Letters from Afar

Chapter 7

A little more than a month later a reply did come from South Vietnam, ensconced within a small envelope having several stamps spread around the address. I examined the stamps and postmarks for a few minutes to savour the moment, and pondered those scenes depicting a war-torn country still locked in an incomprehensible civil war. I almost didn't want to open and damage the envelope, but I did.

Inside was a short one-page letter on green newsprint paper handwritten entirely in French. Receiving a letter in French wasn't a complete surprise, because in my letter I'd mentioned I was from Montreal and did know a little French. Enclosed also was a black and white postcard of a building known as the Cao Dai Pagoda. The architecture was definitely pagoda-like Asian, but in some strange way the structure reminded me of the Notre Dame church facing Place d'Armes square in downtown Montreal. I'll admit some disappointment she hadn't enclosed a photo of herself instead of the pagoda picture, but likewise, I hadn't sent her a photograph of me. 

Lien Huong apologized for replying in French because she knew too little English, and at present a student, she'd been studying French for a number of years. She needn't have apologized because I was happy she'd chosen to reply. Through her penned paragraphs, I learned Vietnam had been a colony of France and the third most commonly spoken language is French. Chinese is second.

With the use of an English-French dictionary I wrote back to her in French, telling her about Thanksgiving Day in Canada and about my plans for the approaching holiday long weekend. Afterward, I went out and mailed my letter with the hope another reply from her might soon follow. 

Spending the next evening digging through books in the library, I discovered that either little had been written about Vietnam, or little was available in the library other than recent left-wing anti-war protest publications. Nonetheless I learned that Cao Dai was a religion, and Tay Ninh its birthplace. Much to my surprise, the religion was established in 1926 by Le Van Trung, and the accompanying photograph of the founder portrayed a man who looked more like an elderly grandfather. This discovery trashed all my stereotypical assumptions about far eastern religions being thousands of years old steeped in generations of Asian traditions. This Asian religion could at best only be measured in decades. Older followers and adherents could probably remember their religion's founder, and raison d'etre for its founding.

The following evening I scribbled down some sketches for a new piano work. Although a step in a new direction, I was dissatisfied with the harmonic structure because the written music wasn't yielding the sounds I wanted to hear. Out of frustration I took a few pages of the sketches with me and travelled downtown to one of the major department stores that sold pianos. While I really wanted to purchase a piano I just couldn't afford one now. Nonetheless, I sat at a piano on display and began fiddling with my music. Hoping to avoid attracting unwanted attention right away, I moved from one piano to another to appear as if I was making comparisons. 

About half an hour later a salesman finally appeared and started asking questions about my interest in music. After mentioning a few musical works to the gentlemen, I realized that he knew almost nothing about music dated before the 1960’s. He didn't even know how to play the piano. His job I suppose was to peddle pianos and not play them. Regardless, I'd overstayed my welcome there, but the half-hour did allow me to hear enough of the sketches to know revisions were needed. The time spent was also an acute reminder that if I was going to compose and work on music, then I was going to have to buy a piano.

The second weekend of October...

Early Saturday afternoon and sixty-five minutes late, CP Rail's eastbound Canadian squealed to a stop in front of the train station at Field, British Columbia. I descended to the platform and set my pack down. For a few minutes I stood beside the steaming stainless steel streamliner that had effortlessly carried me these five hundred miles to this tiny settlement that had no reason for existence other than being a CP Rail division point. Even the Trans-Canada Highway by-passed Field on the opposite side of the Kicking Horse River. The remaining thirteen or fourteen miles to Lake Louise I'd traverse under my own power. 

Thoughts and daydreams about hiking up the Big Hill and over the Great Divide of the Canadian Rockies had been one of my childhood ambitions since I first learned in school about the history of the CPR and Van Horne's building of the railway across Canada. Finally I was here to accomplish that trek. 

Looking eastward, Kicking Horse Canyon was covered by ominous-looking grey clouds that were threatening to release a deluge of water. I pulled a pipe out of my pack, stuffed the tobacco tighter than usual into the bowl and then set it alight. Satisfied the pipe was burning well, I lifted my pack, heaved it on to my back, slipped my arms through the straps, fiddled a bit to adjust the balance of my load and headed forward in a cloud of smoke to tackle the Big Hill. Not to be outdone, the train's diesels throbbed to life and began spewing up clouds of black smoke as the Canadian pulled out of Field, also to tackle the Big Hill. CP Rail's train would make the climb in about an hour. I was hoping to do it in a day.

