33-2-11

It's handy to have a pedologist in the family. Who better to pinpoint the old Fraser farm site (Township 33, Range 2, Section 11) on a satellite map? 

The Fraser farm site (Google Earth)

The old Fraser home was southeast of Pilot Mound on the east side of Hwy. 3, half-way between that town and neighbouring Crystal City (which is a scant 7.8 km from Pilot Mound).

The land is virtually indistinguishable as a home site now. After Pete and Annie retired to town, the land was absorbed by a neighbouring farm. Were it not for the correction line as a visual clue, we'd be hard pressed to find it.

Geographically, Dad and his sister Jessie really were supposed to attend school in Crystal City, but no-one protested when they showed up in Pilot Mound School instead. The fact that they were excellent students probably helped. Good thing, too -- when weather was brutal, they could stay with Fraser relatives in town overnight.

Murray Fraser shows us where his childhood home used to be.

Frasers arrived in Pilot Mound in 1906, and the Fraser farm included a large barn, plenty of equipment, haystacks, shelters for livestock, and the house itself. Pete had about 20 horses (of every sort, from race horses to Percherons,) and there was a chicken coop, and room for a few pigs. I suspect there was at least one milk cow around for milk and butter.

Nothing remains to show that Frasers once lived here. The farmstead had no trees, unless you want to count an electrical pole that shows up in the occasional old photo.

Toddler Jessie Fraser beats a path from the barn to the house.

A particularly hard winter. Add snow clearing to those farm chores!

The Fraser farmhouse. With no trees in sight, what's left for an adventurous Jessie Fraser to climb? Collie follows, and a remarkably calm and understanding mom (Annie) recognizes a unique photo op.

Twenty-seven years before the Frasers settled on 33-2-11, there was a down-to-earth (literally) "soddie" on the site. An early history of the area by T. G. McKitrick  notes a meeting held in the rustic home of Thomas Latimer:

Thomas Latimer had an even more humble abode on 33-2-11. It wasn't just Dad's birthplace, it was the birthplace of the Municipality of Louise!
From Corner Stones of Empire: Crystal City and District in the Rock Lake Country in Manitoba, p. 15 [published by The Courier Publishing Co., Crystal City, date unknown. Reprinted 1970]

Early homesteaders made do with what was available locally and quickly, thus the "sod brick" house, as the history book explains:

Corner Stones, p. 25 

It surprised me greatly to come across a 2006 article in The Western Producer quoting farmer Percy Gemmill. This is a familiar name; Gemmills were Dad's immediate (and good) neighbours decades ago. The magazine explains that Percy is using maps to monitor fertilizer applications on his farm at 33-2-11:

Gemmill, who farms 1,600 acres about eight kilometres from Pilot Mound, had read about variable rate and prescription maps and decided it was time to take the plunge.

He contracted with Wade Barnes from Farmers Edge to make zone maps of the entire farm. The map of his east-west half section field designated as N 33-2-11 is typical of many fields on the farm. Gemmill said this map has taught him a lot in just two years. 

“It’s very flat land. Just looking at it, you wouldn’t think there could be so many variations. There are spots where we had been putting on way too much fertilizer and other spots where we were far below our potential yield because we weren’t using enough."

In another related article Percy Gemmill notes that:

“Quite honestly, we were amazed to see so much variability on such flat land. ... What we discovered was that all the main variations are man-made.”

They found that the more productive west quarter had been in the family for a long time. Although Gemmill had farmed this quarter since he graduated from high school in the 1970s, he was not fully aware of the field’s history.

“This west quarter has traditionally been more productive than the east quarter,” Barnes said.

“It’s been Gemmill land for a long time and these guys have always been high input guys. Grandpa Gemmill was one of the first farmers to use fertilizer, so now we’re seeing quite a carryover effect.

“The east quarter was purchased by Gemmill more recently. It had not been a high input field. There had been a lot of stubble burning and summer fallow. The organic matter level is significantly lower today. Same with residual nitrogen.”

