Golden Years

It may as well be a million years ago, if it were a day.  Memories of my youth are fleeting at best.  They were scarce when I had a fully functional brain, but are mostly gone since my accident.  What I've learned about memories, recently, is while they may be gone, they're not always one hundred percent disappeared.  Some glimmer of them remain, secluded in some dark passageway within our minds, just waiting to emerge into present day, once again.  Earlier this week, I happened to glance over onto 2nd Avenue, downtown, noticing a pile of rubble where the old Baldwin Hotel used to stand.  Then it hit me with a wallop -- Andre the Giant.

There's not much written about the old Baldwin Hotel.  I was unsuccessful in digging up much dirt on the location, short of actually visiting the Saskatoon Library to dig through old archives.  I believe it was built in the early 1900s, stood for nearly a hundred years before falling into disarray and finally demolished.  As a kid I remember going to the restaurant in the basement of the once distinguished hotel, to visit my aunt, Jacquie.  There she'd share tales about her encounters with wrestlers when they'd wander over from shows put on at the old downtown arena.

As a kid, I remember going to the old arena when it was located downtown on 19th Street.  Long since gone, it's footprint looked tiny compared to the incredible size of the arena.  Then again, I was a tiny child, so everything looked gigantic.  I recall going to Blades games with my grandpa.  I remember going to the circus with thousands of other screaming kids.  Seemed like our parents weren't there.  Just dropped us all off to run amuck within it's overwhelming confines.  I remember having full reign over the premises, roaming through all the halls, past the dressing rooms.  I remember encountering a dressing room where all the clowns were, applying their various facial designs.  This is where I came to realize that clowns aren't necessarily a happy bunch.  Many are only as happy as the makeup they apply.  Most are sad, miserable or angry, all characteristics well masked by coloured grease paint.

In addition to the circus and various sporting events and concerts, the Saskatoon Arena would also cater to the cavalcade of professional wrestlers who'd travel throughout the western provinces via Calgary's Stampede Wrestling.  The owner, Stu Hart, was born and raised in Saskatoon, before joining the army and rushing off to World War II, when he returned home, he took up residence in Calgary, Alberta and founded the infamous wrestling company and it's many stars.

Before folding up and closing it's doors in 1984 after being sold to Vince McMahon of the (then) World Wrestling Federation (WWF), there were many big stars who cut their teeth in the infamous Stampede Wrestling.  The British Bulldogs, Davy Boy Smith and the Dynamite Kid, Bret Hart and Jim Neidhart, as well as a few appearances of Andre The Giant.

After nights of bashing the hell out of one another, a gaggle of wrestlers would clean up and mosey on down the street to the Baldwin Hotel and grab a bite to eat.  My aunt, Jacquie would often find herself working on many of the nights with this motley crew of performers would conglomerate for food, drink and wild conversations.

My aunt would marvel us kids with stories of chatting with, chumming around and sharing laughs with the wonderous personalities who'd grace her with their presence.  While I don't recall any of the stories in detail, I do remember Jacquie sharing her amazement with one wrestler in particular, who would nearly eat the restaurant out of every morsel of food they had in stock.  He was a colossus.  Hell!  He was dubbed the "Eighth Wonder of the World" for good reason.  Andre was a bona-fide giant and was billed as such.  Pictured here with Bruce Hart (L) and Dynamite Kid (R), Andre stood at a towering 7'4".  His hands, I'm told, were the size of catcher mitts.  When he shook my aunts hand, it disappeared well within his gentle grasp.

My aunt would pass away in the late eighties.  A brain aneurysm, which put her in a coma for a very long time before my grandpa made the difficult decision to remove her from life support, thus ending her suffering.  I remember him making that decision, speaking to the doctor over the phone in my very own living room.  The sorrow on my grandpas face on having to make that choice, but it had to be done.  My aunt suffered from migraine headaches for most of her life.  I do, as well, which always had me concerned for my own well being.  I don't suffer as frequently as I once did, having undergone an experimental treatment which had the headaches virtually disappear completely.  That is until I took that fateful tumble and completely destroyed my brain as it once was.  The migraines have returned, thankfully not as frequent as they were.

My aunt passed away quite young. Still in her thirties, if I recall correctly.   Andre the Giant would pass away young, too.  Only 46 years old when his heart finally gave out.

