Alan Skeoch

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  • EPISODE 87 MY LAST KICK AT THE CAN…LAST MINING EXPLORATON JOB SUMMER 1965


    EPISODE 87   MY LAST KICK AT THE CAN…MY LAST MINING EXPLORATON JOB  SUMMER 1965

          (Marjorie surprised us all…dare  not say more)

    alan skeoch’
    August 2020

    THE STRANGEST THING HAPPENED WITH THIS  STORY.  I WANTED  A PICTURE  OF
    THE  COMINCO OPEN  PIT MINE SO PUNCHED  UP MERRITT  B.C. ON THE INTERNET AND THERE
    IN BOLD PRINT WAS MY ORIGINAL STORY…SAME EVENTS AS BELOW  BUT DIFFERENT.  SO
    YOU WILL GET TWO VERSIONS OF THE SAME STORY.  HOW ACCURATE WAS MY  MEMORY.
    YOU BE THE JUDGE…VERSION #2 COMING NEXT EPISODE.




    COMINCO MINE … picture taken  several  years later than  our visit in 1965
    …Now Called the Highland  Creek  Mine.

    Open Pit mines use massive  Euclid trucks to clear away the overburden to get at the ore.


    This is the Cominco  ‘holding pond” for mine tailings.   It is now a new lake complete
    with trout for fishermen and fisherwomen.  Not all  mines are disastrous to the
    environment although that is hard to believe when the open pits  are in operation.


    VERSON #1:  WRITTEN FROM MEMORY ON AUGUST 4, 2020

    Yes, I am back.  This terrible  summer of 2020 has not been pleasant.  There has been
    a big gap in my plants deliver an episode each day the goddamn Covid 19
    virus has forced so many of  you into  involuntary isolation.  I have  wanted
    to put some  of these stories in print for ages…actually for 60 years. While locked
    up like  a lunatic  this  spring  and summer I have been  typing and some of
    you have taken  the time to read and  comment on the stories.   Thanks.  Your
    comments are like a pint of   Guinness to an Irish alcoholic. 

    Two comments before I begin Episode 87

    1) The  pain in my gall bladder was excruciating.  My performance  in the
    emergency ward  of Mississauga’s Trillium hospital a few days ago was
    embarrassing.  Having an anxiety attack while nearly nude really threw  
    me  for a loop.  (see last  Episode for the particulars).  I am fine now. 
    No gall bladder.   the holes in my chest now match  the holes
    in my head.   The death of Gabriela, one  our daughters in law was
    a double shock contributing to the panic attack no doubt.

    2)  This Episode 87 does not follow the chronological order  of the Irish
    stories.    I will get back to them shortly.  I must tell the  of the story of the Summer of
    1965 while I remember what happened.  Cannot find  my  journal.  Just memory.  But
    the events are true.

    EPISODE 87   MY LAST KICK AT THE CAN…SUMMER  1965

    We had  been married for two years.   A good marriage. Loved each
    other with no second thoughts.  at least none on my part.  Maybe Marorie
    had second thoughts after this adventure. Doubt it. Best Friends and lovers as they say. Everything was  new
    to the both of  us.  We started life as husband and wife  with nothing.  No 
    pile of money.   No great rich  parents to load  us with the  luxuries  of  life.
    We were self supporting.  Marjorie was a teacher at Emery Junior High School
    and  I had job teaching history and english at Parkdale Collegiate Institute.
      We looked  forward to a  quiet summer
    in our huge apartment at 120.5 Westiminster Avenue in west end Toronto.

    I blame  that fish and chip dinner we ate  at a greasy spoon store on Roncesvales
    Avenue.  Ulcerated  mouth … Trench  Mouth.   It began slowly with a
    sore throat and progressed to a ghastly mouth that became one huge
    ulcer.  Eating food was like sticking my  throat in a  bonfire.  And it
    was ugly to look at…white rather than red.  We reported the suspected
    origin to the Board of  Health where the nurse explained  Trench  Mouth
    comes from  eating off plates with cracks. “More often coffee cups with
    cracks.”  The inspector  wondered how sure  i was the infection came
    from the fish and chip store.   I was not sure.  And regretted
    sending  inspectors to the small hole in he wall restaurant.   “Happens
    all the  time, people make  guesses and restaurant owners get hurt.”

    I wished the inspector would leave.   Wished  I could  lie down.
    Wished the pain would go away. wished  I could eat or drink without
    incessant fire  in  my throat. 

     “The summer is terrible, Marjorie…On all those mining jobs we never got
    sick in the bush.   Cooked our food some of which was disgusting.  Remember
    that ‘campers special stew’.  Dried.  All it needed was boiling water.”
    “Boiled  over a fire  late at night as we set up camp.  Dark.  The stew  tasted
    great.”
    “Then in the morning light we noticed  the pot was  full of tiny dead worms.
    The dried  stew had been pre-digested  by the worms.  We at the worms.
    Never got sick.”
    “Worse than that was the sowbelly maggots…and weiners exuding a
    white preservative that stuck to our hands like glue.  Never got sick
    in 9 summers  of mining  exploration.” (Not quire true)
    “Then I got this nice  safe teaching job and here I am flat on my back with Trench Mouth.”
    “Might be a good  idea  to stop talking about it Alan.”
    “Easy  for you to say.”
    “Not easy…this summer seems dreadfull.”

    The  Trench Mouth ordeal was nearly over in the first week  of August.
    The phone rang.

    “Alan, this is Norm  Paterson.  How is the teachig career going?”
    “Very well,” (What would Dr. Paterson be calling me  for?….certainly not
    for small talk.  Certainly not to hear me  whine about Trench  Mouth.
    “How would  you like  a short job?”  
    “Great.”  (Amazing how  my blubbering about Trench  Mouth ended so abruptly)
    “We need  a guy to do a seismic job in British  Columbia.”
    “The Portable Seismic…FS 2?”
    “yes, same one you used  in New Brunswick and  again on the Niagara River job…you know it.”
    “How  long?”
    “A week…maybe two weeks.  You will be back  in time for school.”
    (Norm…i mean Doctor Paterson…knew I was a mining exploration addict.)
    “When?”
    “Leave tomorrow…Air  Canada  to Vancouver then local flight to Kamloops where
    a car has been rented.   Then south to Merritt.”
    “Why the urgency?”
    “Open pit mine with a big problem.  One wall of the open pit seems
    unstable.  Could  collapse into the mine.  Wipe them out financially.”
    “So  how  will  our seismic machine,” (Funny how I began using 
    the term ‘our’)  How will we help”
    “The geologists and  mine manager are hoping that somewhere along the 
    line of unstable rubble  there will be a big hook of bed rock  capable
    of stopping the collapse.  Millions of dollars involved.   If we  can help…
    the cost will be negligible.”
    (I do not  remember ever asking Norm…I mean Dr. Paterson…how much
    I would be  paid.  The chance to have an adventure trumped money anyhow.)