Barnes told Gemmill that the maps indicated there had been farmyards and small fields located on the two quarters. Gemmill doubted it, but he was open to digging deeper. 

When Perry’s father, David, entered the conversation, he looked at the map and quickly identified things that had happened before Perry was born.

The older Gemmill pinpointed the fenceline that had divided the two quarters, probably since settlement of the area. He located two farmyards, one at the north edge of each quarter, as well as pastures close to the yards and small fields that were once common.

David also gave the exact location of a 30 acre field at the far east edge on the map that had been summerfallowed during a dry year in the 1950s and the topsoil had blown away. This is an area that showed up as low productivity on the satellite image and the soil tests. Barnes said everything David talked about showed up on the maps.

“The old yard sites today have the potential to be very productive, but they have bad lodging problems every year. What they have under the surface here is old vegetable gardens, livestock barns, corrals, outhouses, hedgerows and other things that contribute to higher organic levels. A lot of the manure dumping would have taken place just south of these yard sites."

It seems the Fraser presence is still discernible, if only for manure dumping. I blame the Percherons.

Amazing sun dome you can build!

Popular Science, May 1966

Dad subscribed to several science magazines, and had a comprehensive collection of Popular Science, Popular Mechanics, Mechanix Illustrated, Science and Mechanics, and assorted others. The library spanned several decades (allowing a wartime gap), and it followed him from Pilot Mound to St. Charles to Bourkevale Drive. It pained me to recycle them when Dad moved to Sturgeon Creek II, but I saved a few for good measure.

The dome was one DIY project Dad actually built. I suspect the geometry intrigued him. As the author explained, "The principle that gives this dome its remarkable strength was discovered by Buckminster Fuller. It's a patented design of interlocking tetrahedrons and icosahedrons that distributes forces evenly throughout the entire framework so that tension and compression forces are balanced. You could say that mathematics holds it up. That's why you can build it with slim sticks and plastic film."

"you can build it with slim sticks and plastic film"

The article claimed a large dome (25 or 30 feet across) could be built for as little as $60, and plans were available for $5.

Murray Fraser astounds the neighbours, 1969

The dome was a curiosity in the neighbourhood. Folks driving by would slow down to gawk, and a few would stop to ask about it.

As interesting and unique as it was, it wasn't that practical. It was not used as a greenhouse, and our insistence that it needed a pool (like in the magazine!) went unheeded.

Cousins Teddy, Brian and Aunt Phyllis. That's Susan Montagnon exiting the dome.

And because it didn't have enough vents, it was stifling hot in there. I recall the thermometer going off the scale, approaching 140 degrees F. The humidity rose likewise, and the panels were fogged with condensation. A mean trick was to slap a panel above the head of your sibling, who would be showered. A meaner trick was to leave quickly and bar the door!

We did put a ping pong table (made by Dad, of course) in there at one point. It suffered in the heat and humidity, though, and there wasn't much room for vigorous play. But the table did provide protection from drips when we slept out in the dome the odd night.

Alas, the Popular Science editors did not anticipate Winnipeg winters, and the plastic was brittle and prone to damage. The structure was dismantled in the summer of 1970. I remember earning a meagre but welcome amount for collecting the pulled staples. The overgrown grass was cut and soon there was no sign that the dome had ever existed.

Our pleas for a pool like this one fell on deaf ears.

The article illustrated how the entrance could either be a hinged panel or one with no plastic,
and showed how a staple gun made assembly quick and easy.

To see the original magazine article, go to: http://www.popsci.com/archive-viewer?id=zikDAAAAMBAJ&pg=111&query=geodesic%20dome

There goes the neighbourhood

Almost.

Imagine picking up the paper and discovering a plan to wipe out half your street. According to the front-page Winnipeg Free Press story of March 1, 1972, the scheme to redevelop Glendale Country Club was no mere proposal; construction was scheduled to start that November. The only outstanding stipulation was an application to have the lands rezoned.

