The Photograph

Magnify Photo

I was browsing the Internet a while ago and found myself looking into a Prince Edward Island government website that contains many archive aerial reconnaissance photographs from the 1930’s up to the present day. On further examination I found that one of the photos taken included the 300 acres which is the farm that my uncle still lives on. This farm has in been run by my relations for over two hundred years. The photograph that I had found included a minimum capability for magnification which allowed me to zoom in on the farm itself. Having spent most of the summers there since I was a child, I was able to recognize the river that winds its way past one border of the farm  while the backend is densely forested with both hard and softwood trees. I could identify the old farmhouse itself which was surrounded by many buildings some of which I recognized immediately and others which were there when this photograph was taken but had fallen or were taken down many years before I was born. Clearly visible between the farm house and the road that divides the property was the apple orchard which seemed to be in full growth and I assumed that the picture had been taken in mid to late summer as each tree formed a dark black shadow on the ground. The amazing thing about this photo was I was looking back in time at the farm as it was in 1935 when my mother was still living there and her father was still alive. I could see all of the buildings that used to form a circle around the farmyard. Each one of the buildings had a name and had a specific role in the operation of the farm. The main huge barn was where the livestock had been housed, cattle for milking and eventual sale to acquire the funds to buy basic supplies which couldn’t be grown, the four Percheron draft horses which were the literal “horsepower” that pulled all of the machines that were used in the cultivation and harvesting of the cash crops such as potatoes and strawberries. There was the piggery building in which the 20-30 pigs were kept. Beside that was the chicken coop in which my grandmother would visit each morning to collect the fresh eggs for the morning breakfast. I could also see the icehouse which was a building dedicated to the storage of ice packed in sawdust to stop the thawing process. The machine house to the right of the icehouse was for the storage of the old horse drawn plow, thrashing machine, hay rake, hay mower and all the other equipment that was used on a farm.

After further examination of the photograph, I was interested enough to do some further research and was able to get some assistance in this by enlisting the help of a government employee in the National Air Photo Library in Ottawa. She used the equipment she had at her disposal to tell me that she could see a person standing in the front yard of the farm house and she was able to use the magnification to tell me that the person was over six feet tall and probably male. The only person at the farm who fit that description was my grandfather who would have been alive at the time of the photo. Amazing !!!  I looked at the photograph again and memories of the days I spent as a young boy climbing up the apple trees in the orchard eating the yellow transparent apples and looking across the river at the cemetery of the village Catholic Church where my grandfather was by then buried. I used to love sitting high up in that tree since the ripest apples always hung near the top of the tree but also I was able to look far off in the distance at the beach and the Atlantic Ocean. I remember thinking about my ancestors and how they had come across that ocean to an island and a new life in the new world. So now I am looking at this photograph which is now almost seventy-five years old which may have my grandfather in it who is looking down towards the orchard which has an apple tree which I would be sitting in  thirty years later where I would be daydreaming about the people who came over the ocean two hundred years earlier. Talk about your time travel!!! 

The Chip Wagon

My father ever the entrepreneurial type was always coming up with new schemes to make the proverbial easy buck. I had no problem with that since I was often the beneficiary of these brainstorms in the form of a trickle down economic system, the more money he had, the more generous my allowance that week. And this is not to imply that he was ever afraid of hard work to make these flashes of inspiration come to fruition, he was always willing to work hard to implement these plans and always had a role for us kids to play in making them come to life. One grand adventure that stands out was the creation and subsequent exploitation of the “Chip Wagon”. For those among you who have never been exposed to the culinary delights dispensed by these rolling restaurants let me describe the typical machine. The average chip wagon was a vehicle constructed from either an old car or pickup truck whose structure was modified from the front windshield back to the rear bumper to house a rectangular box somewhere in the range of 6 feet across by 10 feet in length by 7 feet high. The box’s lower half was usually covered by plywood painted in garish colors adorned with cartoon characters of unknown origin who invited the passer by to stop and purchase hot dog’s, French fried potatoes and soft drinks as well as various chocolate bars and all manner of junk food. The upper half of the cube box was constructed of glass panes in a wooden or metal frame also adorned with cartoon characters extolling the virtues of Coke or Pepsi or the glorious greasiness of the fried potato. This vehicle whose purpose was the tempting of the basest but most sensitive taste buds and the hardening of the youngest arteries plied it’s trade on the streets of Montreal starting in the early 60’s and became the source of the fondest memories of children growing up in that era. The only vehicle capable of vying for the attention of local street urchins was the much vaunted ice cream truck which usually followed the route blazoned by the chip wagon keeping a measured distance to allow for the grease from the fried potatoes to settle in the lower intestine and allow for enough room for one or two ice cream bars to be swallowed whole before the whole congealed mess wound up in the town’s sanitary facilities having been evicted from the body via one or both of the two major cavities.