    Trench mouth be damned…I was back  in the  saddle again as the song says.)

         Some of you readers may have  already  made  a snap judgment about me.
    “Damn fool does not know he is now a married man…never consulted Marjorie..ready
    to bugger of on an  adolescent male holiday without thinking about Marjorie.”

      Not true.  The previous  summer we took a job in the bush  north of Sault Ste Marie
    and I invited  Marjorie  to join us.  She arrived on the ACR
    (Algoma Central Railway)  at our flag  stop…i.e. we simply
    waved to the engineer and he  stopped the train.  Marjorie got off
    carrying two things.  Both of  which  were quite useless.  She brought
    her sewing  machine … electric…useless.  And our cat, Presque Neige’….wolves
    howled every night.      Marjorie was not averse to adventure.  While waiting for
    me  to fly out to Salt Ste. Marie  she accepted an invite  to practice takeoffs and
    landings with a character just learning to fly. She only got out of that
    adventure  by pretending to throw up all over the windscreen  as they dipped  and  dove

    “Well,Alan, what did Dr. Paterson want?”
    “We have a job in B..C.  Flying out tomorrow.”
    “Does  Dr. Paerson know I will be coming as  well.”
    “Not exactly…no…he does not know.”
    “Who pays for me?”
    “I will pay…our holiday time.”
    “But you will be working…no holiday.”
    “Better than a holiday.”

    So we  flew  to Vancouver the next day.  I was a bit worried.  How  would the geologists
    and  mine manager react when I arrived with my wife.  Not such a good idea.
    Miners facing the  loss of a whole multi-million dollar mine would  not be
    amused. Their thoughts could be…

     “He brought his goddamned  wife.”
    (and  then phone Norm…I mean Dr. Paterson…in Toronto.)
    “We waned a seismic  man  out here…not an asshole with his wife.”
    (That could spell  trouble…but i had a plan. The plan turned out to 
    be bad.)
    “Marjorie,  could you stay in Vancouver overnight and then come
    to my motel room in Merrit tomorrow.  Take the bus.  That would give me time to
    prepare the big shots  for your arrival..”
    “Suppose I could….” (she was  not ecstatic about the idea but
    accepted the plan with reservations.)

    So I few  to Kamloops.  Rented a big flashy red  convertible and
    drove to Merrrit with the radio belting out Gordon Lightfoot and
    Peter, Paul and Mary.  Life was good.  Forgot about the Trench 
    Mouth.



    Earth mover…like riding a dinosaur…cowboy drivers sat in that little cage in front.  Bounced their way to the dump site.

    I drive right down  into the open pit…an immense hole in the land.Parked at the mine
    managers  shack,   Some cowboy about my age came thundering  out of the pit
    driving an earth moving machine…bouncing along with a load  of waste to dump in
    the tailing dam.  He saw me…saw  the red convertible and  decided to scare the
    shit out of  me for no good reason.   He wanted see  how close his earth mover
    could get to the passenger door of the convertible.    He misjudged and  ripped
    a  slab of steel siding as if he was driving an immense can opener   So much
    for the  red convertible. We got a less glorious replacement. next day/.

    That little incident was a forewarning of things to come.

    I thought Marjorie was safely tucked away in a modest
    hotel in East Vancouver.  East Vancouver?  Never been  there.
    Not such  a nice  place so I am told often by  Marjorie over
    the  past 60 years.  

    “Alan, the hotel was terrifying and the
    streets  outside were worse.  Scared me.
    So I left it behind.   Caught an overnight bus at 10 p.m.
    from  Vancouver to Merrit.  Found  your motel…
    signed  in and went to bed.   You were out on
    the job”

    This was true.  I was out on the job with the big shots.  Doing some practice
    blasts  on the edge of the immense open pit
    Nice  guys.  Soon convinced I  knew what I was
    doing.

    “Let;s go  for a beer near your motel.?”
    “Good idea.”

    The men  were startled to find a woman sleeping in my motel room.
    I was just as startled  to find Marjorie there. but immediately
    introduced  her to the geologists  and  the mine manager.

    “This is my wife Marjorie.”

    They winked!   They grinned.   They did not believe me…they were
    convinced I had hired a hooker from Vancouver to ease the
    tensions  of the seismic  job.  No matter what i said they grinned.

    “Marjorie, no matter what I say, those guys are
    convinced you are  a Vancouver prostitute.””

    “Nothing much we can do about that…I will just
    have  to play the role…could be amusing.:’

    :”How in hell;s half acre did you ever get to Merrit on
    your own?”
    “It was not  easy but I sure was not going to spend
    the night in that hotel.”
    (Secretly I marvelled at Marjorie’s ability to take the bull
    by  the horns and  adjust  circumstances.  Some  of her 
    friends were shocked at our earthy  adventures.

    alan skeoch
    August 2020

    Post Script.  “Nice  guy sat beside me on the bus…all night.”   Wow!

    The  job worked  out OK.  First full day the  powder man fell off the edge  of
    the open  pit carrying our box of  Forciete and blasting caps.  We hauled  him
    back to the mine crest.  His  fall was  only about thirty or forty feet on  a  stable
    slope.   Forcite does not explode easily.

    Later, when the big shots came to see a demonstration  I set everything up…seismic
    machine as  base point and  blasting stations with 50 or 100 for intervals.  My job
    was simple.   Push  the ‘fire’ button  and read  how many milliseconds it took for
    the sound wave to reach  the seismograph.  What could go wrong.?