You heard it here first. Winnipeg Free Press, Wednesday, March 1, 1972
  

What was especially alarming to the neighbours was that the development would swallow the houses (and back lane) on the east side of St. Charles Street. While we felt relief in being on the west side, no-one relished the thought of this enormous development happening.

St. Charles, an old French parish, was an enclave that had a small-town atmosphere, contained as it was by Portage Avenue, the Perimeter Highway, the Assiniboine River, and Glendale Country Club. This was our territory as children, and we ran carefree and loose in our range.

Glendale Country Club shareholders had approved the idea, and were quite prepared to relocate west of the Perimeter Highway. According to Glendale 50th Anniversary Yearbook, many members felt that selling this lucrative piece of property would allow them to build a newer, larger golf course elsewhere that would provide many other amenities that the current golf course needed. A call for tenders was sent out and the highest offer was from the St. Maurice Capital Corporation of Montreal.

This 1961 map identifies the Glendale Golf Course property. Whittier Street is now Bedson Street. Note the two Ferry Roads. The one south of the Assiniboine River identifies where the St. Charles Street ferry crossed. A housing development wiped that out. Other street names have since changed, too.
[Source: https://www.newpghs.com/historical-maps]
   

Porteous Street was west of present-day Bedson Street in Westwood. The name Porteous Street no longer exits; it was redeveloped into residential bays like Twain and Dickens.
   

Newspaper illustration (top) and architects' rendering (bottom). 
   

According to the rendering, highrise apartments and other housing would be part of the development. It is hard to conceptualize. Locate the river, Perimeter Hwy. and St. Charles Catholic Church to get your bearings. The church appears to be misplaced, several streets are shown between St. Charles Street and the Perimeter Highway, and Buchanan Blvd. and Stewart Street south of Portage Avenue appear to have been swallowed whole by a department store.

In anticipation, Glendale took an option on about 300 acres 8 miles west of Glendale, on the Assiniboine River, near St. Francois Xavier. But on March 31, 1973 St. Maurice Capital dropped their option. The Club then dropped its option on the St. Francois Xavier property, forfeiting $25,000.

Glendale tried the idea once more and purchased a parcel of land on the Assiniboine River east of Headingley adjacent to the land they'd considered previously. The 310 acres of land cost $330,000. High financing costs discouraged members, who also preferred the closer St. Charles location, and the idea fizzled. The land was sold for $400,000, but interest and other charges wiped out any profit and left a debt of $90,000. By 1984 the Club owed the bank $700,000 and was losing members. Their solution in May 1987 was to sell 13 acres that fronted Portage Avenue, for $4 million. The course was re-designed and the funds allowed renovations to the Clubhouse.

Glendale Country Club as it remains today. Originally it extended to Portage Avenue.

The initial idea of a huge retail and housing development in St. Charles was not so far-fetched. After the Glendale sale of 1972 fell through, Unicity Mall was built directly north of Portage Avenue, across from the golf course. Much of that property was empty pasture, but it did require expropriation of the east side of Knox Street and the west side of David Street. The mall opened in 1975 and was only the third enclosed shopping centre in the city (after Polo Park and Grant Park). It was followed in short order by the St. Vital Mall, a much more successful enterprise serving the growing population in the southeast end of the city.

Unicity Shopping Centre site today, a collection of big box stores that replaced the enclosed mall.
   

In 1975 Unicity was a much-heralded new mall, boasting a radial plan that made travel between its anchor stores (The Bay, Woolco and Dominion) quick. Alas, when Wal-Mart swallowed up the Woolco stores it deemed them too small, and today the property is a boring, ugly big box store destination centre, rather than a true mall.

Unicity Mall, c. 1999. Wal-Mart had replaced Woolco, but was not content with the small size of the store.
   

Some planners anticipate a move back to the enclosed mall concept, where you can shop without needing a car to travel between stores. (That idea strikes me as so, well, American.) The mall idea makes much more sense to an aging population in Winnipeg's climate.