It was in this environment that my father envisioned amassing a small fortune for he had the unique idea of building one of these rolling restaurants and transporting it to an land glutted with the finest of spuds but an environment that was virgin territory for the immersion of these tasty tubers in the fryer with blackest of oils which had often been suspected to be the final resting place of 10W30 when the oil change was performed at the local service station. And so it was that he arrived home one night and announced during the family meal that the family car was to be sacrificed to the French Fried gods and turned into the finest eating establishment on wheels that Prince Edward Island had ever seen, in fact the only eating establishment on wheels that Prince Edward Island had ever seen. Remember now this was before the time of the Big Mac, the Whopper Meal, the Teen burger, before the mighty Poutine and this was an island of crowded summer beaches full of tourists and locals, pockets stuffed with 10 and 20 dollar bills with a hunger and thirst for something that had yet to be named, FAST FOOD. In short the idea was nothing short of pure genius and would fill the bank account of anyone smart enough to take advantage. My father would be that man....or so he thought.

And so it was one day in late spring that the family vehicle was dragged like a sacrificial lamb into our back yard in the East end Montreal. Dad had borrowed an industrial strength electronic hacksaw from the aircraft plant where he worked building jet fighters for the military and with mother looking on aghast from behind the kitchen curtains laid into an old black Chevrolet 4 door sedan with a mighty cry of “Here goes nothing!” The powerful blade cut through the metal like a hot knife through butter and within minutes the family sedan lay in the yard forever torn apart with great jagged pieces of metal smoking from their recent violent detachment. My father stood there with the self satisfied look of the lumberjack who has just felled a mighty redwood, turned to my horrified mother and said “What’s for dinner Alice?”

And so it went for the next four weeks. I’d get home from school and shortly thereafter my father would arrive with all manner of tools and supplies ready for another evening of hammering, riveting, fitting glass panes and constant cursing and swearing when something didn’t fit immediately or go as smoothly as he felt it should have done. “JEEEEEEESSSSSUUUUSSS CHHRRRIIISSSTT !!!” was the signal for us kids to pick up any tool or piece of construction material and look busy lest we become the object of his frustration. “Alice I told you to keep these kids out of my way!!!” referring to the neighborhood children who were fascinated by the construction of this new arc which would soon they thought dispense all sorts of edibles that their mother’s wouldn’t approve. It became neighborhood practice therefore that in the hour before dinner all the children between four and fourteen to gather at the gate to our back yard and gaze at the latest additions and modifications (and there were a lot of these along the way) to the “Black Betsy” as the vehicle came to be known after an off handed comment by my mother. In spite of the regular “You dam kids stay the hell out of here” admonitions by my father the ex army sergeant, the allure of the foreign construction made the crowds at the fence bigger as time went on and made us helpers into local celebrities since we were on the building side of the gate. I even turned this fleeting fame to my advantage when one day a dark eyed Italian temptress aged ten who had been off limits to this point came to the gate and I ambled over and coolly threw one arm over the fence and explained the finer details of the construction of the machine to her. I was making great headway until my father yelled “Get me that claw hammer over there and make it quick!!” and I reverted immediately to humble servant status and she lost interest and wandered off in the direction of a blond haired boy from up the street. Foiled again!!

As weeks passed we began to see the final form of the new vehicle take shape and I was amazed how my father would come home every night with new odds and ends of construction material and convert it into another piece of the jigsaw puzzle that would become the chip wagon. The frame was built out of a combination of wood and steel bars and mounted on the lower half of the frame were the finest sheets of aircraft aluminum that the defence department could buy. They had become damaged in a freak accident when a hammer fell on each sheet in exactly the same place creating damage just serious enough that they could not pass inspection to become part of a jet fighter but not serious enough to eliminate their use as side panels to a “tater truck”. They were attached to each other with the latest model of rivet gun that had temporarily gone missing from the tool supply room at the factory.