    Lots.  Dr. Paterson knew that so before takeoff from Toronto he gave me a small
    package  of  computer boards.  “Alan, if  the machine fails, just slip out a computer
    board  or two and replace them with these new  boards.  I don’t expect that to happen
    but you never know.”

    Of course  the  first firing failed.   The forcite exploded  but the milliseconds
    of  the sound wave did not register.  And  all the mine officials were standing
    beside me.  Big time pressure.  “Keep cool, Alan…cool.”  My thoughts.

    “Just a computer problem fellows.  Will fix it in a  minute.”
    (opened  up the seismic machine…slipped out one computer board and
    slid in another from the stash provided by Norm.

    “OK,fire again.   All clear.”  I pushed  the button . The Forcite exploded and
    the millisecond  lights  lit up.  Perfect.   Everyone was  impressed including  me.

    I do  not remember whether we found  a bedrock  hook to stop the mine
    collapse.  Not sure  we  did.  What I do remember was  looking down
    …a  long way down…to the bottom of the open pit.  And watching the
    detonations  below.  Huge  explosions…massive walls of overburden just
    folded into piles of rubble for the Euclids to receive from Excavators.

    AMMONIUM NITRATE detonated  in an  open pit mine.

    “Ammonium Nitrate by the ton…poured down blasting holes and then 
    sweetened with diesel oil.  Detonated.  Makes  piles of rubble.  End of the world
    it seems at times.”

    We finished the job.  Had a couple of  meals with the mine manager and others.
    Marjorie  was included…bubbly as ever.  She played her new role to perfection.
    They continued to wink.  Actually they liked her.  By the end  of  the job they may
    have even considered she was really my wife.

    “How will we get home, Alan?”
    “Job is over.  On all my jobs  I tried to take the slow
    way  home.  To enjoy the sights of  a strange place.”
    “Cut the guff, how are we going  home?”
    “By the train…the transcontinental…Dining car and
    big bubble  viewing car…and bunk beds.”
    “Sounds expensive.”
    “I cut the cost buy just ordering one bed…a lower….we will both be in
    the same bed….might be  a little tight.”

    alan skeoch
    August 2020

    END  VERSION #1   EPISODE 87



  • SUMMEERTIME…WHEN THE LIVING IS EASY FLOWERS JULY 30, 2020









  • episode 86 EMBARASING BEHAVIOUR….ANXIETY ATTACK







    EPISODE 86     EMBARASSING BEHAVIOUR….ANXIETY ATTACK

    alan skeoch’
    July 2020

    If you can stand to read this then do so.  If you are queasy at the knees as I can be…then DO NOT READ THIS EPISODE 86




    TODAY is Sunday july 26, 2020.  I was released  from hospital an hour ago…thankfully.

    “What the hell are you doing in the hospital, Alan?”
    “Give  me a  few  minutes and I will tell you.  the
    events are not flattering…make me looks deranged.:

    START.

    Marjorie and I returned to the city  after a delightful meal at the farm
    practicing social isolation and distancing with masks. All the goddamn
    things we had been doing for the past four months.

    “Marjorie  what do you have for an upset stomach”?
    “Something  you ate?”
    “Don’t know but hurts bad…like a ballon in my gut.”
    “Book says ginger is good…I’ll make  ginger tea…”

    Cut to the qjuick here.  After the  usual panacea, water…We tried everything including apple vinegar
    and honey.   Next comes mint leaves, the BRAT DIET (banana, rice, applesauce,  toast), then Iturned

    to the internet…lime, lemon juice, baking soda ,
      even considered  Yarrow leaves from the garden.

    My gut hurt really bad…bloated.

    I remembered  uncle Norman said  the vets used a big knife for bloated cattle because the choice

    was a terrible  choice.  And I remembered him hauling out a dead bloated steer with the help of
    the man from the dead wagon.


    “Christ, Marjorie  this hurts but the internet says the worst thing
    to do is lie down.  So you go to bed and I will pace the floor until
    this stuff works its way out my ass or my mouth.”

    1.00 a.m.  “Marjorie, wake  up…we  have to go the hospital fast.  I think
    it’s the gallstones again.  Pain bad…really bad.  Get up.  Wake  up.:”

      We moved with speed of  summer lightning…Mississauga Trillium Hospital…guards out front.

    1.30 a.m.  “Just park anywhere …let me out.  Ignore the guys in
    uniform.”
    “Hold on sir.”
    “Let him go…he’s having an attack.”
    “Then you can go no farther. lady.”
    (I slipped by…in my pajamas with a spare shirt and my I phone.
    Emergency room was empty…no one there.  At other times there were dozens
    but no one tonight ( July 25, 1.30 a.m.)  Then a nurse appeared…got all the  data needed
    as I fumbled through my wallet.  “I  am in pain…bad”  “how bad on scale 1 to 10?”
    It was10…might be 8 now…”
    “Here slip on this  wrist band”
    “Follow the arrows back there…someone will help ou.”
    Alone, I walked,  then heard tapping at a window and there
    was Marjorie…thumbs  up…I returned the gesture even
    though my pajama bottoms wanted to fall down.  The trail
    led me to an assessment centre…
    “Room 5,sir”
    (Why 5…most distant room….hardly a room …tiny but large enough for terror to unfold)
    “Let me take some blood, sir”
    “What is your first name.”
    “Caister”  (may have  got it wrong)
    “There, got the blood, now get ready to give  me  a sample.  I will
    be back in a minute.”
    (A minute was just to damn long.  I snapped.  Did not expect

    to do so but anxiety attacks are almost spontaneous.  They explode.

    And this is when things turned UGLY. real Ugly for
    everyone concerned.  

    “ I started to scream…I can’t breathe!  I CAN’T BREATHE!  help me SOMEONE…FOR
    CHRIST’S SAKE, I CAN’T BREATHE!   I SCREAMED AND SCREAMED.

    People came running.  From where I do not know.

    “HELP ME…HELP ME…NO BREATHE…GOING TO FAINT.”

    They tried.  Many people…maybe 6,  maybe 10 all crowded  into
    this overgrown telephone booth.  All yelling  as well.  “Give him air.
    Calm down, sir.  Sit Down   Stand up.  Stope yelling.  breathe through
    you nose not you mouth.”