Westwood Village Shopping Center on the south side of Portage Avenue and a few km east of Glendale: Safeway and Zellers connected by a strip mall.
   

The Frasers with Grandma Stevens at Polo Park, when it was only one-storey and had an open roof. Keep your mitts on, kids.

A tale of two gauges

Dad's surface gauge, top, contrasts with his much older carpenter's gauge.

While showing me his machinist's toolbox in his basement one day, Dad pulled out a surface gauge. I was very intrigued with its sculptural qualities and beautiful machining, and was astounded when Dad explained that he had made it himself.

"You want it?" he asked, nonchalantly.

"Sure!" I gasped.

It was a treasure I set aside when we donated the toolbox and its other contents to the Western Canada Aviation Museum. Sorry, but it's mine. 

Dad couldn't recall just when he had made the gauge, sadly, so we don't know whether it was a student project in Winnipeg, or made while studying tool making in Trenton with the RCAF. Perhaps he made it overseas in 1945, after peace was declared and he was waiting to return home.

I couldn't help but compare it to the carpenter's gauge in Dad's woodworker's toolbox. The wooden gauge had been his father's, and may well have belonged to Pete's own father or grandfather before him. Dad certainly used it himself, and considered it a handy tool, rather than the piece of history I consider it to be.

It is interesting to compare the two gauges as metaphors for Dad and his father. The tools represent the progression from straightforward wooden construction of an earlier time, to the advanced aeronautical engineering Dad mastered.

His surface gauge, from its knurled knobs to the sphere decoration at the top, exemplifies Dad's impeccable precision and skill as a tool-maker.

It's easy to understand the carpenter's gauge, less so the surface gauge, so here's a brief lesson from one of Dad's own textbooks, Tool Making, by C. B. Cole.

According to the textbook (American, thus "gage"):

Universal Surface Gages. The surface gage is a handy tool in laying out jigs, fixtures, and other tools. It is also used extensively in setting up jobs on shapers, planers, and milling machines. The surface gage used in conjunction with a dial or pointer indicator has become almost indispensable to the average tool or gage maker.

Various applications of a surface gauge (courtesy L.S. Starrett Company)

In using the surface gage to lay out work for the planer or shaper, a combination square is often used. In this case the scriber on the surface is set to the height desired by means of the scale on the combination square. The height is then transferred to the work to be machined by using the surface gage scriber to mark a line. This is done by placing the work on the surface plate and moving the surface gage to the distance required to be marked.

Left: surface gage used in conjunction with combination square.
Right: Surface gage used to lay out a jig (courtesy Brown & Sharpe Mfg. Co.)

The surface gauge is still an indispensable tool in a machinist's collection. These days they are also used for stop-action animation. Their fine-tuning allows precise control, either way.

Fine and precise, just like Dad.

The heart of a poet

Dad had the brain of an engineer, but the heart of a poet. His library included books on tool-making and mechanical engineering, alongside volumes of poetry. The poetry books were often the most worn.

Among Dad's papers are folders entitled "Good Stuff" that contain poems, scribbles of jokes, clipped articles, quotations, wise words, and more -- much like the scrapbooks and journals the Fraser women before him kept. Likewise, Dad kept a variety of small notebooks.

Dad committed several short verses to memory, and recited a select number of these even more frequently in old age. We knew to nod and allow him his chuckle, even though we heard these repeatedly.

Complain about someone at work, and Dad was sure to reply, "Non illigitimi carborundum," mock Latin meaning "Don't let the bastards grind you down." There are several versions of this. One theory states it originated in World War II by British army intelligence. Perhaps Dad picked it up in the RCAF.

Conversely, if he was having a great time (often enjoying a meal out), Dad would say, "I wonder what the poor people are doing." This is a quote from a fellow at Bristol Aerospace, and it always tickled Dad to say it, usually while flourishing a spoonful of ice cream. We were flattered to hear it because it meant Dad was thoroughly enjoying himself.