Leaving the railway and Field, I crossed over the river to the Trans-Canada Highway and headed eastward into the canyon. 

I couldn't have been plodding along for more thirty to forty minutes before noticing another foot traveller ahead, but off on the other side of the highway. As I neared, he climbed the embankment from the ditch and called out, "How long since your last ride?"

I stopped walking and answered, "I'm not looking for any rides." 

I figured he was probably about the same age as I was, but he looked weary and scruffy like a panhandler. His pack was resting on the shoulder of the highway, and his left hand clutching a guitar case.

"Where did you come from?" and he sounded curious. 

"Field..." and pointing toward the tiny settlement barely noticeable from here, I said, "it's over there... just on the other side of the river."

"I’ve been here three days and no one stops. Nights are awful cold. Should go home but goin' on to Vancouver and then Seattle." he mumbled.

"Where are you from?" 

"Georgia. You know that place?"

"Yeah..." aware Georgia was somewhere in the South, "What are you doing way up here?" 

"Don't really know. Just been travellin' around but can't get outta here. Too cold and no rides." his frustration unmistakable.

After a few more moments of conversation I surmised that he wasn't just cold, but was hungry, disoriented and discouraged about not being able to hitch a ride. Much of his conversation was incoherent, but I was able to glean enough information to learn that he had spent three nights in the Kicking Horse Canyon sleeping under the highway bridges. He refused my offer of food. I suggested that if he was cold and desperate for shelter, then he should think about going over to the train station in town. He was surprised to learn there was a town and train station so near. I wished him well and then continued onward.

Two hours later, and now truly in the middle of nowhere, I was alone and isolated from everyone except for the people in the cars and trucks that raced by. Here I was in this craggy corner of British Columbia that I'd often dreamed about one day visiting. This day had arrived but I had not expected a cool, damp, overcast October weekend because I had always visualized a warm, sunny, late August summer day. My temporary resting place was beneath the Trans-Canada Highway on the concrete bridge support footing, a sheltered front row seat facing the famed Canadian Pacific route through Kicking Horse Pass. 

The highway overpass was a perfect location to break my trek, rest and celebrate Thanksgiving Weekend with the special meal I'd brought along just for this occasion. My meal consisted of English muffins, cheese slices and a tiny bottle of red wine. To provide some atmosphere of elegance, other than the scenery, I brought along a few paper cups I'd taken from train's water cooler. At least a paper cup was a step above having to drink out of the bottle. I would've preferred a hot turkey dinner with my family in Pierrefonds which I was certain they'd be enjoying this weekend. 

After opening the bottle of wine and filling a paper cup, I stretched out and raised my arm then exclaimed aloud, "Here's to you Canada!" and then as an afterthought toasted, “Here's to you CPR!” 

I'd officially toasted Canada, my favourite railway and the fulfillment my dream of walking in Kicking Horse Canyon to ascend the famous Big Hill. Pensively I devoured my humble Thanksgiving dinner amidst the stark stony silence of three towering giants, Mount Field, Mount Stephen and Cathedral Mountain, truly grateful to God for this unique Canadian experience. I was also thankful for my new friend in South Vietnam. Through dinner I'd remained hopeful a train would pass, but the only entertainment was the overhead thumps and roars of cars and trucks banging over the bridge expansion joints. After my meal I packed up what was left over, climbed back up the embankment to the highway and resumed my foot-journey.

The steepest stretch Canadian Pacific Railway’s original Kicking Horse Pass alignment had been abandoned after the Spiral Tunnels were completed in 1911. Decades later the Trans-Canada Highway was constructed over most of the abandoned rail route. I was amazed to think that trains could have climbed the original route’s four and a half percent grade up to the Great Divide. Just walking with a light load in my backpack was strenuous enough. Eventually I passed a piece of the original route that had been preserved beside the highway, an aged stone bridge over one of the tumbling torrents near the source of the Kicking Horse River. 

Standing at the edge of the Trans-Canada Highway and looking at the remains of the first man-made route through these mountains, I silently wondered about the thousands of anonymous and forgotten labourers who struggled valiantly and toiled triumphantly to carve out this route for Van Horne some ninety years earlier. I wished that I could go back in time and watch the work in progress, but I would not have had the luxury of CP Rail's Canadian and the Trans-Canada Highway to allow me so easy an access.