    “CAN NO ONE HELP ME.  I CANNOT BREATHE.”

    But you are  breathing.   “NOT ENOUGH AIR.  LET ME OUT OF HERE.
    SOMEONE  HELP ME.:’

    “QUICK, RUN AND GET THE ECG…FAST…”

    “SIT DOWN, SIR.”
    “I CAN’T SIT DOWN…CANNOT BREATHE.”
    (I Tore off the hospital gown.)
    “GOT TO STAND  UP…DYING.”
    “SWEATING LIKE A STUCK PIG…WATER POURING OFF.”
    (The GUY WITH MY GOWN IS TRYING TO WAVE  IT TO CalM ME DOWN.
    BIG GUY, .  HE CLEARS A TINY SPACE
    FOR ME TO STAND UP…FANNING ME…I AM NEAR NUDE …SCREAMING LIKE
    A MAD MAN.

    (…6 to 10 of us…then the
    ECG arrive on a trolley…wedged into the room…tottering.)

    “I CAN’T BREATHE…HELP ME…SOMEONE HELP ME.”


    “Here slap  these patches on his body…anywhere…then we’ll
    hook him to the ECG.   Patches and then a forest of wires attached
    while I am jumping around  screaming…”I CAN’T BREATHE.  I NEED
    AIR..OXYGEN.  AN AIR TANK FOR GOD’S SAKE”

    Then the ECG  starts to chatter while showing zig zags of my heart on a screen.  Danger?
     zigs and zags all looks the same.  Cards piling up like an accordion.  No strait line thankfully.

       I glanced  and remembered  hospital shows on TV.  Straight line on an ECG spells death.


    “I CAN’T BREATHE.  NEED  AIR.”
    “SIT DOWN SIR,”
    “CAN’T SIT DOWN”
    Some hands pushing me  down,  others helping me up.  Too many hands.
    Everybody yelling and the ECG chattering.  Spewing out the last few moments
    of  my life.
    “I CAN’T BREATHE FOR CHRIST’S SAKE…HELP  ME…I NEED AIR..NEED AIR.”
    Then someone wraps a plastic  air pipe around  my neck and  is  fumbling with
    the pipe…air tank now in room as well.

    Trying to reach my nose…jumping around

    “CAN’T BREATHE.   DRY MOUTH…DRY MOUTH…DRY MOUTH”
    A hand jams a  capsule in my mouth and something sticks to the inside front
    tooth.  “DRY MOUTH…HELP ME…SOMEONE…CAN’T BREATHE.

    “BUT YOU ARE BREATHING, SIR.”
    “NOT ENOUGH.  ONLY HALF BREATHES…NEED AIR…NEED AIR.”

    (ECG machine has paper as long as the room by now.  Someone takes
    a look. I must be dying…but machine keeps chattering…no deadline…I am
    alive but  ‘I CAN’T BREATHE”

    “CALM DOWN, SIR…TRY YOUR NOSE NOT YOUR MOUTH…YOU WILL
    GET OVER IT…CLASSIC ANXIETY  ATTACK…HE WILL GET OVER IT.”

    THE guy with my gown now  has a little more room.  He starts  to wipe me
    down  with the gown…meanwhile I am still yelling  “I CAN’T BREATHE…DRY MOUTH…
    WILL SOMEONE HELP ME.”  

    Little sticky patches allover my body…multi coloured wires..  “SIR , TRY TO RELAX.”

      Eventually I 

    wound down  … slowly …still yelling but without the short staccato yells …I am getting
    more oxygen…someone holding the tank behind me…I am breathing…not well…not even

     but I am breathing.


    It was pandemonium.   And I was the in the centre.   But I really could not
    breathe.   Even though I was gulping air like a goldfish in a tank. Someone switched
    off the ECG.   I sat down.  Then  Caistor helped me onto a gurney. Wrapped me
    in a new gown…must have been a new gown…my original was soaked.




      INTERJECTION:  TODAY I WOULD LIKE TO THANK THE SIX TO TEN  PEOPLE
    THAT CROWDED IN THE ROOM TRYING TO HELP.  GOOD PEOPLE.  PART OF
    THE HERO FORCE WE MAY NEED AGAIN.  I WONDER HOW THEY WILL REMEMBER
    ME?  UNSTABLE?  MAYBE ANXIETY ATTACKS ARE COMMON.  PLEASE TAKE NOTE THAT ALL

    THESE PEOPLE WERE TAKING  RISKS TRYING TO HELP ME.  I AM PARTICULARLY

    IN DEBT TO THE TALL BLACK  MAN  WHO I CALL ‘CAISTER’ …I GOT HIS NAME GARBLED
    IN ALL THE EXCITEMENT.  HE MADE SURE I COULD STAND AND  HE TRIED TO COOL
    ME BY WAVING MY GOWN AS THE SWEAT POURED FORTH. I WAS DAMN CLOSE TO 
    NUDE BY THEN.

    NEXT STEP


    “Taking you down for a CatScan, sir.”

     “Drink these two  tumblers…no rush but drink it all.”


    The technicians fiddled around with my hands for a while and
    once I was calm enough they fed me into the big donut like you
    feed a frozen makerel to a whale.

    “Try not of move sir…absolutely still”

    I was worn out anyway.  And I was breathing.  The person who got
    the  air tank handed to the CatScan technician and disappeared.

    What I am trying to describe to you is a classic example of aN Anxiety Attack.

      It happened suddenly without warning.  The source was stress and fear.  I am

      81 years  old.   My 50 year old daughter in law died  last week. Tragic. Everyone in turmoil.
    My memory kept  drawing
      up a memory from the even deeper past.  A moment of sheer terror in France.



    The reason for my Panic Attack was clear to me as I tried to
    explain to others.  Several years ago I had trouble coming
    out of an anesthetic at a nice hospital in the south of France.
    I had fallen off a cliff while trying to get a better angle picture
    of a beautiful lavender field.  Bashed myself up badly and broke
    my wrist.  The operation was a success.  Unfortunately I had trouble
    coming out of the anesthetic.  I  opened my eyes, saw  Marjorie
    across the room…but I could not breathe.  My lungs would not work
    correctly as they must have been tuned to some kind of lung
    machine.  It took a couple of minutes for me to adjust.  Terrifying
    minutes that made  me fear anisthesia.