You could not pass a fireplace without Dad reciting an excerpt from William Wordsworth's "Personal Talk":

To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

"In the loved presence of my cottage-fire..."

In recent years, Virginia took Dad to visit Edmund in Kingston a few times, and they stayed at the Hochelaga Inn, a cozy historic inn that boasted a double-sided fireplace. I suspect the proprietor heard this recitation, oh, about one thousand times. (Ironically, Dad didn't covet a fireplace of his own - he knew the dirty work they require.)

An oft-quoted verse was by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950):

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.

I am certain this has long been a favorite passage of Dad's. In a tiny notebook from 1945, there is a simple sketch among pages of grocery lists, addresses, travel notes, and assorted reminders. The drawing is obvious if you know this quotation. The engineer and poet converge.

My candle burns at both ends...

Divided by 2a

That’s as much as I can remember of the quadratic equation. Dad, on the other hand, often recited the formula as though it was yet another sonnet in his memorized repertoire.

Dad often quipped that “Frasers can do mathematics through a brick wall.” He was, in fact, quoting Dr. John Duncan Campbell. J.D.’s flattering assessment would be valid. This esteemed educator and superintendent obviously crossed paths with the Ontario Frasers, by proximity and by profession. The small township of Turnberry (30,000 acres) in Huron County was both Dr. Campbell’s birthplace (according to one source), and the location of the Fraser farm on the Maitland River.

In the old scrapbook from Grandma Fraser’s trunk, there is an obituary (c. 1950) for Dr. J. D. Campbell. To have saved this is evidence that admiration ran both ways.

J. D. Campbell's obituary, circa 1950

Further online searching yields little else about such an accomplished man. A publication entitled “Report of the Minister of Education Province of Ontario for the Year 1945” notes his retirement after an impressive career in education:

Dr. J. D. Campbell, B.A., was born in the Township of Turnberry and received his elementary education in the rural school in S.S. No. 9 Turnberry. He obtained his secondary education in Seaforth Collegiate Institute and Harriston High School. He attended the School of Pedagogy in 1895 and began teaching in U.S.S. No. 12 Culross, where he remained for four and one-half years, resigning his position to become principal of Highgate Continuation School. After three years he attended the University of Toronto and graduated with First Class Honours in Mathematics and Physics in 1908. He was appointed to the staff of Chesley High School in September, 1908, and obtained the principalship in 1909, which he held until 1913 when he was appointed Master in Mathematics in the Stratford Normal School. Dr. Campbell later served with distinction as a Master at the Ottawa and Toronto Normal Schools. Under his skillful and steady guidance thousands of student-teachers learned a great deal of the more excellent way of teaching. In 1928 Dr. Campbell was appointed to the Technical staff of Inspectors in the Department of Education, and one year later was appointed Assistant Chief Inspector of Public and Separate Schools. In 1944 he became Assistant Superintendent of Elementary Education, a position which he held until his retirement on August 31st, 1945. Dr. Campbell obtained his degree as Doctor of Pedagogy from the University of Toronto in 1943. His thesis regarding Arithmetic in the Ontario elementary schools is a splendid contribution, and is indicative of the type of work done by Dr. Campbell. The educational system of the province has benefited greatly from the services of Dr. Campbell, and his sound scholarship and good judgment have won him the respect of all who have been associated with him.

We can’t be sure of which Fraser(s) Dr. Campbell was referring to (or which township Dr. Campbell was actually born in), but we know that Dad perpetuated the ability to see mathematics through a brick wall, starting at an early age. Proud mom Annie (Reid) Fraser kept a few of his early workbooks, along with high school tests and years of report cards. Dad was consistently at the head of the class across the board. [Likewise, Mom was a precocious student, and I will grant her extra credit for being a number of years younger than her classmates!]

Arithmetic test, 1926

Grade 1 report card, 1927

Grade 2 report card, 1927-28. Note the perfect marks in Story Telling and Memorizing. Indeed!