The sky remained dark grey, overcast and periodically spit down large drops of very cold water to remind me that I was an uninvited intruder and at nature's mercy and whim. In a matter of minutes I could very easily be drenched in a flood of ice water from the hostile clouds above. Rushing to get ready and catch the train last evening, I had neglected to pack any rainwear. Whether optimist or fool, I had been expecting clear weather. Those cold wet minuscule missiles were a constant "I told you so." 

At what age does the desire for self-preservation begin to outweigh the desire for excitement and adventure? 

I don't know, but I hadn't yet reached that defining point in life. With train travel and hiking I could still be reckless and carefree, which sounds better than saying foolish. Anyway, I had ample opportunity to contemplate the consequences of recklessness while I persisted in my uphill trudge. My immediate concern was to reach Lake Louise before dark and hopefully dry. The train station would provide me with shelter even if I didn't arrive early enough to connect with the westbound Canadian.

I'd almost reached at Wapta Lake when a car stopped. The driver asked if I wanted a ride as far as Calgary. I have no idea what compelled the driver to stop because I hadn't made any attempt at hitchhiking. Of course my instinctive first response was to say no, but I accepted his offer for a ride only as far as Lake Louise. 

An easy minute later we skirted around the northern side of Wapta Lake and the Van Horne Route curved away from the highway and around on the opposite side of the lake. Wapta looked more like a large pond than a lake, although a very deep one according to my map. The lake's surface was grey and choppy instead of the tranquil mirror-smooth turquoise shades I remembered seeing on a previous journey. As the car topped the Big Hill and passed by the large sign welcoming us into Alberta, the sky finally made good on its threat and released a heavy deluge of rain. To this day I wonder if God had moved that driver to stop and rescue me from my foolishness.

By the time we arrived at Lake Louise, the rain had stopped. Grateful for a dry arrival, I thanked the motorist for his kindness, said good-bye and then headed toward the train station. 

CP Rail's Lake Louise station is a beautiful large building constructed entirely from logs. Inside was a massive red brick fireplace. The hearth’s perimeter was made with a discarded track rail that had been bent into a semi-circle. Benches faced the fire place and I chose the spot nearest the hearth. The hearth was spotless and had probably not seen a fire in many years. I imagined scenes of long ago when cold and weary travellers in the dead of winter huddled around the fireplace for warmth while waiting for trains delayed by snow and avalanches. Took me a while to realize the fireplace wasn't real.

The station had seen busier times in an earlier era, but today the building was only a silent empty shell. I was the lone would-be passenger with the entire building to myself. The Canadian wasn't due for at least an hour, and that was assuming the train would arrive on time. While waiting, I wrote to Lien Huong and told her about my journey on the train and my trek up the Big Hill. I also shared with her the two lessons I'd learned from my foolhardiness; prepare for all types of weather and start a hike at the top of a hill rather than at the bottom.

Another envelope arrived a few weeks later. This letter was longer than the first and was written in English, a very fractured English. I realized that Lien Huong’s knowledge of my language was limited and she appeared to have laboured just to write the two short pages. Some sentences were challenging because I had difficulty interpreting and understanding their meaning, but I certainly wasn't going to make any comments in my reply. I was grateful and pleased someone was taking the time to write to me, even if she was half a world away. Friends I'd left behind in eastern Canada had forgotten how to write.

We exchanged several letters during the next few weeks but after reading the latest letter I was surprised when she asked me,

"Why you write name Lien Huong? My name not Lien Huong. Lien my friend. My name is Vinh thi Phi Bang. You write to me please. Lien have too many friends to write to. She gave your letter to me to write to friend in Canada. Please don’t be angry for that change."

Phi Bang apologized because she must have thought I would not have written if I had known that someone else rather than Lien Huong was writing the letters. Phi Bang went on to explain that Lien Huong had received many letters from all over the world and was not able to reply to all of them. Lien Huong had chosen to pass some of the letters on to her friends and Phi Bang had been given my second letter. Phi Bang had continued replying to my letters. No, I was not angry about the change because I was grateful that someone was writing to me. Phi Bang’s explanation answered one aspect that I had been curious about; the handwriting in all the letters had differed from the first. Now I understood why.

I replied and told Phi Bang that it did not matter to me if I was writing to her and not to Lien Huong. I promised Phi Bang that I would continue to write to her if she would continue to write to me. After completing my letter, I darted up the hill to the box to mail the letter and then headed over to Kitsilano Beach for a leisurely stroll along the waterfront. 