        So this  anxiety attack was not funny.

    It was not funny at the time.  Sounds funny now.  But I know it was
    not funny.  I really thought I was going to die…to smother to death 
    right there and then.  with 6 to 10 people watching and an ECG machine
    chattering and Caistor with my gown fanning me.


      A few weeks earlier I had arrived here in emergency with

     a gall stone lodged in the neck of my gall bladder.  Pain that
    I had no wish to ever meet again.  pain that lasted 5 days…no sleep
    …three of those days in a hospital bed. Then the moment the surgeon
    was about to cut, the pain ended.  The stone slipped off.  No pain.
    I told the  surgeon in plain terms “If  it ain;t busted, don’tfix it.”
    Get me out of here.  I was released.   What a relief.  a  bunch
    of men were out in the lot building an emergency hospital for
    the expected rush of Covid 19 patients.  I did not want to be around for that.
    The surgeon knew an  operation was the best choice but he also knew
    what was coming  with the Pandemic.  “I will get it removed in a couple
    of weeks when the pandemic dies down.  That idea was wrong. We  are
    now nearly at the end of July.  The Pandemic is still here

    No delay…no smart ass comment like “If it  ain;t busted, don’t fix it.”


    So I kept my mouth shut while Dr.  Zilbert pushed on my stomach.

    “Where does it hurt?”
    “Right there, Dr.”

    He seemed to already know about my case.   Maybe the fuss down in  the 
    Emergency room had reached his ears.  Maybe the CatSkan was clear.  
    Bottom  line I was admitted and wheeled into a ward passing through
    long empty hallways with no one visible.  The Mississauga Trillim hospital
    like hospitals across Canada was half empty as the nation waited
    to see what Covid19 was going to do..I was in the middle of noman’s, nowoman’s lamd.

    I was in the midst of the care workers I had been reading about

    just a day earlier…nurses, doctors, orderlies, sweepers, cooks,…many people.


    And I was afraid.


    Fear.  Pure and simple. Fear. That is one reason for panic attacks
    like  mine.  There can be other  reasons but for me it was the fear

    I would wake up and not be able to breathe.


    An orderly took over the gurney  from the CatsSkan operator
    and landed me in Room 213 at the Mississauga Trillium Hospital.’

    “Would you like the window, sir?”
    “Sure would.  Last time I was here  Got a window.”
    “When was that ?”
    “First week of March…same time you were emptying the hospital expectng
    Covid19 infested patients by the hundreds.:
    “Why were you admitted?”
    “Terrible pain….Gall stone lodged in my Gall Bladder….stomach
    blown up like a dead pig in a farm field.  Scale of 10 over 10
    for pain.  Did not sleep for 5 days…three of those days here
    in Trillium.”
    “How did we  reduce the pain?”
    “Morphine and lots of it.   Have you ever had a morphine trip?
    “I had three days and nights on Morphine…right outside my window
    I had morphine trips that  were great.  One  night a circus  arrived
    with a big brown  bear up a telephone tree that slowly turned into
    an oak or maple tree  as the bear looked at me in friendly way. Not
    a hungry bear  There was a little white Jack Russel dog that tipped
    me off that a trip was about to happen.  Cute little dog. Then some

    big sailing ships flooded by with people aboard…silent people.

    And on the  shore a bunch of men were trying to pull down
    a big tree by hand. My room moved closer….a young woman
    sitting cross legged idly plucking rose petals from a huge silver
    bowl.  Others standing on high poles as a building was
    lowered from the sky for the  men and women to bolt in place..”

    “No morphine on the orders today.”
    “No, the pain has eased…down to a 5…tolerable…If it skyrocketed
    you will turn to morphine.”
    “Let’s hope that does not happen.”

    Dr.Zilbert  and  others arrived at my bedside and did a little probing
    and said the magic word…”Surgery soon”  And away  they went.

     A bubbly Filipino nurse  arrived with a  tub of soapy water. Big smile.

    “Would you like  a bath, sir?”

     “Bath?”

    “Here you wash your face, I will do the rest of you.”
    And she did…swiftly…even the underparts.  She was fast and
    cheerflull but no debate invited.  She had two little toddlers of her own…so

    risky situation for her.


    I had two  nurses…my day nurse  was Agnes, my night 
    nurse  was Maria.  Two people who took charge  of people
    like me every two or three days.  They just took charge
    of my every movement. They checked my  heart and  temperature
    every two hours.  Agnes jabbed me  with needles that sucked
    my blood and another needle  to prevent blood clotting.They put me
    to bed  and got me up.  They were always just a buzzer away.

    “Agnes, can you get a message to Dr. Zilbert?”
    “I can try…he is a busy man.” 

    AGNES…MY DAY SHIFT NURSE




    Agnes and Maria and others seemed  to like collecting my blood.  I was beyond caring by  then.


    “I am terrified of the  anisthetic. I fear a 
    repeat of an experience  in France where
    my breathing was compromised.   Tell him
    I am scared.


    “When  is the operation planned.?”
    “We never know.  First we must get you ready.
    No  food today.  just cups of tiny ice cubes that
    you can eat one at time.”


    MY WASHER, BATHER, BED MAKER….DRESSER (NEW GOWNS)  BENEATH THAT MASK  IS A BIG SMILE.  AS  YOU CAN SEE.


    MARIA….MY NIGHT SHIFT NURSE

    And Maria, my night nurse followed the same routines.

      MARIA would like everyone to appreciate FRONT LINERS like her and so many others.  That is  one reason I am writing this  story


    “When will they operate, MARIA?”
    “We never know…operations go on here night and day.”
    “Today?”
    “Best you just suck on ice cubes and sleep.”

    On that I fell asleep… only to be gently awakened
    at 1 a.m. IN the morning.  The night was dark and hot..




    THE SURGERY

    “Wake up, Alam/“
    “Not more blood…have I any remaining””
    “Getting you ready for surgery.”
    “At 1 a.m….middle  of the night?”
    “Surgery goes 24/7.”

    So I rolled myself  onto another gurney and was wheeled through the dark and

    largely empty hospital.  Somewhere ahead was the Operation Theatre but first
    we had to thread a maize of silent machines.