Gone are they, just as the old Baldwin is gone and the Saskatoon Arena.  Many of the aspects of the downtown area of the city is gone or reimagined.  There are towering business buildings where "The Barn", as it was affectionately referred to as, once stood.  Across the street from there, used to be a car dealership, if I remember correctly.  My dad bought a car from there, but now it's only an empty parking lot.  Where the parking lot is in the photo above, now stands the Scotia Center Movie Theater, formerly known as The Galaxy Theater.  I wanna say that "Folks", pictured in the lower right of this photo, still stands, but I think my memory is pulling tricks on me.  I can't remember. 

We, as a society, are so quick to destroy, rather than refurbish, replenish and reserve.  Built in 1937, I'm sure the arena couldn't be saved, just as the Baldwin Hotel couldn't be saved.  All that once was prestigious in the downtown district has now gone to ruins.  Plagued by the homeless and the downtrodden.  Seems like the city would rather throw money at new development rather than take care of it's lost citizens.

As a transit operator, I've been witnessing the city in a brand new way.  Like shining a black light on a hotel room, I'm discovering hidden truths about our fair city and it isn't looking good.  I've watched "The Walking Dead" since it's debut in 2010 and viewing the folks who line the streets in the downtown isn't too far from the atrocities seen on the television program.

So many memories, lost to the annuls of time.  Was it a better time, then? Were they truly golden years? Who can say for certain?  It was different.  More innocent.  Or maybe it was just me.  Viewing the world through rose coloured glasses.

Dance With Death - Part 2

Brushes with death isn't anything new for me.  You might be surprised by just how often I've come close to death.  I've side-stepped the inevitable so often that one might think that I'd have more faith in a higher power... but I don't.  Divine intervention?  Nope!  More like dumb luck or fluke.

Survival #1:

Growing up, I idolized my cousin.  He was a couple years my senior and had a life that seemed extravagant and wild and fun, even though he was a kid from a town, population less than 500, I'm sure.  His graduating class was four and he was the only male.  I'm sure he didn't care for his pipsqueak cousin from the city, tagging along, but it was only once every four or five months, so he took it in stride and I enjoyed every minute I could muster.

On one particular evening, my cousin was going to go driving with a friend of his.  This friend was a year or two older than he was and had a driver's license.  I suppose it could be argued that he looked up to his friend, just as much as I did my cousin.  They were set to go for a drive, which I assume in those days was traveling the back roads, drinking some beers and chatting about the mischief so-and-so was up to and who's fooling around with who.  But I was inexplicably tired on this evening, so I uncharacteristically opted out.  They asked if I was certain, adding that I was welcome to nap in the back seat if I got too tired.  I remember looking down at the dark embroidered backseat and contemplating, but decided to be responsible.  A trait I've not practiced a lot in my illustrious lifetime.

I awoke the next morning to news that my cousin and his friend had been in a vehicle rollover.  I don't remember all the details of the accident, but essentially they'd hit the ditch and the car flipped over itself.  As a young boy, I very rarely wore a seat belt, especially as a passenger in the back seat.  Plus, given my lethargy the night before, there would've been a very good chance that I would've been sprawled out in the back seat, fast asleep.  My limp body would've been tossed around the cabin of that little Ford coupe, like a rag doll.  I would've definitely put their survival rate in jeopardy, as would mine.  If I were lucky enough to be ejected from the vehicle, I doubt any survival would have been very bearable.  But I wasn't there.  I was safe at home, nestled in my bed.  Alive.

Survival #2:

My family used to have season tickets to the local hockey team, the Saskatoon Blades.  My mom, dad, sister, and her first husband, the cheating scumbag piece of shit, but let's just call him Grant.  My sister and the scumbag, sorry, I mean Grant, were very athletic, so it made sense for them to have season tickets.  My dad loved his son-in-law more than his son, so he bought season tickets too, and to leave my mom out would be rude, so he bought tickets for her, too.  I was allowed to go to games if he was otherwise occupied, usually with work.  (It would come out that my sister's then husband was a cheating scumbag piece of shit, after my dad had passed away.  Good thing for the scumba--, I mean Grant, that my dad never learned that character flaw, otherwise he'd have been f*cked up by my dad.  Although, I like to speculate, sometimes.)