After returning from my walk along Kitsilano Beach, I sat down at the desk and re-read Phi Bang's letter. Placing her letter aside, I picked up the new CP Rail timetable that had taken effect with the change to Standard Time at the end of October. Reading a new timetable was often akin to reading the obituary page in a newspaper and wondering, "Who died?" 

In this case, which passenger train service had passed away into history and was absent from the new schedule?

Phi Bang's following letter contained a pleasant surprise, a photograph of her. In the photo, Phi Bang was standing beneath tall trees that resembled pine trees. The background behind her was still water like a pond or lake. She told me that the photo had been taken when she had visited Dalat. Phi Bang mentioned that Dalat was very beautiful and her favourite place. The scene portrayed a peaceful tranquil park and didn't in any way betray the reality of a war ravaged country. She also told me she was seventeen years old, but as far as I was concerned, the photo pictured a very pretty young woman rather than a teenager. I placed Phi Bang's photo on my desk, standing the photo up against the backs of the music books. I wondered, “Why on earth would a pretty young lady on the far side of the world be interested in writing to me?” 

The following Tuesday was one of those rare November evenings in Vancouver that I had learned to be grateful for, wet but not raining. Time to do the laundry. More than the usual accumulation of clothing was in need of washing and the bulky load had reached the limit of what I could comfortably carry. The steep uphill walk along Arbutus Street from First to Fourth Avenue was a chore in itself while carrying an awkward load. Arbutus Street was deserted and I deliberately walked slower than normal, pausing occasionally to glance at the sky. Stars were not visible but I was certain the clouds were clearing out.

I wasn't paying all that much attention, but something on the sidewalk caught my attention; a dollar bill. I stopped and picked it up. The banknote was almost new and had been perfectly double-folded into fourths. The person who'd lost this had very carefully folded it in this manner, and I wondered if my find was a child's allowance that had inadvertently been dropped. I would've preferred to be able to return my find to the rightful owner, but doing so was impossible. 

While continuing up the hill I thought about the dollar. It certainly would not buy me very much so I decided to save it, determined to make that particular dollar the symbolic first dollar in my savings for travel to a far distant place some day. Perhaps the resources would eventually be necessary.

Later, as I was opening the door to my three-room closet, the telephone started ringing. 

"Oh no." I groaned aloud.

Throwing the laundry bags on to the couch I grabbed the telephone receiver before the caller gave up, and I half shouted, "Yes?"

"Is that any way to answer the phone?" Martha admonished.

"I'm sorry.” 

"Did I get you at a bad time?" 

"I just got back from the Laundromat, and the phone started ringing as soon as I put the key in the lock." 

"You sound like you're expecting another call." 

"I was expecting you to be another one of the those contest callers.” and I sat on the couch

“Have you won anything?” Martha sounding curious.

“About two weeks ago someone called me and told me that if I could correctly answer a skill testing question I would win six weeks of free dance lessons at some dance studio.” I revealed.

“Really? Did you win?” she asked

“I answered the question wrong and yet I won.” I admitted.

“Great! When do you start?” Martha asked sounding rather excited.

“I refused the prize." I said.

That was dumb."

"Why?"

"You should have taken it!" Martha commented in a tone that betrayed a trace of disdain for my decision.

"Actually, I did accept it after some badgering from the caller and they mailed me a certificate." I said. 

"So what happened?" Martha asked, now sounding very curious.

I went there out of curiosity, but after taking one look I handed the envelope to the receptionist and ran out." I confessed.

"I can't believe you did that!" she exclaimed.


"That was really not for me." I emphasized. 

How are you ever going to meet anyone, especially that special person you keep telling me you hope to find?" she asked.

"There’re other ways than at a dance studio. Six weeks free and then what? They’d have pestered me to no end just to sign me up for six months of expensive dance lessons.” I answered.

“It might have been fun.” she interjected.

“Yeah! Sure! About as much fun as an encyclopedia salesman pushing you to buy the whole set after you have taken Volume One for free. I don't need that kind of nonsense." I pointed out.

“You should have given dancing a try.” She insisted.

"Martha, I don't know how to dance. I don’t even like it." I protested. 

"Anyway, I called you to find out what you've been up to. We haven't seen you or heard from you for a while." Martha stated.

"I visited Field and Lake Louise at Thanksgiving." I mentioned.