    What could I do to reduce  anxiety?  I could  play SCRABBLE.  I began counting  letters
    in words.   H O S P I T A L…8 letters, no good.  C A L M, 4 letters, easy to find…M A R J O R I E . 8 letters, too hard to find, …etc.etc.
    This was great.  Totally relaxing.  G A L L B L A D D ER,  10 letters, soon to be removed.



    “There you are, sir.”

    The orderly slid my gurney into a dark corner where I could see no one at first and then

    the surgical team arrived, checked charts.   Eventually someone  came over to talk to me.
    It might have been Dr. Zilbert.   Chatty kind of  talk.  Easing  my trepidation.  Others arrived.
    I was wheeled into the surgical  room.  One door had air rushing out.  Some kind of pressure
    room  to ensure no contaminated air rushed  in I assumed.  I was a bit nervous  but not as much
    as I expected.   

    One person slipped off my mask and instantly  pressed to my face a rubber mask with a hose  attached.
    This  must be the anesthetist.

    “Talke your breath…slowly….calmly.”

    And that is all I remember.

    Hours later I awoke in the same place.  There was someone with me but I know not whom.
    No  problem.  A seamless return to breathing.  No fear I would smother to death.  Amazingly calm
    feeling.  No pain.

    RECOVERY

    I was wheeled back  through the empty halls to Room 213 and  gently, with my help, eased  back
    into my bed.   There was a  hint of daybreak out the window.  Perhaps around  4 a.m.  I actually
    fell back to sleep. 


    Some  time later Agnes awoke me…around  6.30 a.m. 

    And a whole bunch  of  people began to assess me.   Heart.  Temperature.  Blood, of course.

    Then in came my surgeon, Dr. Zilbert with a group of attendants.  He did not say much.
    Took a look at my chest where he had poked  holes.   Assured himself  that recovery  was beginning.
    I  said nothing really.  Only spoke as  hist team left .

    “Please thank the anaesthetist.   Breathing was seamless”
    What a dumb thing to say to the man who  had  done the big job
    of  removing my Gall Bladder.   He should have been thanked first.
    Maybe I did thank  him  first.  Yes.  The visit was fast and super efficient.
    Notes were made by one attendant.

    I wondered if  they knew about the fool  I  had made of  myself down in Emergency.

    Then  breakfast arrived.   liquid mostly.

    Then came bath time.  Now that you might find amusing.  How can a bath be amusing?
    Flash back to the anxiety  attack when  I was  jumping  around like a Jack in The Box and
    many people were trying to hook me up  to the ECG.   They slapped the little stickers around
    my upper body mostly but one  sticker wound up on my balls.  I did not know that until Agnes
    arrived.

    “These stickers have to come off, Alan.”
    “Good”
    ( did not know one was attached to my balls.)
    “This one may  be a little tricky.”
    (And she yanked it off…wow!  Not because it hurt as much as
    because it was embarrassing.)”
    “Is  that sticker common?”
    “Not  at all.   You  must have  been jumping around  a lot at the time.”
    “Not proud of myself…but yes  I was jumping around.”

    Then my bath.
    “You wash  your face,I will do the rest of you.”
    As I washed my face my cheerful  nurse washed the  rest of  my body…all
    of it…it was done quickly…all  body parts,

    AGNES … AND THE CRUCIAL TEST

    “Have  you passed gas yet?”
    “Yes.”   By Then I knew  that all body functions  had
    to be operational before  recovery was  complete.
    Farting  is important.

    “Have you had a movement yet?”
    Funny word  ‘movement’ but I  knew what she meant.
    “No.  Bunged  up I think.”
    “It will happen…when it does, do  not flush.  I want to see it.”
    “How important?”
    “Very important…means  body  is working…call me the
    moment you have that movement.”
    “It happened  between shifts so both Maria and Agnes arrived when 
    I pressed the buzzier and stood saluting at the bathroom door.
    “very good, Alan”  And  she flushed.

    Many other things happened but this rather disgusting  incident was critical.
    All my systems were working.  There was no blockage.  Just the thought of
    a  blockage made me a bit queasy.

    I was cleared to go home.   Called  Marjorie.  Slumped into the  wheelchair
    and  Agness wheeled me to the hospital entrance  where Marjorie waited.

    alan akeoch
    July 28,2020”




    P.S.  Why do I want this rather sorry behaviour  put in print?   Simple  answer.  I  am very

    proud of  our hospital and its staff.   I thought maybe some readers  might even like to
    see  the mask covered faces of FRONT LINERS  like  Agnes  and  Maria.

  • EPISODE 86: FOUND A LEOPARD FROG AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS . July 2920



    EPISODE 86   I FOUND A  LEOPARD FROG AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS…JULY 2020

    alan skeoch’

    July 2020

    I was not really looking for the little fellow.   Figured there were no Leopard Frogs
    in our ponds.  Then I found him…among the wild flowers.

    alan


















































































    Sent from my iPhone


  • EPISODE 85 UNDERGROUND AT ELLIOT LAKE PART 2, MAYH 1960

    EPISODE 85      UNDERGROUND  AT ELLIOT LAKE, PART 2, MAY 1960


    alan skeoch
    July  2020

    Note:  My interest in mining ‘Cages’ will be peppered  here and
    there in these episodes….seems irrelevant but every mine had
    a cage except for Knockmahon, Ireland.   

    The uranium mine at Can. Met. Elliot Lake had a cage large enough for
    moralized  vehicles.  See  below …the contrast.


    MINING CAGES

    THIS mining cage in England…Cornwall…was a luxury when compared to the shaky ladders
    of Knockmahon.   Even so, this mining cage was dangerous…if the cable  broke, the men were
    doomed.  


    The  term ‘cage’ will occur  again and again in the next few Episodes.   Mining cages delivered miners
    quickly to the ore faces.   At Bunmahon, in Ireland, we discovered
    shafts but there never were any cages.  Meaning that the miners had to climb down
    800 to 900 metres  on a series of wooden ladders.  And they did so in the dark.

    Can.Met.  was a modern mine.  it had all the benefits of  electricity, modern machinery like bull dozers and Scoop
    trucks,  power drills, lots of  dynamite…and some union protection.  