Grade 7 report card, 1932-33

Grade 8 report card, 1933-34



Grade 10 Dept. of Education marks, July 1936

Geometry test, Easter 1937



We lost a good man today

Murray Reid Fraser
May 31, 1919 – April 20, 2013

The family is sad to announce the passing of our dear father today.

Dad was born May 31, 1919 on the family homestead near Pilot Mound, Manitoba. He was the good-humoured second child of Annie Reid and Peter Fraser.

“I don’t understand why my father didn’t just teach school,” Dad would sometimes say. “He went to teachers’ college back in Ontario.” Dad would shake his head over the choice to farm instead. He did not like farming, no thanks to the Depression. His parents were more philosophical, and took the hard times in stride.

Dad used to quote his father: “I used to drive a car, now I’m riding a bike, but another year or two with no crop and I’ll land on my feet yet!"

Neither did Dad inherit the Fraser passion for horses. Several uncles trained and raced standard breds on the harness racing circuit, and his father showed Percherons across the country. It was an expensive hobby, but outside of the show ring, the beasts earned their keep pulling farm implements and the undertaker’s fancy glass hearse. Dad, the most fastidious of men, explained that it is impossible to get nostalgic for horses if you’ve ever mucked stalls and tended to a constipated Percheron.

When he was in Grade 12 in Pilot Mound High School, he met his future wife, Hazel Stevens, who was in Grade 11. Dad used to tell people she was a “little slow” without necessarily adding that she was, in fact, an exceptional student three years younger than he was.

My parents met again in Winnipeg in the winter of 1940-41. Dad was attending the Dominion Provincial Vocational School prior to being accepted into the RCAF for airframe mechanic training. “The war was an honourable route off the farm,” he used to say.

Following his LAC training in airframe mechanics and advanced metal repair at St. Thomas, Dad was posted to #6 Repair Depot, Trenton, Ontario. In the spring of 1945, he shipped overseas and was posted to #6 Bomber Group at Linton-on-Ouse, Yorkshire.

He used to tease us kids that we’re on earth today only because he was colour blind. That kept him out of pilot training and safely on the ground during the war. (It is also why we could forgive his chartreuse kitchen, which looked like a lovely French vanilla to Dad.)

After the war ended, Dad returned to Pilot Mound in January of 1946. Farming was not his choice of work, so in the fall he went to Winnipeg and took more technical training in machine shop and die making. In March, 1948, he began employment with MacDonald Bros. Aircraft at 83¢ an hour as a toolroom charge hand. He took great pride in his work and was well respected for his problem-solving abilities and technical expertise. He continued with the company when it became Bristol Aerospace, and retired in 1982 after 34 years of service.

It is hard to know what came first, Dad’s attention to detail and impeccable precision in all things, or his long career as a machinist and production planner at Bristol. Either way, the work reflected his nature, and vice versa. This was a man who would shave and put on a suit and tie to go buy spark plugs at Canadian Tire. He ate doughnuts with a knife and fork.

How we used to kid Mr. Neat-and-Clean about his tidiness. It’s no wonder he had no love for farming. In fact, after he returned from the war in 1946, he built his father a tractor cab from aircraft aluminum, to ward off the dirt and harsh sun. It was the first tractor cab in the district, and helped him land a job at Bristol Aerospace soon afterwards.

On July 9, 1949 Dad married the love of his life, Hazel Stevens, daughter of Zelma and Fred Stevens of Roseisle, Manitoba. For their honeymoon they travelled through the United States and up through the Rockies as far as Jasper.

Their first home was a little cottage at 230 Parkhill Street, then in the western outskirts of Winnipeg. They had electricity, but no sewer or water. Their son was born here.

In 1952 the Frasers moved to a big, old, brick house on the very western edge of Winnipeg, and within five years four more children were born and filled the place. Our childhood years were happy and downright idyllic in this semi-rural neighbourhood teeming with Baby Boom kids.