"Where’s Field?" she asked.

"In the middle of nowhere." I replied informatively.

"Oh? Sounds exciting...I just wanted to know that everything’s okay with you.” she explained.

"It is, but I've been busy." I assured her.

"Doing what? Did you find a girlfriend?" Martha probed in staccato succession.

"No. I began working on a new composition. Something different from what I’ve done before but I need a piano to develop it further." I revealed hesitantly.

"You can go to my Mom's place anytime to do that." Martha reminded.

"Yeah, I know, but I also know your mom doesn't always want to hear me plinking way at the keyboard every time I visit." 

"Have you had any hot dates since the last time we talked?" Martha threw at me.

"What?... No!” I replied, obviously sounding flustered.

“Too bad, but I keep hoping for you.” She remarked.

“Martha, there’re times when you can ask the most unexpected questions when they’re least expected." I commented in exasperation.

"Well that's why they're unexpected." she quipped without missing a beat.

"I’ve also been doing some research at the library." I added hoping to redirect the conversation.

"Have you tried asking someone out?" she questioned, ignoring my comment about the library.

"Martha, have you ever found yourself searching for something but not knowing what it is you’re searching for, yet knowing if you ever found it, you’d know right away that it’s precisely what you’ve been searching for?" I asked, but not really expecting she'd give me an answer.

"What are you talking about now?”

“That special person I've been looking for.”

"Did you finally meet someone?" Martha now sounding vmore interested.

"No. I've just been having those weird dreams again... about meeting a Chinese girl." I revealed.

“Is that why you've been at the library?” she asked.

"No. I've been trying to find out more about South Vietnam." I stated flatly.

"All you have to do is read the newspapers or turn on the TV if you want to know about Vietnam." she stated informatively.

"No, I don't mean the war. I want to know more about the people and their country. There’s surprisingly little information available in the library and yet the country has dominated the news headlines for so many years." I mentioned.

"Does this have anything to do with your music?" Martha inquired.

"It sort of does now that you mention it." I answered while thinking about my new composition in progress and glancing at the photograph of Phi Bang on the desk.

"I'm going to Mom's on Saturday afternoon. Why don't you plan to come too and we can talk more there. I'll even stay quiet long enough to listen to your new music. I promise!" she offered.

"Yeah...alright...I could use some critical input." I responded thoughtfully.

"Did you forget already?"

"What?"

"I don't know anything about music." Martha responded facetiously.

"I could use some critical input from a music critic that doesn't know anything about music." I commented light-heartedly.

"With a compliment like that coming from you, maybe I should become a professional music critic. What do the real one's know anyway? I'll see you Saturday." Martha countered.

"You might have something there. Anyway, thanks for calling and I’ll see you Saturday." I said, and then hung up the phone.

Again, I stared at the photograph of Phi Bang then said aloud, "Maybe on Saturday I'll tell Martha about you. Why am I talking to you? You can't even hear me. What am I doing?"

I picked Phi Bang's photo up off the desk, looked at her closely for a moment, and then returned the photo to the envelope with her letter and then challenged myself again, " What am I doing?"

One early December evening I had just finished trudging home in the darkness and rain after another frustrating day at work. My umbrella had been placed into dutiful active service but a slight breeze had been blowing against the direction I had to travel. The result left me soaked from my waist down. Only silence and darkness greeted me upon arrival at my living quarters, dreary and depressing to say the least. Removing the photo once more from the envelope, I again stood Phi Bang's photo against the backs of the books on my desk. Arriving home to a silent photo was better than arriving home to nothing at all. Before changing into dry clothes I first filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil to make coffee.

Upstairs in the foyer another letter from Phi Bang was waiting for me. In that instant her letter felt like a much needed ray of sunshine in a discouraging day that had rained continuously from the dark of morning through to the dark of night. Inside the envelope was a lengthy letter. Hidden among the pages was another photo and a strange looking leaf, which Phi Bang explained, was a Salon leaf. The leaf had been changed by first placing it in mud for several weeks. Later, the mud had been washed off and with it the decayed parts of the leaf were washed away, leaving behind only the stem and the network of veins. 

This second image of Phi Bang was a black and white school photo. She detailed in her letter that she was wearing white in the photo because her mother had died. I wondered if her mother had been a war casualty, but in reading on I learned that her mother had died from stomach cancer. I also learned that Phi Bang came from a large family and was the second eldest of ten children. She had two sisters and seven brothers, but sadly her youngest brother had died at birth.