      On May 14, 1960,” waiting for us was a ‘Scoop”…sort of  a spliced dump truck and bulldozer. We piled into

    the big ore scoop.


    “She’s the last vehicle below,” greeted Harry MacGinnis who would be our escort through the
    darkness.   Most mechanical aspects of the mine had already been withdrawn including
    the electric light system.  The mine was not a  pretty sight below ground as the walls
    were dirty and  sticky…black from the dust of blasting and sticky from the black smoke
    of vehicles like our Scoop Mobile.

    We  did 293 determinations today using the Ronka.  When  our miners lights are turned off
    the  darkness is  absolute.  A  blackness that only a miner would understand.   Ventillation 
    is a problem as is radiation which stands at 292 when  the normal human toleration is 100.

     We would  only be here a  few  days though.  Regular miners spent years here.


    Geologist John Hogan is down  here represents Dennison Mines.  Wh am  I down  here?  Hard
    to know.  My job is to get as much information using the Ronka as  possible.  This  information
    has  no possible use for the mine can never  be reopened as  the pillars were
    pulled when the stopes  were abandoned.   Pillars were made by cutting around natural

    rock… pillars then sculpted  Pillars contained.

    of high grade ore so were recovered as the last part of a stope.  Occasionally we would  hear a great dull ‘whump’
    where part of the mine ceiling collapsed.  No pillars left to hold up the roof.

      At the same  time the roof was collapsing, Can Met mine  was filling with
    water.  Sometimes we had  to wade  through low points.  Eventually the whole mine wll be
    flooded but right now it is explorable…barely.  So why am I down here?  I have no idea.

    For the past 60 years I have wondered why we did this job in an abandoned
    and collapsing Uranium mine.  I have no answer.  Were  we  testing the Ronka.

      Or were we testing the instrument man before he went to Ireland.  Not likely the

     answer.   Why then?   Harry  asked the questions often in his  colourful  manner.
    “Why the fuck are  we down here, Alan?”
      


    Harry loved to tell stories about mining in general and Can. Met. in particular.  Amusing  barely
    believable stories perhaps with a kernel of truth or perhaps fully factual.  I remember
    his stories to this day.  My journal confirmed my memory.

    If I might make  light of the job, I could say we were down there just so Harry MacGinnis
    would have  an opportunity to entertain us…otherwise he would be all alone.   The last man out,
    as  it were.   Here are some of his  stories…outlandish…maybe true…maybe partly true…maybe
    invented through hearsay.  All of them a  bit unsettling.

    1) “A lot of dead  men down here…some still  under the rock falls.  We call the big blocks
    that fell “Portuguesers” because  some of the men under those boulders were Portuguese
    immigrants”   Between  1955 and  1996 when the last mine closed at Elliot Lake more than 130 men were
    fatally injured.  As to the truth of Harry’s stories I  am not sure.   He had lots  of stories.


    2)  “You know how you can tell that a mine is good…about to open up and hire miners?”
    “No idea.”
    “Hookers arrive.   If the hookers  arrive then the mine is good for sure.”

    3) “To get a job as a waitress with Crawley and McCraken, the girls did  double duty as hookers.”

    4)  “That radiation count was  a worry.  The more time underground here, the more radiation
    exposure.   What’s the count today…292…almost three times acceptable level.”

      NOTE:

    “The conditions in Elliot Lake are not the best conditions to work in to survive a normal life span. If anybody does not like to go to the hospital with lung cancer, he should have a very close look at the Elliot Lake situation before he signs on as an employee of either one of the companies. We believe that the companies should not have the right to expose people to conditions that will cause bodily harm. There has to be a clean-up programme before we can definitely advise people to seek employment in Elliot Lake.” (Paul Falkowski, United Steel Workers of America, Environmental Representative – June 1976)

    MINERE JOE ZULJIN:  “I could be healthy, still workin. Now I have dust plus cancer. And the family is all upside down.  Dad’s gonna die maybe today, maybe tomorrow, we don’t know.” His voice broke once again. “And that’s the way it looks like. It’s bad. It’s very bad for a family. Family’s more hurt than me. Cryin’, you know. Disaster.”  (Joe Zuljin, Elliot Lake miner, died 1975, cancer, CBC documentary)



    5)  “No one checking roof bolts anymore.  Some are popping loose.  The  pillars were  pulled
    when  the stopes were  abandoned.  Damned dangerous for all of us. Knew a shift boss who
    got telescoped by chunk from the mine ceiling…”

    “Did you say telescoped?
    “He was suddenly a much shorter man if you know what I mean.”

    6) “Poor old Can Met is filling with water…deeper every day.”

    7) “A lot of million dollar machines are not worth taking to the surface.  Emerge like ghosts
    in our lamplight beams.”

    8) “Stealing  becomes a way of life.”

    9) “Men are just walking away from those houses they mortgaged…hoped the bank would let them.”

    10) “What the fuck are you doing  down  here anyway?”

    ASIDE:  Harry’s use of the F—— word made me do a lot of thinking in 1960.  Thinking that has
    popped  into my mind now and then over the last 60 years.   What the fuck was I doing down at
    the bottom of an abandoned uranium mine?  Second week of May,1960.   Just a week earlier
    I was writing U. of T. exams in Russian History, the philosophy of Emmanuel Kant and  other 
    non-engineering courses.  That ended on May 7.   By May  14, I  was cursing and swearing in
    the darkness of  Can. Met where low  grade uranium had been extracted, then enriched in some 
    way to make Uranium 235  so unstable that a tiny bit of that element could be detonated
    producing enough energy to kill  thousands of people and devastate whole  cities like Toronto.

    I had the presence of mind to slip a shard of that uranium ore  into my pocket.  The uranium, about 1%
    of the shard, is nestled somewhere in the rather pretty pebbly conglomerate.  Every once in a while
    I open my desk drawer and there the shard rests.


    Somewhere inside this  shard  of Elliot Lake uranium ore there are tiny flecks of  uranium I imagine.   This  is  my only reminder
    of  the Elliott Lake adventure.