It was the third week in June when my father declared that the chip wagon was ready for a shake down run before the final installation of the equipment and supplies in preparation for the run to the P.E.I. He had rigged up a seat on the floor of the vehicle and there was room for a co-pilot on the right hand side. He turned the key and engine roared to life and after a few chugs and sputters. He motioned me to get into to the copilot’s position after having guided him out of the back yard in reverse and as soon as we were clear of the driveway, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor and we roared off down the street and quickly out of site. The shake down cruise took us through our middle class district of East End Montreal and we had all manner of reactions to the vehicle from mild interest to amazement. As we crossed over the dividing line between the middle and upper class sections of town amazement turned into disapproval as it was obvious that such a commercial vehicle had no place in the quiet tree lined streets of this middle class neighborhood. We soon caught the attention of a local cop who was just finishing a coffee when he noticed us passing by. He immediately sensed that some sort of contravention of the city bylaws must be occurring and motioned us to pull over to the curb. Not sure what he had on his hands he approached the vehicle cautiously and kept his hand on his gun holster while he asked to see the driver’s license and vehicle registration. Once my father explained the purpose and destination of the truck, the policeman’s attitude became very sympathetic and he was obviously envious of the adventure my father was embarking upon. After a half hour of conversation between them comparing of construction techniques we parted ways and continued back home where my mother in her apron greeted us. She had been concerned about whether the vehicle would make it around the corner without blowing up from some miscalculation in design and was happy to see us back safe and sound. My father celebrated the completion of the construction phase with a couple of extra beer that night and made plans to purchase the supplies that would be needed from a wholesale grocery store nearby.

The installation of the wagon’s cooking equipment went smoothly and plans for the journey down to the island started to take shape. It was decided that my father would pilot the chip wagon with me in the co pilot seat and my mother would follow us in the new family vehicle with the rest of the offspring in tow. This backup was necessary according to my father in case of any unforeseen complications with the primary vehicle. The big day arrived finally in early June and after much cursing and swearing and a minor back sprain, my father ordered everyone into their assigned vehicle and with most of the neighborhood out to wish us God speed we headed East in search of fame and fortune. A funny thing happened to me on our way out of the city. As I realized most of the people we passed stopped in their tracks to stare at us I began to sink lower into my seat embarrassed to be in a vehicle that drew so much attention. The more people stared and pointed, the lower profile I assumed, finally ending up laying on the floor reading a comic book. As we moved into less populated areas I thought the interest would subside but the further East we drove the more fascination was displayed by the locals who had never been exposed to this type of motorized eatery. We would pass through small villages and people would rush out onto the streets and wave and yell as if the previous town had notified theme that a wondrous machine would soon arrive. On we went and the waving and shouting continued to nightfall when we arrived at the docks where the ferry we would take to the island was quietly loading cars and trucks, quietly that is until we came upon the scene. Truckers and vacationers exited their vehicles and cautiously approached us with eyes wide open and fingers prodding and poking at the shiny aircraft aluminum siding that positively glowed in the bright spotlights of the ferry terminal. “What have we got here?” said one man, obviously American but not from any state that ever licensed a Chip Wagon. “It’s a space ship daddy,” cried a young girl of 5 or 6. “Can we fly in it daddy?” By this time mother had arrived in the backup vehicle just in time to catch the ferry. My sisters and brother got out of the car and wandered sleepily over to the chip wagon and were met as celebrities by the tourists and truck drivers surrounding the vehicle. They immediately perked up and started to climb all over the chip wagon taking various poses for the crowd gathered. They were basking in the attention when a group of five burly men wearing dirty white jumpsuits appeared on the scene. Apparently they were the ferry’s engine crew who had ascended from the bowels of the ship when they heard rumor of the mechanical marvel parked on level three. Each of them circumvented the vehicle two or three times before coming over to ask my father details of construction and materials used. They nodded in great approval and laughed heartily when they heard that the aluminum siding had been intended to defend the nation’s skies in the form of an F-18 jet fighter before it had been liberated to serve as construction material for the chip wagon. After a general shaking of hands and promises to meet at the bar in the local Legion the next day, the engineering crew returned to their posts and we set sail for the promised land of the potato and the heaping piles of money was surely lay waiting to be picked up.

