Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
quar-ry, O. Fr. quarriere, Lit. 'a place where stones are squared' L. quadro, to square. An open pit where stones are cut, or blasted from the earth. New Webster's Dictionary of the English Language, 1975.
The old Oliver quarry was presumably the origin of the sandstone used to construct Sunalta School. There were other quarries in and around Calgary but much farther afield and since there were no Liberal bureaucracies in those days specifically dedicated to quarry selection, the sandstone was quarried at the nearest location.
The Oliver brothers opened their quarry in 1902, but it was operated in later years by William Oliver alone. By 1909 the portion south of the 17th Avenue causeway had been abandoned and the remaining quarry ran about 600 feet north and south in the gully north of 17th Avenue. When it was finally closed down in 1915 William Oliver was employing about 40 men, using two steam shovels, two derricks with steam hoists, two horse-operated derricks, three steam drills, one electric gang saw, and a piece of equipment called an 'orange peel stripper'. Stone cutters (the elite) were paid sixty-five cents an hour, steam drillers forty-five cents, quarrymen forty cents, and thirty-two to thirty-five cents for labourers. The cost of rough blocks of stone delivered in Calgary was about one cent per foot and rubble sold for $7.00 a cord. The construction men were no better off in most cases. In the early 1900's, stonemasons earned $1.50 to $2.00 for a ten hour day and the work week for all workers was six and a half days. General construction workers earned from $27 to $30 a month.
Apparently Oliver felt the declining demand for sandstone was the result of the lack of a market for the rubble and other by-products of the quarries; at the same time Indiana limestone had become popular in Alberta and was taking a larger share of the market. Further use of native sandstone in what had become known as 'The Sandstone City' had come to an end. The big gully, home for so many years to the sandstone quarry and later to the Scarboro Community skating rinks and tennis courts was completely filled in on the construction of the Crowchild Trail and its connecting roads in 1967.
The main quarry power source (a large steam engine), the two big loading derricks, their rotating table, saws and pulleys were gone but there were still coils and lengths of rusty steel cable scattered about. The quarry started immediately north of the 17th Avenue road and extended for about two hundred yards north along the bottom of the gully. It must have been at least one hundred feet from ground level high above the pit to the bottom of some of the water-filled pools at the bottom of the quarry. There were no warning signs around the upper periphery and no guard rails or fences. Where were the environmentalists when we needed them? There were no lights! Nevertheless, I have no recollection of any drunk or otherwise confused person falling over the precipices that bordered each side of the hole.
There were several ways to get into the abandoned quarry. We could walk in from the north end, following pathways through the chokecherry and Saskatoon bushes, or slide and scramble straight down from the Seventeenth Avenue road and walk carefully along the pathway that ran along the top of the west lip of the gully, sloping gradually down to ground level at the north end of the quarry.
One day I was larking about with Lloyd and Bill along a path about half way up the west side of the gully above the abandoned works. Bill was obviously in one of his regular moods to tease and grabbed my hat, obviously with a spot of 'Pig in the Middle' in mind. When he went to toss it ahead to Lloyd he hooked it sharply to the right with the result that it landed about six feet down from the path on a treacherous scree slope. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it was accidental.
'Now look what you've gone and done, smartass!' I yelled. 'I'll have to get a branch long enough to reach it!'
'No, you won't,' Bill said calmly. 'All you have to do is slide down on your belly and grab it! Lloyd and I will hold your ankles to make sure you don't slide over the edge.'
'What's the matter with you, anyway, are you nuts or somethin'?' How do I know I can trust you ?'
'Are you saying you don't trust me? After all we've been through together!' I wondered where he'd picked up that stupid expression. At the same time I was trying to think of anything we'd been through together. 'Tell you what, Lloyd and I can each hold a leg! You couldn't be any safer than that!' I agreed reluctantly after Lloyd came over to lend assistance. I came to the conclusion later that Bill had engaged in a bit of winking at Lloyd while he was fabricating his sadistic plans.
The clay on the scree slope was just at the angle of repose. If you visualize adding dry sand to a mound you know that eventually the sides reach a degree of steepness such that any additional sand piled directly on to the top of the mound will slide down one of the steeply-angled sides. This is the 'angle of repose'. It would have taken only a slight nudge to send my cap on down the slope and over the edge.