Phi Bang also revealed to me that she desired to continue her studies but expressed a concern that she was uncertain if she would be able to. She did not state any reasons why. She also talked about improving her English language skills but I already knew from her letters that she wrote in English with difficulty. In turn I acknowledged that I could not speak even so much as a single word in Vietnamese. In fact, I had never heard spoken Vietnamese.

The following evening after work, I stopped in at one of my favourite bookstores to see if I could find an easy-to-understand English grammar book that I could send to Phi Bang. After browsing around for an hour or so, I chose two books. One dealt with English grammar and the other only with vocabulary. Christmas was only four weeks away and I was hoping that Phi Bang would receive the books before Christmas.
 

The Oddblock Station Agent

Last Weekend of Summer

Chapter 6

On a sunny September Sunday afternoon when I should've been outside enjoying the fair weather, I was indoors sitting on the couch and skimming classified advertisements in newspapers, because I was hoping to find a reasonably priced, good condition used piano for sale. By chance and snagging my attention, was a most unusual advertisement that read, "Men and women around the world seeking pen pals, friendship and romance through correspondence. For details send $20.00 in US funds to Mercury..." 

The address was in West Germany. 

"Is this for real?" I wondered.

An interesting name though, wasn't Mercury the mythological Roman messenger? 

Try as I might to ignore the peculiar ad, it had captured my imagination nonetheless, and for some inexplicable reason, the ad seemed to be offering a possible alternate route out from the solitude and silence I disliked, but was living nonetheless. 

Was I so desperate that I'd finally sunk to this low level?

Was I going to be stupid enough remit $20.00 to a post office box address in Europe? And if so, for what?

Or could letter writing to others elsewhere who were interested in correspondence with others elsewhere, provide me with a means more to my liking, and a style I might be more at ease with? 

Fresh in my mind also was a newspaper article I'd read several weeks ago, a heart-touching story concerning Quaglio the barber, and one of the few people in Vancouver whom I'd met. Several times I had visited his small shop located on West Cordova Street across from CP Rail's venerable railway station, and where I'd been going to get my hair cut. Anyway, Quaglio's story had appeared in the Vancouver newspapers, and a remarkable story about how he'd met his wife in South America through letter correspondence. After exchanging many letters he travelled to South America to meet her, they married there, and now he was fighting with the Canadian Government to obtain a permit to allow his wife permanent residency in Canada.

"Could I do the same and find someone special that way?"

"Or am I out of touch with reality?"

Both sides of my internal debate were inconclusive, so for review later, I cut out the ad and set it aside on the already cluttered bed, my usual filing place. No further thought was given to finding a piano, and having finished with the newspapers, I placed them aside. Most of my afternoon had been frittered away, so I wanted to get out and spend time at Kitsilano Beach before the entire afternoon was gone.

The Kitsilano waterfront had become my favourite retreat at any time, and while visiting the park didn't solve my problems, walking and pondering helped in taking some edge off life's issues, and frame them in better perspectives. Upon reaching the highest bluff along the point, I stopped to gaze across English Bay, because the calm water was bright blue instead of those more gloomy hues of greys and dull greens I saw more often. I stayed a while and watched as those mountains across the bay made slow but constant changes in appearance as the sun moved and late afternoon shadows on the slopes shifted. 

Although a fair distance away, I noticed smoke rising from one of the nearer treed slopes. Soon an aircraft appeared, and circled about over there before releasing a load of what appeared to be water. The aircraft made several subsequent passes, and released more water until the smoke began to dissipate. While listening to the radio later that night, a news item reported a small forest fire had been extinguished earlier in the day on the slopes above North Vancouver, thus what I'd witnessed was the airborne part of the fight against those flames. 

Out in English Bay, numerous ocean freighters were anchored, all waiting to be berthed for the loading or unloading of cargo. Some days the bay looked like a parking lot for ships. Once on a while I'd wonder what countries they came from, or which ports they'd visit next, but I could never envision myself working and living on one of those ships for months at a time. Isolation can take on many forms, and I didn't need that one.

Minutes later I noticed a slow moving, small white boat resembling a lifeboat approaching. Crew members from one of the freighters no doubt, and heading shoreward for a visit in Vancouver. When the small vessel was near and passed by on its way into the False Creek channel, I counted a dozen or more seated men, and all wearing the same bright blue uniforms. Not to be outdone by the motor's constant noisy drone, occasional indistinguishable shouts came from the men. After passing beneath Burrard Bridge, the small boat disappeared from view, and thus the parting scene became another of my afternoon at the seashore memories.

