weekends. My car for the weekly trip was truly held together with baling wire and Scotch tape.

I cannot really tell how she survived. There was literally no food in the refrigerator when I came, but she had access to subsidized lunches at her university. Those were not substantial, and only enough to carry you until dinner time.

I tried to limit my eating to the very minimum. It became a personal challenge to see how little I could eat before bedtime, and still be able to sleep all night.

I found that hard bread and cheese with tea grounded me best. I bought day old bread at the bakery and the cheapest cheese I could find in the cheese shop. Sometimes the owner added a free end piece, the last left-over from a cheese wheel.

We had a lunch room at work and I had coupons for that. The supervisor was a very strict lady. You were forbidden to ask for more than what was ladled out on your plate while you were in the line.

You picked your own boiled potato, though. I sometimes put an extra in the pocket of my jacket. That didn’t last long. The supervisor caught me and made me throw my potato in the garbage.

I was sooo hungry that evening.

This went on for several months. We both lost weight and I really worried about my wife’s health. She was down to 44 kg (97 lbs), a weight she had been at when I first met her as a teenager several years earlier.

My mother?

I never, even with one word, indicated to her how much pain she had caused, not once, for as long as she lived.

But – in truth, that changed my relationship and my respect for my mother, forever.

She often came to visit, but I couldn’t really forget the long forgotten (?) tax bill.

At her funeral about 35 years later I visited her, alone, in the funeral home where she laid in an open casket.

Only then did I tell her how much she had hurt me and my wife in our early years.

My mother didn’t answer.

------------------------------------
If you want to read my memors, "The seasons of Man", buy the book here:

https://www.amazon.ca/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=bengt+lindvall+the+seasons+of+a+man

A Polio victim's story

By Sharon Weber  (Nee Robbins)

I grew up on Jasper Avenue in the former Mount Dennis area of Toronto. Those were the days when everyone walked to school. After dinner, when dishes were washed and put away the neighbourhood children would go out to play. The parents would sit on the front porch and relax before their children had to be bathed and put to bed.

I got polio in one of the last big epidemics of 1949, at 18 months of age. That certainly changed the future life for both me and my family.

I was sent to Thistletown hospital where I stayed for a year and a half and only left when I was three years old.

While there, they strapped us to our beds most of the time. Mom said that I was a little "firecracker" during my stay. After all the kids were strapped in for the night to their beds, I would get my hands underneath and untie myself, then climb out of my crib and get into one of the boy's cribs. When the nurses came in the next morning, they would see my empty crib and wonder where I was!

I used wooden crutches and had a leg brace

up to the top of my left leg.

The neighbourhood kids really made my day when I asked if I could join their daily game of jump rope made from many elastic bands. They very kindly turned the 'rope' a lot slower so that I could jump with my crutches.

My parents must be commended for allowing me to be as normal as possible.  They bought me roller skates (The older kind that could be adjusted to the size of your shoe) I had two different size feet then, and still do, due to the Polio so I adjusted the skates to fit. I would also move the bolts on my crutches to make them 2" longer to make up for the height of the wheels.

I would happily skate up and down the streets near my home using my crutches as ski poles. Boy did I ever wear down the tips of the crutches as I took the corners as fast as I could.

A most embarrassing moment was when I fell while roller skating. A few of the parents that were sitting on the front porch came rushing down to help the little crippled child. They sympathized and said: "You poor child, are you hurt?" Their gushing sympathy made me cry. Then they thought for sure that I must be hurt. My parents had to assure them that I was more embarrassed than hurt and if I was ever really hurt, then I would call out to them. After that I could fall and get up on my own.

I was a happy child and as I look back and see that I was quite spoiled.  Not only by my parents or brother Ross or sister Elaine. I was also spoiled by many service groups like the Kiwanis, Lions and the Rotary club.

From grade one to grade eight I attended Sunnyview Crippled children's School on Blythwood Avenue in central Toronto. Back then we were all bused to this school instead or going to our neighbourhood school. It had advantages of being all on one floor and having physiotherapy and a heated pool for swimming lessons and hydro therapy. However, it had the drawback of not knowing the kids in your neighbourhood as well as we were picked up early and dropped off late by the bus.

The service clubs took us on trips to the circus, ice Capades, the zoo, etc. One organization even rented an airplane and flew us around the city of Toronto. 

Another time, they rented a pool in a hotel and stocked it with fish. We each got a fishing rod. We rolled our wheelchairs to the edge or sat in chairs at the edge of the pool. We could catch one fish each. We weren't allowed to keep the fish, but we were given the fishing rods.

