Those were the guys who were in graves in France. Some had become his best friends. Now they were in plywood coffins or just in canvas bags, under the mud in a cemetery far away.
“I should do something.”
So he got a tiny baby cedar tree. It was the same as your kids get, or used to get, in school. It was about the height of half a kid’s arm. Not much, but something. He planted it on a rise just off the corn field.
And it grew. It grew the size of Charlie. It grew the size of his airplanes. It grew and grew and he was happy and he put a sign on it one November 11th that said, “This is for my friends.”
And a long time later . . . it is hard to say when, numbers just get in the way . . . a long time later the government of Canada was doing something wonderful. It was building a road across the country. It would be called the Trans-Canada Highway.
It was headed straight for Charlie’s tree.
Now here is where political correctness and facts get confused. A long time ago I met a nephew of Charlie. He told me that when the bulldozers were coming at the tree Charlie stood in front of it with a shotgun and said: “Don’t.”
I did a story about that.
Then some of Charlie’s grandchildren called me, very upset, and said their grandfather would never have done that. Their grandfather was law abiding.
They told me I should never say their grandfather would defy the law with a gun, especially a shotgun.
No one that we know actually saw what happened. The facts are that Charlie was in front of the tree, the bulldozers were coming and there was a stalemate: the workmen against the veteran. It was not easy or nice.
Both sides needed patience and wisdom.
To stop the progress of the highway meant high-priced delay. To change the highway for a tree was impossible. Millions of trees had already been killed for the sake of cars.
Calls were made to Phil Gaglardi. Phil was a politician you could love. He got speeding tickets on the same highways he had built. He was outgoing and outspoken. He was fun.
Much later I wanted to do a profile on him so I went to his office in Kamloops.
“No, I can’t disturb him now. He’s at lunch,” his secretary said.
“Will he be back soon?”
“Oh, he’s in there, but he won’t see anyone now.”
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed while he’s eating?” I asked.
“No, while he’s naked.”
Oh my gosh my golly. “What did you say?”
She looked very serious like a good government official’s secretary.
“He’s naked in there.”
“Naked?”
She nodded, then stared back at whatever work she would otherwise be doing were she not telling someone that in the closed office her boss was naked.
I looked at the heavy wooden door, on which a sign said:
“Phil Gaglardi, mla.” With my X-ray vision I saw what she was saying so I closed my eyes and looked away.
“He feels better afterwards,” she said.
In a little while, the time it takes to get on your pants and shirt and suit jacket, her intercom buzzed.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Back from lunch,” said the voice through the speaker.
“There’s someone to see you,” she said to the box.
“Send him in,” said a voice that was friendly and happy and sounded very suit jacketish.
She opened the door.
“Hello, sir,” I said, and then added, “I don’t mean to be forward, but do you really run around your desk naked?”
“Every day,” said mla Gaglardi. “You should try it.”
Okay, let’s get on with other matters, any other matters.
He said that when he heard about Charlie and the tree he told the crew chiefs on the highway, “Well curve the road around the tree, for God’s sake. That’s for dead heroes.” And the road was curved, around the tree, near the 200th Street exit.
And that to me was one of the world’s greatest solving of engineering and humanitarian problems. I know it is not like fixing racial or religious injustice, but just think, another politician could have said, “Send it to a committee and we will study it.” Gaglardi made a decision and it worked and it was good.
For the next fifty years cars went around the tree. There were a few small flags next to it and nailed into the bark was a small sign that said, “In memory of my fallen comrades.” Very simple.
Except that only a few people saw it, because as you drove around the curve in the road the tree was the last thing you would see. If you were a good driver you had your eyes on the road.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?’
“I saw a tree over there.”
“There’s lots of trees.”
“But this was a tree with a something on it.”
“Don’t know. Didn’t see it.”
And the tree disappeared around the curve.
And then some rotten teenagers set fire to the tree. That killed it.
That was in the 1980s. The top half was cut off and it became even more invisible. Eventually it was covered with ivy. Go around a curve in the road and look for half a tree covered with ivy with an old, small sign on it. Not likely.
That is about the time I did the story on it and the nephew said: “Charlie had a shotgun.”
And the grandchildren said, “Grandpa would never do that.”
They could be right. Or not.
On such things history is written. The important part was that Charlie protested and Phil agreed. Beautiful story.
And then, a few decades later, so many people had moved into the valley and the city and everywhere that a new, improved highway was built. It is wide and straight and somehow the curve has been taken out and the tree, at least the trunk of it, hasn’t been touched. Except now there is a large sign that says: “charlies tree.”
It’s impossible not to see it. Yes, we know there should be an apostrophe in Charlie’s, but the sign doesn’t have one so we don’t have one. Go argue with Charlie.
And as for Charlie, it took a while but he won.