I got down on my hands and knees and edged gingerly over the upper edge of the slope. Lloyd and Bill held my ankles tightly and allowed me to slide down to my cap.
'Got it!' I cried triumphantly as my hand closed over the cap. 'You can pull me back now!'
'Right!' Bill said. 'Haul away, Lloyd!' They began pulling me slowly back up the slope.
'Gimme a cigarette, will ya Lloyd?' Bill said.
'I've got some in my back pocket,' Lloyd replied, releasing my ankle. My ascent ceased. 'I hope you like Turrets.'
'Beggars can't be choosers,' Bill allowed, releasing my other ankle, presumably to accept the cigarette. I began a slow slide down the slope again. Digging my toes and hands into the soft scree seemed not to help. 'Hey!' I cried irritably.
'Oh, sorry!' Bill said. 'We were momentarily distracted.' They had seized my ankles again and were pulling me slowly upward.
'Yeah, yeah1 Just get me out of here, okay?' My retrieval continued until I had reached approximately the same place as where the first delay had occurred.
'You wouldn't happen to have a match, would you?' I heard Bill say to Lloyd. He released my ankle again and my upward progress stopped.
'Got one here someplace,' Lloyd said helpfully. He released my other ankle. Once again I started my slow, agonizing slide downward. 'Hey," I yelled again.
'Be right with you,' Bill said casually, but my slide had continued until eventually my eyes came level with the top of the sandstone face and a split second later I was gazing straight down approximately forty feet to a murky pool filled with a clutter of rusty cable, steel bars and broken pulleys.
'Goddammit, you guys, what the hell are you doing?' I was both terrified and furious. I felt their hands around my ankles again and I was hauled up without further delay. 'Geez, that was close!' Lloyd said as I brushed myself off and knocked the scree out of my cap. If looks could kill that would have been a lethal moment for both of them. They were afraid to show the least sign of amusement but I knew they were both enjoying the effect immensely.
'Get the hell out of my way!' I said, shouldering my way brusquely past them and marching resolutely on down the path. They followed a few paces behind but I could hear them whispering and giggling to each other as they reviewed their little joke. I comforted myself by speculating on the possibility that they would have larked about too long and allowed me to tumble over the lip of the cut to fall to a gruesome death on the stones below. A piece of rusty cable would have pierced one cheek and exited gorily from an eyeball socket. It would have been delicious (although somewhat physically damaging to my corpus) to have them carry the blame and guilt for the rest of their lives. I resolved never to enter the quarry again if Bill were in the vicinity.
On another occasion I was exploring the thick brush at the north end of the quarry, devouring whatever edible berries I was able to find. Al was with me, and Kenny, Georgie, Bob, Tiny, and Jimmy.
'Hey, look what I've found!' Kenny called out. We all hustled over to examine his discovery, which consisted of a dark bundle of what looked like dead leaves hanging at eye level in one of the Saskatoon bushes. We were all reluctant to touch it until we knew what it was. Finally, Ken leaned closer to it on his tiptoes.
'It's a bat!' he exclaimed.
'A bat? Really?' I said. 'Is it dead?'
'I don't know.'
'I think it's just asleep,' Jimmy said. 'They always sleep in the daytime.'
'Do you think you could get it down?' I said.
'What if it bites?' Bobby said.
'Good thinking, Bobby!' Al said sarcastically as Ken pulled his hand away nervously.
'Go ahead, Kenny,' I said 'It's either dead or fast asleep. If you don't want to do it, I will.'
'Okay, okay! I can do it! Just give me a minute.' He moved in carefully and gently eased the bat away from the twig from which it was suspended. It was tiny, about as large as an oversized golf ball. He turned and brought it over to the group for us to inspect.
'Just like I said,' Jimmy observed. 'It's not dead, it's just asleep.'
'It feels warm enough,' Ken said. 'It's sure small, isn't it?'
'It looks like a fat mouse with wings,' Tiny said.