Later on I noticed water had begun surrounding those rocks below the bluff, meaning the tide was sneaking in. What first snagged my attention however, were several bobbing pieces of broken tree branches that had been driven ashore by waves, and now bouncing against the rocks. Seeing those jogged my memory of something I'd either heard or read once before.

 

Centuries earlier off the northwestern island coast of Scotland, my ancestors were said to have been shipwrecked, but were saved from drowning by clinging to pieces of drifting wood they used to get ashore. Perhaps an innate inherited trait of Hebridean ancestry attracted me to the edge of this sea delineating the western edge of Canada's most mountainous province. I liked walking along the beach and shoreline at any hour, in all seasons, and any type of weather. 

"The windier, the better; the stormier, all the more alluring." I thought for a second, but then I realized such an uninviting scenario would never be the setting in which to meet that one and only special person I kept hoping to find.

As I spent my evening hours in the park, stealing inconspicuous glances at hand-holding couples strolling along the walkway, or spying on an arms-around-each-other pair seated on a nearby bench, made me envious, and conscious of being alone. My thoughts shifted back to that newspaper ad I'd clipped for later. 

 

Placing advertisements in newspapers to initiate contacts with other people was a practice almost unheard of here in Canada, but one not completely unfamiliar to me. I'd first encountered these types of ads in German newspapers that were suggested supplementary reading when I was learning German. At the time I thought the ads bizarre, so I dismissed them as perhaps a cultural difference unique to Germans. But the more I thought about the means now, the less ridiculous the idea seemed.

The horizon sky made its spectacular eye-soothing transitions from pale yellow, to fiery orange, to burning red, to dark purple, and finally to black. This was Labour Day weekend and the first weekend of September. I'd always regarded the first weekend of September as the last weekend of summer, because without fail school resumed afterward, but this year would be the first when I wouldn't have classes to return to. 

 

To me, the weather always seemed to change after this particular weekend, because on following autumn weekends, my parents would haul us all to Grandpa's farm to help him with the harvest, Mom to help Grandma with the canning, and the rest of us to assist in storing up enough firewood to last through the winter. Heating an aging stone-foundation farmhouse with a wood-burning stove consumes a barn full of wood in a short time, but this year I'd be absent from those in-person experiences.

 

September had always been my favourite month, yet feeling nostalgic for my far away Septembers past, in silence I greeted, "Aye, this is September and here's to it!"

A while later I vacated the unoccupied bench I'd claimed earlier in the evening, and ambled back to the small basement apartment I still couldn't bring myself to call home. Perhaps too few months had passed, and maybe I'd feel differently later.

Again I pondered possibilities pen pal letter writing might provide, and by the time I was standing outside the doorway of my humble three-room closet of a dwelling, I'd made up my mind to risk the twenty dollars. During Tuesday’s lunch hour I'd pay the post office a visit and purchase the money order.

 

 

Two days later, and beyond...

Tuesday evening I placed my letter and money order into the already addressed envelope and sealed it. 

To pre-empt further second-guess dithering, and maybe end up changing my mind, right away I went out and made the short walk from West 1st Avenue and Arbutus to the mailbox on the corner at Yew. At the letterbox I paused for one last moment to question again what I was doing, but then thrust the envelope in to end any further indecision. The proverbial first die had been cast.

In less than two weeks, an anonymous looking envelope post-marked from West Germany arrived in the mail. Inside was a magazine-like booklet comprising of pages and pages of photographs of women and men, young and old, from many countries around the world. Beneath each photo was the person's name and address together with a list of code numbers that served as a concise biography and short-form listing of the person's interests. A defining glossary of all the code numbers appeared on the booklet's inside front cover, whereas the inside back cover was information about submitting a listing, therefore every person who was pictured and listed in the booklet had paid for their entry. 

Mercury's magazine wasn't what I'd imagined, but then I hadn't really known what to expect. 

I was dumbfounded, because about seventy-five percent of the listings were young, attractive looking young ladies of every nationality from every country imaginable, and all were seeking correspondence with other people. 

Why mostly young ladies?

Have I stumbled through the entranceway of a very different world previously unknown to me? 