● ● ●
July 31, 2016. A sad update. In the early morning of today Charlie’s tree toppled over and crashed down on the highway. After a century of battling road builders and cars and fires, it was defeated by a deadly combination of the ivy that covered and weakened it and a strong wind.
Maybe someone will plant another one.
Teamsters Can Do Anything (Don’t Ask Why)
Okay, ask why.
The answer is because Jimmy Hoffa may be in the East River, that ribbon of water between Manhattan and Brooklyn. He may be standing upright with his feet in a tub of concrete while his head is bobbing around like seaweed, if there was any seaweed in the East River, which there is not.
Jimmy Hoffa is the patron saint of the Teamsters—or he’s the devil. If you think being for or against Donald Trump is exciting or dangerous it is nothing, nothing, compared to being for or against Jimmy Hoffa.
He raised a union of truck drivers to be one of the most powerful organizations in American and Canadian history. Teamsters were not just truckers and cab drivers but anyone and everyone who had anything to do with cars or trucks or anything close to them.
That included delivery personnel who unloaded things from trucks, and “Darn, that crate of Scotch just slipped out of my hands.” Once that happens it must be labelled “Damaged Goods,” and must be disposed of.
“Luckily none of the bottles were broken, but rules are rules.”
And the crate went to a nice home where it was well cared for.
But that was the old days. Nothing like that happens now. I attest, as a former Teamster myself, I swear I have never heard of a crate of Scotch or any crates of anything
being dropped in the last long number of years. Honest.
I was a Teamster when I was a parking lot attendant at Idlewild airport in New York. That was before it became jfk airport. Don’t ask. It was long ago.
I was given a uniform by the airport and a badge by the Teamsters. The badge went on the cap so you know what was the first thing anyone saw. The Teamsters taught their people from the head down.
“Don’t take any guff from the employer,” a much, much older Teamster told me on my first day. My employer was the airport, which ruled with its own iron hand while trying to combat the organized crime that was stealing everything it could get from the airplanes. It also took no guff from anyone.
And he said, “Don’t take any guff from the customers,” who didn’t like paying the outrageous prices charged by the airport for parking.
Guff was a word then. Yes, it is a four-letter word, but those were cleaner times.
“But always remember who your brothers are.”
And then he left me with a stack of tickets to give out when drivers entered and to exchange for dollars when they left.
I gave out and collected. When my shift was over the older fellow asked to see my receipts. He counted the money and then the tickets.
“Ummmm,” he said. Then he started counting again.
“You can go now,” he told me. “I’ll take care of everything.”
He just wanted to be accurate.
Jimmy Hoffa said the same thing but he went to prison because the judge didn’t believe him. But that was long ago, when things like that sometimes, occasionally but not often, did happen.
And then Jimmy got out of prison because President Richard Nixon (who said, “I am not a crook,” after he was accused of being one) let him out so long as he promised to be good.
Soon after that Mr. Hoffa couldn’t be bad because he disappeared.
I tell you this because the Teamsters aren’t like a union of bakers or musicians. They have an aura of toughness. Once upon a time I was at another television station that locked out its reporters and editors and photographers. Okay, they locked us out because we were on strike.
Regardless, we walked up and down around a camp stove keeping coffee warm. Days passed. Weeks passed. We wondered if anyone cared.
Then one day came the rumble of a very large engine and the blaring of horns. Large trucks carry more than one horn. Following the horns came a giant black tractor-trailer eighteen-wheeler that stopped right at our camp stove. On the side of the truck in letters 10 feet high was the word teamsters.
Then out of the cab stepped three men in heavy black jackets.
“Sorry it took so long. Can we be of assistance?” one said. “There are more of us, if you like.”
We thanked them and offered our coffee. They in turn took out enough food to feed us through the winter, and it wasn’t yet cold.
I don’t know if that had anything to do with anything, but shortly after that the labour dispute ended and we were back at work. Image isn’t everything, but it helps. Besides that, remember, Teamsters can do anything.
And that may be a reason the movie industry hires Teamsters for their security. Movie makers worry a great deal about who is watching what they are doing, as well as worrying about protecting the stars and the equipment. With Teamsters parked by their film sets there is no worry.
And it was at just such a film set and with just such security that we saw the Teamsters trying to fix a flat tire. No problem, Teamsters can do anything.
“I have no idea how to get this thing off.”
That was brother Brett, who was under the minivan.
“The instructions say you remove latch A, which holds cover B, and then slide cover B to the front while unhooking hooks C and D.”
That was brother Trevor, who was on his knees while wearing shorts and reading the manual. See, Teamsters are tough. Kneeling on his bare knees.
“I can’t get the latch to move,” said Brett. The only thing I could see of Brett was his feet. The rest of the union member was under the van.