The journey across the Straits was quiet and uneventful and a few of our fellow passengers engaged my father in conversation about his plans to conquer the beaches and supply tourists and locals with the most satisfying culinary experience that four wheels could bring them. All thought it was a great idea and several asked about franchising opportunities back in their hometown. My father took names and addresses and said he would be happy to provide plans for the construction and outfitting of the vehicle for a small fee. We finally reached the promised island and disembarked to cheers and more waving from the locals who had a sense that they were witnessing history, the first successful landing of a chip wagon on the shores of this tiny island. “That’s four small wheels on the island and one giant payday for me!!” said my father recently influenced by the landing on the moon. And with a hearty “Hi Ho Potato!!!” we drove off into the night headed for my uncle’s farm at the other end of the island or as my father referred to it “Check Point Charlie’s” (my uncle being the “Charlie”) from where we would launch our offensive on the island’s national parks and beaches. “JEEEEEEESSSUUSSS CHHRRRRRRIIIIIIISSSSTTTTT!!!!” were my father’s next words and I dived for the floorboards not knowing what problem had aroused my father’s wrath but hoping that I wasn’t to be the target of it. “We’ve got a god dam flat!!!” I breathed a sigh of relief, as surely there was no way the blame could be pinned on me for this one. I was inside the vehicle when the puncture occurred so I was blameless. Nevertheless we pulled over to the side of the road and discovered much to my father’s chagrin that we had left anI important element of emergency equipment back at home.... the tire jack. After having referred to the name of our Lord and Savior many more time during the next 15 minutes, my father was headed on foot back towards the ferry terminal in search of a Good Samaritan with the required tire jack. He returned half an hour later in an old pickup truck driven by one of the locals who had cheered our arrival. Within 10 minutes the chip wagon was sporting a new tire and after promises to the local for a couple of free hotdogs “fer the kids”, we roared off into the night hoping to get to my uncle’s farm before sunup at least. In fact, we arrived at 3:00 AM and after banging on the doors and windows in order to waken Uncle Charlie, we were all assigned our sleeping arrangements and plodded off to bed.

By the time I awoke the next morning, it was nearly afternoon. I wiped the sleep from my eyes and looked out the window to see my father busily unpacking and making preparations to load the chip wagon with the various foodstuffs that we would be selling to the throngs on the beaches. The rest of that day was spent running errands into town, organizing, cleaning, and stocking, all to ensure the smooth operation when we would assault the shores of the national park the next day. Dad sat us kids down and went over the “game plan” as he saw it and how each of us would fill our assigned role. My brother and I were to play key roles in the operation, handing out French Fries, hot dogs, drinks and chocolate bars and collecting the cash while my father took care of the actual food preparation. My younger sisters would stay on the farm in a backup role making sure that the hot dogs met the highest standards of quality when my mother served them for lunch. It was in the all important collecting of the cash that my father concentrated on for an hour after which he put us through a grueling 15 minute working simulating what we would be exposed to the next day. “Get the cash out of his hand faster!”, “Don’t forget to count it before you put it in the till!”, “Hurry up with the change!” We felt like raw recruits in an army boot camp and the ‘sarge’ was hoping we wouldn’t crumble in real battle conditions. “I guess you’ll have to do” he mumbled as he turned to the house for dinner.