Are there really so many others out there around the world who might've been feeling as lonely as I was? 

Or are they only curious?

I had no way of knowing, but I'm certain that if told, every story would have been different.

From the hundreds of possible candidates to select from, I thought making a choice would be easy, but it wasn't. Picking people out of what was nothing more than a catalogue seemed so cold and impersonal, yet strangely enough, no hurt feelings would ensue on their part, but on the other hand, a missed opportunity might be my lot in life from making a wrong choice. After hours of looking and pondering, I narrowed down my selection to three, and from there I chose to write to a young lady in South Vietnam. Tran thi Lien Huong was 18 years of age, a student, and lived in a city or town called Tay Ninh. I had no idea where Tay Ninh was other than somewhere in South Vietnam. 

To this day I don't know why I chose someone in South Vietnam... maybe for no other reason than a new flare-up in the ongoing conflict there had been once more grabbing the news headlines here... or perhaps the Spirit of God had nudged my heart.

Nonetheless having made my final decision, I knew there was no guarantee I'd ever receive a reply from Miss Tran. Although this was only a catalogue of photographs, I still felt a twinge of guilt upon eliminating the other two possible future friends, and having done so, I'd never know if my choice had been right or wrong. 

Making up my mind about whom to select was confusing enough, but sitting down and writing was far more difficult. I wrote my name, address and date in the top left corner area of the page liked I'd learned in school years earlier, but after writing, Dear Miss Tran, I was stuck. I spent a long time looking at that almost blank page. 

 

Setting pen to paper to compose a letter to a complete stranger in another country, a person who may or may not know much English was different, and certainly not the same as writing home. After several subsequent starts and revisions, I'd written a complete paragraph.

"What else do I write about?" I wondered.

 

"Do I write about where I work?"

"Should I tell her about my family... and maybe why I'm living in Vancouver?"

 

"Does she know anything about Canada?

"Would she be interested in why I chose to write to her?"

 

"Will she even be interested in anything I might write?"

 

I had no clue, and Mercury's booklet offered no advice whatsoever. The only light bulb moment of illumination I did experience that evening, is that I'd fretted over the very same issues I would've sweated over had Mom set me up for another blind date, like she'd done once before about two years ago. Not a bad experience at all, but nothing came of it.

 

Although after midnight, I was still stuck at the end of that single paragraph I'd written. Out of frustration I tore the sheet from the pad, crumpled it tightly into a ball and threw it into the waste paper basket. That projectile followed a dozen or more previous attempts at writing a letter. Giving up, I placed Mercury's booklet and my writing pad aside.

 

"Tomorrow." I rationalized while turning in for the night, "I've got tomorrow night to try again "

After leaving work the following evening, I stopped-off at a bookstore and purchased a world atlas, because last evening's experience had laid bare how little I knew about the world, and my unfamiliarity with geographic locations. The Atlas's one-page map of Indochina was tiny, but Tay Ninh was significant enough to be shown. From the map's scaling, Tay Ninh was about fifty miles northwest of Saigon, and near the border with Cambodia. I'd also been motivated to look-up the countries and cities where some of the other people in Mercury's catalogue dwelled. If nothing else, at least I'd obtained an overdue geography lesson. 

 

Upon arriving at my abode, I was determined to sit down, write a complete letter, and have it ready to mail the next morning. Within minutes of starting, I found myself stuck, and again staring at an almost blank sheet of paper. Taking a quick walk over to Kitsilano Park and back, broke the writer's block.

 

While spilling out one's thoughts onto paper didn't seem much easier than in-person dialogue, the written medium did allow me the advantage of editing prior to words being sent. True, any words I placed on paper would reveal a certain amount about who I am and what I think, but those same words on paper also permitted me a certain degree of safety behind a wall of anonymity. By safety I mean I wouldn't be seen, nor heard, nor judged on the spot by facial responses, as well as by words spoken or left unsaid. Body language was a foreign language, because I didn't understand it, and rejection an unwanted yet familiar companion I'd learned to dislike.

 

After several hours of stops and starts, I'd penned a full two-page letter to Miss Tran. I was pleased with my small accomplishment, and rather than wait until morning, I went out and mailed the letter right away.

After returning, my imagination shifted into high gear, exotic imaging appeared in my mind, and then I wondered...

 

"Who did I just write to?"

The second proverbial die had been cast, and all that remained now was to wait and hope a reply would arrive.

The Oddblock Station Agent