'That's because that's what it is, dummy!' said Georgie. The little bat had large, black paper-thin ears, a pug snout and strange everted lips.
'I think I'll put it back,' Kenny said. He turned and went back over to the shrub and carefully suspended the tiny sleeping mammal on the twig from which he had removed it. We were obviously going through a humane phase, since no one suggested we pull off its wings or commit it to some other disgusting fate.
Years later we would stand in the road in front of Jack Tempest's house on 15th Avenue where bats would fly back and forth at nightfall. Our entertainment was to toss pebbles into the air as a bat approached. The bat, thinking it was an insect, would follow it almost to the ground while we, armed with tennis racquets, would flail away in an attempt to strike the bat. So far as I recall, no one ever succeeded in striking one. Jack continued to assure us it could be done until we finally lost interest.
Farther down the gully some enterprising men had driven a 4" steel pipe deep into the hillside where a spring of water was located. As a result there was a pleasant stream of clear cold spring water flowing from the end of the pipe on a non-stop basis. It was a constant source of pleasure for us both in summer and winter. When Al kicked me in the forehead with a skate once, the spring was the first stop for purposes of washing off excess blood. Later we trooped up to the clubhouse where the maintenance man rendered first aid. This consisted of taking a pair of rusty tinsnips and cutting away the surrounding hair then drowning the wound in iodine. He didn't have a pair of scissors. When Dad got home that evening he took one look at the gash and told me to get in the car, then he drove me downtown to Dr. R.B. Francis's office and had him insert five stitches in the cut. I can still feel the needle and the crunching sound of it going through the thick flesh on my forehead.
'It's a bit late, Rosie,' he said, 'but it'll probably heal, eventually.' It healed; I can still see the scar.
When I returned from one of my trips abroad years later the Scarboro Community Clubhouse, the rinks and the tennis court had disappeared. The eternal spring had also gone, to be replaced by a busy six lane highway. My wife thinks the government probably diverted it to 'General Revenue'!
When I see the hockey uniforms and protective outfits of present-day hockey players from midgets on up I recall with dry amusement the outfits worn by youths in the '30's. Hockey sticks were rarely broken but used for so long that they acquired strange configurations. On some, the blades were taped and retaped until, after prolonged use, the blade within was reduced to a bundle of toothpick-shaped splinters held together by a black tube of electrician's tape. Others had a black knob of tape at the top of the handle but otherwise none. The top of the blade had been worn or broken away until it was less than an inch in width but the owner still managed to control the puck. Many players stuffed magazines into their stockings beneath their street pants and jockstraps with pockets for metal groin protectors were virtually non-existent. Helmets and face masks were unknown.
Every Christmas some overly-indulgent but misguided parents would buy an NHL uniform for their little darling. Not a good decision in our estimation! I remember Bruce Collins had a Toronto Maple Leaf sweater and stockings, George Morrison had a Boston Bruins sweater and socks and someone else, Joe Shepherd perhaps, had Montreal Canadiens regalia. As a result, these unfortunate children received a disroportionate share of the cross-checks, elbowings, trippings, slashings and hookings that were regularly doled out. Interesting enough, the incidence of high sticks was much lower than at present, probably because of the lack of protective face and head gear.
A marathon skating madness seized the club one winter and various macho and would-be macho types each tried their hand (or feet) at seeing how many times they could circle the skating rink without stopping. One afternoon and night (it was subsequently reported) Freddie Jones achieved a record one thousand laps (or was it five hundred?) and was thereafter considered the champion marathon skater of the club. He was slim, fit, had a lovely head of dark, wavy hair and was very popular with the young ladies. The latest time I had seen him was when he was best man at Bruce Smith's wedding, then he disappeared into the Canadian Navy. Years later I visited the Canadian Government booth at the Offshore Technology Conference in Houston.
'Hi, Ron, remember me?' said one of the exhibitors. I peered closely at him. He was not as tall as I, had a pot belly and was bald-headed except for little tufts of white hair over his ears.
'I know your name but I can't think of your face,' I said jokingly.
'I'm Fred Jones,' he said; then I recognized him, or what was left of him, even though I had known him as Freddie. He was working for the Canadian government; he was not only a bureaucrat; he looked like one. We chatted briefly, then I walked away thinking of the old days. Maybe it is all in the genes! I thought.