I remember special people like Mr. Murray Brown from Christie's Cookies who picked me up every Wednesday night in his personal car and took me to the Beverly Street School pool. We even learned to do water ballet in that pool. He would then bring me back home.

We always had dogs who loved us unconditionally.  I would take my dog for walks alongside my crutches. I even used to take my little toy fox terrier for a walk while I was on the roller skates.  Boy, that must have been a sight. No wonder the neighbours had to hold their breaths while seeing this.

  

I felt really blessed during my younger years and often felt sorry for my brother and sister who had to stay at home while I went to all these exciting places and did so many things that my family couldn't afford.

I remember exciting times at the CNE where one year I met Annie Oakley and had my picture taken with her. My mother would talk her way backstage somehow and they allowed me to have my picture taken with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I even got my picture taken in "Nelly Belle", the jeep that Pat Brady drove.

Another time I presented flowers to Queen Elizabeth when she was touring Toronto.

My childhood went from one special event to another. Of course, I had my share of operations. I felt like I was the guinea pig at sick Kids Hospital. They were always poking and prodding and suggesting some newfangled operation to improve my life. It seemed like they waited for Easter, Summer or Christmas vacations to book me for a new operation. The final one was when I was 14 years old and I was the first child to have my leg "stretched". 1 1/2 inches. It still didn’t grow with me and is too short today.

I didn't like it when it happened but now instead of wearing shoes with large soles I could buy shoes off the rack. They had to be of two sizes and I threw the odd ones away.

The recovery from that operation took two months and I only had anesthetics when they put the machine into my left leg and when they took it out the end. I didn’t get any painkillers because they said I would be an addict by the time it was finished. 

My worst memory from that time was when an intern came and accidentally turned the screw the wrong way. I could feel my leg retracting and I screamed

"Make him stop! He's turning it the wrong way! Tell him to look at the gauge! Look at the gauge!"

The nurse shoved me back on the bed and said:

“Shut up, Sharon, he knows what he's doing"

I insisted he check the gauge and when my panic finally got through to him, he checked it and mumbled a "Sorry". He then stretched it back to the original length and did more than double what he was supposed to do on top of that! The doctor in charge, Dr. Bedard, gave me an apology and gave me the next day off from the stretching regimen.

There used to be a nurse on the 6th floor named "Jenny". She swore like a trooper and ruled the floor with an iron fist.

When we first met her, most kids hated her because she made us eat what was on our plates, (even liver!) We did outsmart her though. There were always six beds to a room and the ones that could get out of bed would take the "disgusting" food from the others that couldn't get out of bed and flush it or hide it in the garbage pails. After going there several times a year, I realized she only wanted what was best for us, I would even go up to the 6th floor to see her while on follow-up visits to the clinic downstairs.

Clinics... well that was another story.  After every operation, we had to prance in front of a group of doctors and interns in our white underpants and undershirts. It was soooo embarrassing!  The main doctor would discuss what had been done and what it was they expected to happen. I would be prodded and poked and then sent home until they decided what operation to try out on my next vacation.  I hated physiotherapy as it always felt worse afterwards than when I started.

Despite the many operations I endured I had a multitude of happy memories to dispel them.  My poor mother used to do 100 exercises on my "polio" leg every morning and evening. I can remember drawing on one end of the dining room table with a "bobby" pin while she was distracted by moving my leg back and forth.

My Dad was good to me. One summer I had a cast from my toes to my waist and had to spend my time in a push-wheelchair. My Dad made a special board to attach to the front of the wheelchair and big enough to fit a dollhouse. Someone would put me on the front porch and I would play for hours. I would make up stories about my miniature dolls and move my doll furniture around.

All in all, I had a great childhood with lots of fresh air and grand adventures on my roller skates. Once, I even tried skating with ice skates on the pond at the end of Jasper Avenue. I had to admit defeat because my crutches kept slipping on the ice.

I remember Sunday school classes at church and church picnics with good memories. I would try to kick my shoe while balancing on crutches.  I never won but I liked to try everything. Thanks to the volunteers of Toronto's many service organizations I had a happy childhood that was full of wonder. Each day was a new adventure.  You are wonderful people and I know there is a special place in Heaven for people like you.

On my 18^th birthday.

After a grand total of 11 operations and years in hospitals I grew up. I still have had to use crutches all my life.

By now I am an elderly grandmother of three sons and three grandchildren.

I usually get around with an electric scooter.