The next morning we were up early loading perishables from the refrigerator and doing some last minute cleaning and organizing. At my father’s command after a last minute check of the exterior of the vehicle we boarded and after waving goodbye to my sisters and mother, we headed down the laneway to fortune and fame. After a half hour on the road we came to the gates of the national park and after some discussions with the personnel manning the gates who didn’t know what to make of our machine accepted the park entrance fee and let us go on our way. I watched them out of the back window looking into manuals but as there wasn’t reference to a ‘chip wagon’, they were temporarily confused and let us pass through. We arrived at the beach on a warm sunny day, perfect for sun bathing and diving into the ocean to cool off. After setting up shop and making the first batches of French Fries and heating up the water for the hot dogs we waited for our first customers. We didn’t have long to wait. A couple wandered over and asked what we had for sale and we listed the menu items. They put in an order for 8 hot dogs and 8 large orders of French Fries. We were off with a bang!! It didn’t take long until we had a crowd gathered and orders were coming fast and furious. My father could hardly keep up with the pace as my brother and I handed out soft drinks, hot dogs, and fries. Dad started to whistle while he worked something he never did as long as we’d been around. “I knew this would work!!” he said gleefully and handed me another four hot dogs. “We’re going to be rich!” my brother chimed in. A couple of hours passed and the till was stuffed with 5, 10 and 20 dollar bills. We were discussing whether to phone Mother and ask her to come out and set up and evening shift when we noticed an official government car pulling up in front of the wagon. A stern looking gentleman in a park uniform got out of the car and came over to examine our vehicle. “What do we have here?” to which my father proudly replied “The island’s first Chip Wagon, what can I get you... hot dog, fries, a coke?” “Where’s your permit? You can’t sell food in the National Park without a permit.” My father explained that he had called the appropriate government agencies before we arrived on the island and described the chip wagon and was told that since it didn’t fit the regular definition of restaurant, we didn’t need a permit. “Well they were wrong. If you don’t have a permit you’ll have to leave the park immediately. I’ll call the park police to escort you out.”  Dad tried to reason with the official explaining that since this type of vehicle never existed on the island before, no permit existed. He even attempted a small bribe offering the official free hot dogs and fries but this only hardened the official’s stance and he radioed for backup. “Alright, we’re going!!” replied my father with a mumbled reference to the Lord and a couple of added choice words for the official. We packed it in for the day and headed back to the farm, happy that we had raked in over $600.00 in one day but concerned about whether we would be allowed to do it tomorrow. The next day my father spent a frustrating couple of hours on the phone with various government agencies and finally jumped in the car and headed into town to plead his case person. He returned later that night, obviously having kept his appointment at the Legion bar and having nothing good to say about government in general and government officials in particular. “They won’t let a man make an honest buck!!” and he sat in the kitchen for the rest of the night dejected. We kids went happily off to bed after counting the great pile of money we had made that day and sure that our father would devise some solution to the problem of getting back into the park where money flowed into our pockets like water down a stream.

We awoke the next morning to realize that in fact there was no getting around the park rules and short of ramming through the park gates at high speed, we weren’t going to be allowed access to beach goers and all that easy money. Instead my father resigned himself to parking just outside the park boundaries which was in fact about 20 miles from the beach. We set up shop on a lonely dirt road just beside the sign to the national park. My father was hoping that the tourists and locals would stop by the roadside and load up on hot dogs and fries before entering or while leaving the park. This turned out to be a false hope since the visitors were either in a hurry to get to the beach or in a hurry to get back home and in either case they passed us at high speed leaving a cloud of dust to settle over the chip wagon and us. Hours passed and beach goers flew by. My brother and I occupied our time preparing and eating fries, hot dogs and consuming cans of soft drinks. My father sat dejected in the driver’s seat and spent his time cursing all forms of government officialdom and swearing he would vote for the Communists in the next election. The afternoon dragged on and we were all taking a nap when we heard a “Hey!!” from outside the chip wagon. We looked out but didn’t see anything then “Hey!!” again. I looked down to see a little red headed boy about 7 years old. His face was covered in mud, as were his clothes. We assumed he had come from the farm nearby our location. He looked up at us, exposed a dollar bill he had in his hand and said, “Can I have a small bag of chips please?”

My brother and I looked at each other, suppressed a laugh and in unison announced to my father “CUSTOMER!!” We proceeded to make the largest small size bag of fries and delivered them piping hot to our eager little client. We gave him his change and off he went in the direction of the local farmhouse. His was the only business we would have that day but my father wasn’t about to give up easily and for the next four days we returned to the location outside the park gates and waited for cars to stop. They never did. But every day at around 2:00 pm my brother and I would look down the road towards the farmhouse and see the little red headed boy coming towards us with a dirty dollar or two clenched in his hand. And every day my brother and I would fall to the floor in a heap laughing uncontrollably and yell in unison “CUSTOMER!!!!!” My father now resigned to his fate would turn his back on us and stare towards the beach where all those tourists with pocketfuls of money were wandering around looking for something to eat. The next year Ray Croc would come up with the idea of making hamburgers for the masses and McDonald’s would open its doors to be followed by Wendy’s, Burger King, and a thousand other fast food joints across North America. The Chip Wagon was left on the island by my father and had partial success at local baseball games and outside seafood canneries. It never achieved the dream of raking in all that money roaming around the sandy beaches of the island and eventually was parked in one of my uncle’s fields where it literally sank into the ground after the spring thaw turned the ground into mush. My father never talks about the chip wagon but whenever my brother and I pass one on the street, we start laughing uncontrollably and yell out    “CUSTOMER!!!!!”