One evening, my dad was off at work and I was offered the vacant ticket.  Usually, I would jump at the chance, not that I was (or am) a big hockey fan.  I'm not.  But I enjoyed going out to the big arena and taking in the sights and sounds of excitement.  Sometimes I'd run into old school mates and catch up on what was new in their lives.  On this night, however...  Just not into it.  I opted out.

If I'd have gone, I would've tagged along with my sister and scumbag in their Ford Festiva.  Not sure if you're familiar with it, but essentially it's a little tin shitbox on 12" wheels.  Google it.  You'll agree.  That night, after the game, my sister at the wheel, turned her little red shitbox onto the highway, and headed back into the city, as the arena was located on the outskirts of town at the time.  In the years since, the city has grown exponentially, eating up the real estate around the sports complex, but in those days, it was pretty remote.

So my sister turns right onto the highway to head back into the city and her little car was quickly slammed in the rear end.  Force of the impact was so severe that the entire rear end was crunched up against the back of her driver's seat, the bumper, literally just inches from her spine.  Remarkably, both she and Grant... f*ck it!  The scumbag, came out of the accident without much injury.  However, if I had tagged along as I often had, I'd most certainly have been dead.  Nobody would've survived that impact if they were in the back seat.

Survival #3:

I slipped on some ice.  Just one foot.  My left.  However, in doing so, I somehow twisted my leg and tore my calf muscle.  Not a pleasant feeling.  I do not recommend it.  Especially considering the months that would follow that misstep.

My treatment was to ice it, keep it elevated and wear a tensor bandage, in addition to keeping off my feet.  No problem.  Seems simple enough, but I was never shown exactly how to apply a tensor bandage.  It always appeared simple enough.  I'd strained and tore muscles before that and used a tensor bandage successfully without incident, but this time around was not the case.  I always preferred the bandage to be snug.  Nothing bugs me more than feeling that f*cking bandage unravel.  I hate repeating myself in any case, especially when it comes to tedious tasks.  Apparently, I liked it a little too snug and a blood clot formed in my calf muscle.

I learned that if a blood clot forms in your lower leg, it's not good but can be treated if discovered quickly enough.  If the clot breaks off and heads up your vein, past your knees, it's gets more dangerous.  If it hits your heart...  You're f*cked!  Mine was discovered pretty fast... Discovered above my knees, destination: Heartland.  I was rushed hastefully into emergency and treated extraordinarily fast.  Blasted with Warfarin, which is essentially rat poison.  In fact, that's how it works on the rodent species.  They basically bleed to death.  Thankfully, it doesn't have that permanence in humans, although your blood does get really thin and if you cut yourself, you CAN and WILL bleed out if you don't seek immediate medical attention.

I don't know how "serious" this event was, but the medical staff at the hospital where I was a resident for about a week and my own personal physician never hesitated to tell me how "lucky" I was.  Okay... maybe.  That's why I count this as survival number three.

Survival #4:

It was over ten years ago.  It was also the first time I had gotten pneumonia.  I remember stepping out of a nice hot shower into a cold f*cking house and BLAM!  Both lungs collapsed on me.  I knew immediately that I was in deep shit, but wasn't sure how deep.  Completely winded, I called for an ambulance, but decided against it when I learned that I would be the one paying for the ride.  What the f*ck happened to free healthcare?  Too many assholes taking advantage of a good situation.  Leave it to the crackheads to f*ck it up for us normals. 

Winded, I got myself dressed and toddled myself out to my car.  It was a 5-speed, but I managed to get myself to the hospital.  I suspected that I'd be there for awhile, so I chose not to park in the paid parking lot, but instead in the free lot across the street.  I'm guessing many thought that way, because these days, that shit is way expensive.

It took me about an hour to walk across the street.  Extreme yes, but I save a fortune on the ambulance... and parking.  As memory serves, I was a guest in the hospital for another week or so.  I remember hospital staff being amazed and disturbed at my feat, adding how lucky I was I didn't die in the process.  I've collapsed a part of a lung since then, which I'm told was quite serious, so I guess two complete collapses could be construed as serious.  

Whether or not I'm a survivor of death is disputatious, at best, but you must admit that I have managed to sidestep some serious shit.  So whatever this new medical setback is that is being placed on plate, I'm sure the shit will turn out right.