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.

Glimpse

Growing up for me, I'll be honest, wasn't the worst experience in the world, but it wasn't the greatest either.  My father was a raging alcoholic and it was difficult, even at our best, to live up to his expectations, and he was more than willing to share his disdain with you, sometimes emphasizing his words with a closed fist.  Granted, there were worse off families in the world and despite his frailties, I still had four walls around me, a roof over my head and three square meals a day.

That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times.  Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad.  An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home.  The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.

Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle.  After that, was pure bliss.  While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was.  I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome.  The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around.  He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke.  The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror.  It was like walking on glass.  You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor.  After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters.  However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear.  I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions.  Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.

Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long.  Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since.  I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies.  Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today?  My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.

It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him.  I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat.  We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories.  Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood.  One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place.  Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence.  He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.

The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999.  I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died.  I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow.  He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling.  I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family.  His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence.  My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway.  Three days later, my dad was dead.

I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently.  Not much, I'm sure.  He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day.  He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life.  My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair.  Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else.  It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair.  I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.

The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies.  It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew.  Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad.  No need for words, just enjoying each other's company.  Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.

My father could be a real bastard, sometimes.  The alcohol unleashing a true monster in every facet of the word, but my dad...  The real man who would fight off his demons and become the wonderful man he always could be, is the man that I miss everyday.  If we had just a few more minutes together, I wonder what we'd talk about.  The weather?  Would I have the balls to tell him what he truly meant to me in life?  I don't know.  I can't answer that question, but I'd settle for a simple game of catch. 

The Undertaker -- Then & Now

I remember the first time I ever viewed The Undertaker, in what was then, the World Wrestling Federation (WWF).  He was this mysterious and ominous man who seemed like he couldn't be beaten by anyone in the ring.  No amount of offense seemed to affect "The Deadman".  Even though, as a young boy, I already knew professional wrestling to be of predetermined outcomes, his character, nevertheless, intimidated me.  Death, seemed to surround this menacing foe.  I, literally, feared The Undertaker.

Decades have passed, and the image of The Undertaker have changed with the times.  Each version, having more personality traits of Mark Callaway, the man behind the myth, bleeding into the updated interpretations of what and of whom The Undertaker was and is.

It was during his "American Badass" era, where his form resembles that of a biker more so than that of an old west mortician, is where my respect for the man really began to take shape.  As a long time superstar of the WWF, today known as the WWE, Callaway's role behind the scenes was one of a ring general.  Kind of a Captain of the team, so-to-speak.  One who led by example, and hopefully those under him, the newbies coming up the ranks, would fall in line.

The man today, paints another picture.  He's still same Undertaker he ever was, to some degree, though his role in the company has been dialing back in recent years.  He's not a young man, anymore.  I can speak from experience that the years can catch up to you, if you're not looking in the right direction.  Although, in 'Taker's case, he exercises and works out on a regular basis, and I haven't picked up a weight in years, unless you include my cat.  The Undertaker of today, differs greatly from the one introduced over twenty years ago.

I won't lie to you, though.  The man, Mark Callaway protrays in (and out of) the ring STILL scares me, however nowadays, my level of respect for him equals the level of fear I have for The Undertaker!