The clubhouse facilities were crudely basic compared to today's standards. A single pot-bellied coal-burning stove provided heat for the interior. Some of the young hockey players stayed out too long in cold weather. There were no shelters at the sideboards so improperly clad players risked frostbite. I can remember Vance Blue coming into the clubhouse on one occasion wearing a typical wide-eyed concerned look and moving as close to the stove as he could without igniting his clothing. Several of us sitting on the benches against the back wall knew immediately that he had frozen a very personal part of his anatomy. It was just a matter of waiting for the fun to begin. Wild horses couldn't have moved us. Anyone who has suffered frostbite knows the sequence of events. A slight tingling in the affected part follows the complete numbness that the freezing induces. Then sharp shooting pains start, followed by absolute agony as the blood begins to circulate again. It was difficult for Vance to avoid moaning and moving about as the painful thawing took place. It was equally difficult for the row of transfixed young observers to avoid smiling to each other with "I told him so!" looks on our smug little faces.
The female members of the club tended to congregate at the opposite end of the clubhouse. Young ladies wearing daring outfits were rare. 'Short' skirts in those days came down to an inch above the knees and were made of heavy velvet. I came into the clubhouse one day and saw Bert kneeling before Freddie Jones's sister tightening her boot laces. I couldn't figure out why she needed help; she was about sixteen, supple and strong and quite capable of tightening her own boot laces. Perhaps Bert had gallantly volunteered. She was wearing tights and a short skating skirt which looked pretty good even from the far end of the clubhouse. Bert was close enough to lean over and bite 'it'. When she stood up and thanked Bert demurely he remained crouched until she had clumped out of the clubhouse.
Most of the boys followed Marg out of the clubhouse with their eyes. I was watching Bert and was not surprised to see a large bulge in the front of his trousers. I knew it wasn't a flashlight! It seems I wasn't the only intereted spectator when Bert (who was about thirty-five years old) put one hand in his pocket, his face ruddier than usual, and went out to the privy behind the clubhouse. This occurrence provided an excellent source of gossip for the rest of the year and Bert never tightened ladies' laces again without an interested audience. He always seemed able to solve his 'flashlight' problem in little more than five minutes. We seemed to agree that he was a very horny caretaker. At least he preferred girls.
Ironically, the nearest we had come to 'salad days' was probably during the summer days of 1938 to 1940. I was thirteen years old in the summer of 1938. Five or six of us from Scarboro would ride our bikes down to Elboya, swimming trunks and towels tied to our handlebars. After crossing the old steel bridge across the Elbow River we turned sharp left and rode through an uninhabited forest of brush-enclosed paths as far as the first big bend in the river, just beyond what is known now as Stanley Park. We would drop our bikes and race to see who could be first in the water. Just at the river bend there were steep clay cliffs directly above deep water so we could clamber as high up as our courage allowed before leaping into space for the plunge into the river. Everyone could swim, although I don't know where or when we had learned. Jimmy used to bring his huge black Newfoundland dog with him and we were constantly on guard against his flailing paws as we swam down river. The dog had a tendency to set his sights on the nearest swimmer and then come paddling at him like a huge black paddle wheeler, paws slapping the water as he approached. The problem was that he would never slow down or veer off as he arrived but kept right on up and over his victim, leaving livid scratch marks from his toenails and a partially-drowned survivor in his wake.
Occasionally someone would spot a bosky bower near the water's edge where the grass had been trampled and matted down as though an elk had rested there the previous night. Since there was no wild game in the area we naturally concluded that it had been a trysting place for lovers. Accordingly we all went ashore to search for the confirming evidence, a used 'French safe' or a discarded Ramses box, anything to satisfy our prurient curiosity, usually without success.
Most days I had the tedious necessity of deciding whether to go swimming, to play tennis at the Scarboro Community Club, or to go golfing. It was a hectic schedule. Except for a few casual practice games I played only in the annual club tennis tournaments. As a result I was able to return to the golf course soon after the tennis tournament had begun.
— The End —