Canmore’s Hillbillies

Fule for Thought

 

A hillbilly is defined as a “free living white citizen … who lives in the hills, has no means to speak of, dresses as he can, talks as he pleases, and drinks whiskey when he gets it.”  

I think I was a hillbilly kid growing up in Canmore. I don’t mean we wore straw hats and ripped clothes, or ran moonshine in souped up cars. I just mean, that in the mountains of a small, coal mining town named Canmore, the Fules were not rich, and we had some “quirks!”  

My dad was a coal miner and my mom was a chambermaid. Both immigrants, they could only get menial jobs because of their problems with English. My parents struggled and saved until we had a chance to leave the collection of “Company Houses” in “Mineside” to move to “The Promised Land” called “Townside!”

While building our 950 sq.ft. Dream House, we stayed at the company house in the mountains near the mine. I was four, and stayed with mom on days when my dad worked. She even took me to her workplace, where I would color/play as she worked. One early morning, my dad had come home from the midnight shift of the mine. He saw a black bear rooting through our “burning barrel!” Back in these days, all garbage/paper went into a large barrel, where once a week, it would be burned.

My dad still had his lunch pail, mine clothes, and steel toed boots on, when he decided to sneak up on the bear. With a swift, hard kick, dad made contact with the bear’s behind. I think the bear was shocked, “embearassed”(get it?…Hah!), and hurt, because  it jammed itself into the barrel and, howling and yowling, made for the woods. It hit a tree, shook off the can, and disappeared into the woods!

Another reason I wonder about my “hillbilly” status had more to do with my dad’s Hungarian brother-in-law, whose family lived across from us in “Townside.”   

My Uncle Jim (false name) and his family lived across the street. He was a large, powerful man who could be very strict. Although strict, he also believed many things that he was told. For example, he was told that having raw eggs cracked on his thinning head would help re-grow his hair! I sat amazed one Saturday morning as my uncle sat with a towel wrapped around his head, and my aunt cracked three eggs on his head. She rubbed the gooey yolk into his scalp, but most of it ran down the towel and down his neck! I wondered if this would make his back hairy … I mean, hey, I was five!

My uncle and my dad enjoyed a good drink. My dad made us Root Beer and at the same time, his own beer! He would fill beer bottles with both root beer and beer. As kids, we thought we were so cool walking around town, drinking Root Beer, while the neighbours thought it was beer! My uncle, however decided to build a still and make his own whiskey! In the early 60’s and NOW, this is frowned upon by the Law. One day, he heard the RCMP were on to him, and he panicked. He loaded his truck with the still, and delivered the pieces to OUR house! I watched in shock as he carried all the still’s parts down to our basement. My dad was working in our garage at the time, so he didn’t see this. My uncle ran up and down our stairs, telling me not to answer the door, and he even mentioned “RCMP” a few times. Even at five, I knew this was NOT good!  

As he left, I started to race around … I was NOT ready to go to “the big house, the slammer, the joint!”  

I mean “Shawshank Redemption” hadn’t been WRITTEN yet! I ran to find a hiding place and settled on our vacuum closet, closing the folding door behind me. I’m not sure how long I was there, but I felt a little like Anne Frank! Finally my dad came in and made his way downstairs. All the way back up, he was swearing in a mix of English and Hungarian (it was almost poetic how he strung swear words together!). I came out of the closet (now THAT sounded different!) … and my dad assured me I wouldn’t go to jail. Then he called my uncle to tell him to get the  #*!#*!  still out of our basement! The illegal “hooch” business needed a new location!

The last reason I think a little of the word “hillbilly,” was that my dad had a rifle, and every New Year’s Eve, he’d fire off a few blasts. I knew there was no war going on, but he still shot that rifle off at certain “special” occasions! My dad was also not a pet lover; he felt there had to be a PURPOSE to have a pet. We never got a dog until I was 10, but for some strange reason we had pigeons in the garage and rabbits in a hutch. I used to think the rabbits were pets, and I fed them produce scraps from the grocery store. Now, almost 50 years later, I wonder.  Were they pets, or were they part of “The Fule Food Chain?”  

Hmmmm … we did seem to eat a lot of poultry when I was young … you don’t think?? Nah, it couldn’t be, but I still have a little tear when I watch “Bambi” and see cute, little “Thumper” the bunny!!

 

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that will appear in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)