Farming aside, we imagine that Dad was very much like the father he loved and admired. Both were optimists with a keen sense of humour. Dad often sang songs he learned from his father, and would recall his wise words and wisecracks. A hammer was an “American screwdriver,” and when Dad said he had “paid George,” that meant he had paid his income taxes (that is, King George VI).

The rural life taught both Fraser men to be resourceful and self-sufficient. As children, we assumed all fathers could readily pour concrete, wire a house, shingle a roof, fix the car, insulate and drywall an attic, install linoleum, renovate the bathroom, build furniture, and machine a working steam engine model, just for fun.

Dad agreed with his father’s claim that “Frasers can do mathematics through a brick wall.” Some of us would argue for a window, but it wasn’t unusual for Dad to zone out at the dinner table, doing trigonometry in his head after a hard day at the office. He would rattle off the quadratic equation from time to time, just to test us. He was just as likely to recite from Shakespeare and Robbie Burns, but was equally versed in Peck’s Bad Boy and Will Rogers.

Although real horses held no romance for him, Dad was passionate and nostalgic about iron beasts. He rarely missed an annual trip to the Austin Threshermen’s Reunion. He would roll down his window as we neared the grounds, to smell the steam in the air and listen for the steam engines’ whistle. These monsters seemed alive to him, and he enjoyed the powerful breath and purr of a well-stoked engine. He would pose for photos next to the big Case steamer, but only “for scale” he’d say, shyly. When he tossed a few sheaves into a threshing machine, it was not because he missed it. At Austin, he enjoyed the fact that he could stop any time he wanted, and go for ice cream instead.

In 1981 our parents sold the family home and moved to 137 Bourkevale Drive in St. James. They enjoyed eight years of retirement until Mom passed away on October 12, 1989.

A few years later, Virginia bought Dad a membership in the St. James Speedskating Club. He’d always skated for fun, and so agreed to join Virginia and her sons, Edmund and Thomas, at the rink.

The coach couldn’t believe her stopwatch. “Do you realize you’re breaking records?”she exclaimed, as Dad cruised around the Sargent Park oval. She convinced him to make it official, and at age 74, Dad found himself in a spandex race suit, racing the clock. In short order he shattered every national record for men in the 70-plus category, at various distances on both indoor and outdoor tracks.

All but one record, that is. Dad deliberately left one record unchallenged. He thought the previous record holder should remain a champion, too.

On our branch of the family tree, Dad was the last Fraser of his generation. Knowing this, he spent considerable time writing a family history of sorts, preserving precious photos, newspaper clippings, and of course, his best stories. We have heard these tales several times, but wish we could hear any of them just once more.

My father always looked forward to “Bristol breakfasts” with his fellow company retirees. He had enjoyed working at “the plant,” and fondly recalled his eccentric and memorable friends there. “He was a good fellow,” he’d often say.

I can hear him now.

Dad was a member of the Royal Canadian Legion and the Western Canada Aviation Museum. He was the best curator you could hope to have, and could relate the intricate details of an engine overhaul or manufacturing contract well beyond our comprehension of them.

In his later years Dad especially enjoyed the company of dear friends who introduced him to line dancing. He didn’t think he was a natural dancer, and took a mathematical approach to choreography, but really had fun anyway. He was flattered by the attention of many dance partners, if only because the women usually outnumbered the men.

While we remember him for his great sense of humour, Dad sometimes used his advancing age as licence to be a curmudgeon. Specific things would make him grumble – like the Chrysler PT Cruiser, which he considered ridiculous. TV commercials irked him, and we learned never to say the word “Autopac” within earshot. But then he’d have some ice cream, and all would be right with the world.

The 1955 obituary of Pete Fraser, Dad’s father, ends with: “His sincere friendliness and ready smile were good medicine for all. No man had more friends and fewer enemies.” The same can be said of Murray Reid Fraser, but he would blush to hear it.

Cha bhithidh a leithid ami riamh

(His equal will never be among us again.)

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