“Wait,” said brother Trevor. “It says to use attachment 1 to undo latch A.”
“So where’s the attachment?” came the strong and steady without any hint of frustration or anger in it voice of brother Brett.
Brother Wayne who was standing next to the van said, “Maybe I should call bcaa.”
What? A Teamster call for help from a non-Teamster. Never, or at least not yet.
“We have to go through the driver’s console to release the tool to get the latch open,” said Trevor who was turning pages in the manual.
I spoke, somewhat fearful. I don’t want to upset a Teamster under a minivan. He might stand up and say something to me and that would upset the van, and maybe me.
“Teamsters can do anything, right?” I said. That was not meant as a question.
“Just give us a second,” said Trevor.
I was thinking this story would be like Charles Dickens. This would be the best of times and the worst of times. The best because of the tragedy of Teamsters needing help, the worst because of what they might say after the story was on the air.
“Here’s the attachment,” said Trevor who had gone through the console and pulled something that released something that moved something that freed the metal and plastic thing that was used to open the latch that will allow the cover to slide before unhooking the hooks.
“That was easy,” said Brett.
In a moment the spare tire was free and the story was done.
“Teamsters can do anything,” I said at end of the story, while Brett held up his arm like Rocky at the end of the fifteen rounds of battering.
Of course they can. Just like we all can. I added that because I like it and believe it. Would you like to disagree?
Mother and Daughter and the Hummingbirds
This is really nice. I have to tell you that because that’s how I feel when I think about this story.
We were wandering around Strathcona Park looking. It’s a good life, wandering and looking here and there.
Two women working in a community garden. That is good enough for me. Actually, that is good enough for anyone whether you are looking or working.
This was in the very early spring when most gardeners aren’t yet in the garden. There were mother and daughter and they were planting lots of things that would bloom in the summer. Their garden was a few steps from the street where delivery trucks passed every few minutes.
The trucks were going to the produce warehouses along Malkin Street. If you have never been there it is an experience. Basically everything you eat stops off at little Malkin Street on its trip from California to your grocery store. It’s a busy place.
And across the street from the community garden is both the food bank and the city’s animal pound. One of those is very busy. That, of course, is the food bank, which has turned into an industry, which is both good and bad. Good because it is feeding people. Bad because it has to feed people, but also bad because you cannot believe some of the cars that park across the street and then get loaded with food. Some of them are very expensive cars.
There is no need to prove a need to get food here, and that is good for those who need and don’t want others to know about it. I was once one of them. However, it’s bad that you can cut your grocery bill pulling up in your bmw and loading the trunk. It is like people who park in disabled parking zones and then get out and walk into the mall. They have disabled signs in their windshields, but they are for other members of the family, not the son or daughter who fills the space while they shop for beer.
I am sorry. Again I digress, but the growth of the food bank is one part of charity I don’t understand. The more you give the more need there seems to be. Which came first?
I know some will hate me for that, but as I said, I was there. In any
event, it is an industry and the street is always busy.
At the end of the street is the dog pound, the Animal Control Shelter. This is another place that once had an open door for reporters. In this one place I did stories of the blind dog that was adopted by the people who work there, the chicken that escaped from the slaughterhouse off Powell Street and the fellow in his motorized wheelchair who drove from the West End to the East Side every day to walk unwanted dogs. He would attach the leash to his chair on wheels and take them for strolls.
I hate to tell you this next part, but these stories are real. I had gotten to know him fairly well. One day when he was leaving the underground parking in his apartment building in the West End his wheelchair somehow overturned, the gate came down on his neck and he was strangled to death.
That is why I hate to tell you. It hurts, even ten years later. Almost every part of life has the same two ingredients: good and bad, yin and yang, love and hate. Life is not for the faint-hearted.
Those are stories I got from the pound, but then the new rules came out and they are not allowed to talk to reporters without formal consent from headquarters. So no more stories—sad.
The story about the mother and daughter doing the gardening across the street from the pound and the food bank and with trucks going by almost constantly was wonderful. A study in contrasts that cameraman Peter Bremner shot so well.
The mother and daughter were nice, sweet, wonderful. What more could I want? Mother Gloria, daughter Sandy. They were talkative and enthusiastic and friendly and knew a lot about gardening. Can’t ask for more.
And that was the story. As I have said, it doesn’t take much. They were like chocolate chip cookies for the spirit.
Spring turned into summer and summer was getting late and I was back. Actually I am back there every week but sometimes it takes two seasons to find something, or five months for things to grow.
We were at the same garden with the mother and daughter. Their plants had grown to a beautiful fullness. Hummingbirds were slurping up the sweetness. Most of the world, at least my world, has never seen a hummingbird hovering over a flower and drinking or licking or whatever they do to the nectar deep inside. Talk about miracles. Everything in the garden was alive with colour and movement.
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