    “How the fuck did I ever find myself 2000 feet deep  in the bowels of the earth?”  Pure chance…good  luck really.  A few years earlier when
    I was a student at Humberside Collegiate in West Toronto I wondered what I would do  with my life.  What could  I do?  I was a  middle of the pack
    kind of person…not  the top, not the bottom.  Comfortable in the middle.  Homework was always avoided.  So on one spring day I wondered what
    I could  make of my life.  What was  I good at?  Dancing, chasing girls, football, camping, hitch hiking, talking, Rover Scouts?   No jobs there.  But there was an answer.  The 
    school had  given us barrages of  IQ tests over the years.  Multipole choice things which I took seriously.   Some of  my friends treated those
    tests as  jokes  and just marked the little boxes  without reading the questions.  Finished fast. Must have got IQ of rabbits.  I took my time.  Maybe there was  an answer there.

    38th Rover Crew”..back row left to right…Big Red Stevenson, Don Strathdee, Alan Skeoch, Ed Hissen
    front tow left to right…Doug Mason (drove Marjorie to our wedding), Harvey Scott,  Harry, Jim Garden


    This  is  a  picture  of our 38th Scout Rover Crew.  We had  just got our kilts.  In the 1950’s and 1960’s Scouting was  popular.   My first job in mining
    exploration happened  because the mining boss, Gus  Schlitt, felt Boy Scouts were ideal  employees.  He asked mom and suddenly

     my brother and I were deep in the Canadian wilderness.  I travelled alone to Chibougamau, northern Quebec. Spoke high 

    school French with words  I made up like “Donnez moi un chien chaude!.  Always got an amused look and later discovered
    the French Canadian words for ‘hot dog’  are ‘hot dog’.

    It was a  tough job in the
    bush of Northern Quebec.


    (continued):

    What was  I good  at?  I dropped in on the guidance counsellor.  Nobody there.   The filing cabinets were not locked so I pulled out the “S”  drawer and
    found my name.  There was  one  big Bar Graph that shocked me.  I  had  a great long line under which  it said  ‘abstract reasoning’.  What the
    hell is abstract thinking?   I had  no idea.  Most disconcerting was  my low level of mechanical ability when compared to abstract thinking.
    Shocked me.  Up to that point I wanted to be some kind of an engineer.  My forest ranger fantasy had ended years earlier.  Low mechanical
    ability?  That must mean I  would not be a  good engineer.  Or so I thought.  I must keep  that secret since every summer I did engineering
    type work and loved it.  Yet I was not supposed to ge good at it.   The shock made me more diligent believe it or not.  As it turns out all human

    beings  use both kinds of reasoning…abstract and concrete.   The engineering door was not closed. I just thought

    it was closed.  Lucky really for I fell by chance into a wonderful career.


    (Human beings are both concrete reasoners and  abstract reasoners.  But one or the other dominates apparently.  How  would you
    know which  you are?  Really I have no idea.  A concrete thinker follows  a recipe while making soup.  An Abstract reasoner says ‘To hell
    with the recipe, I can make my  own  soup’ and proceeds to pile in whatever seems available.  Maybe  even an old rubber boot.  Get the
    idea?   I wish I had  not looked at that bar graph.)

    I only saw that one bar graph.  The guidance teacher arrived back from lunch.   She was  incensed. 

     “Just what are you doing here?”
    “Trying to find out my future’”
    “Well that is secret information…none of  your business…now get out of here.”

    Strange.   A guidance counsellor who had secret files on every student.  But kept them hidden forever.  No matter.   It took some time to get over the shock of
    that bar graph.  Changed my life.   I wish abstract thinking had been explained to me.  Then perhaps I would have become some
    kind  of engineer.  I  do like to figure things out for myself rather than follow step by  step instructions.   I did manage to puzzle out 
    how to use a slice rule when I had to do  so.   I did read  manuals but when necessary..   Concrete thinkers like step by step
    instructions.  Abstract thinkers like to figure things out for themselves. That would make me a bad cook.

    7 signs you may be an abstract thinker
    1. You spend a lot of time thinking about big questions such as ‘what is the meaning of life?’ or ‘what is the nature of consciousness?’
    2. You are constantly wondering and asking why. As a child, you probably drove others a little crazy with your endless questions.
    3. You don’t like doing things unless you can see a good reason for doing them: ‘just because’ won’t cut it.
    4. You hate to follow step-by-step instructions and would much rather work things out for yourself.
    5. You don’t like routines and get easily bored if you have to do the same task over and over again.
    6. When thinking about something new, you often link it to something you already know, even if they seem to be unrelated ideas.
    7. You are great at coming up with metaphors and analogies and linking ideas together in new ways.
    WHAT ARE WE  DOING  2,000 FEET DOWN AN ABANDONED URANIUM MINE”

    Let’s get back to Harry’s question.  “What the fuck are you doing down here…2000 feet down in the Can Met mine?”
    I have  wondered about that question for a long time.  


    SUNDAY  MAY 15, 1960

    We used a  machine like this to explore the abandoned
    passageways  of Can  Met.  All of us in the bucket except
    the driver.  

    We are living  in the Senior Staff  House, a kind of  hotel reserved for Can.  Met big shots.   A beautiful ranch house  structure  that has
    never been fully used and is now vacant at a cost of $100,000.   Lots  of  other vacant buildings such as the single men’s
    bunk house and 22 houses  built for families along with the huge mill and related machinery on top of the two shafts
    that descend 2000 feet below surface.

    We went underground at 8 a.m.   My crew consisted of Bob  McConnell,  Allan Pegler, Joe  Weber and  Harry MacGinnis…all
    employees of Can. Met.  A  motorized  ‘Scoop” was waiting for us and  then we travelled through the main passageway to the eastern border
    of the mine. This  Scoop would  be The last vehicle in the mine except for wrecked vehicles.

    WERE WE SAFE?

    “That’s fresh ‘loose’ you hear falling,” announced  Harry.  ‘Loose’ refers to pieces of  rock falling from
    the mine ceiling where roof  bolts  have loosened.   Not a nice thought.

    “This is  the spot where our shift bosses  ‘telescoped’ by falling ‘loose”.
    “Are there many such accidents?”
    “A Cat driver over in the Panel Mine drove right into the grizzly and was mashed to a pulp.”

     “What is a ‘grizzly’?”

     “A rock crusher…tears rock apart like a grizzly bear would do with you”

    “Why is that Danger Sign pulled aside?”
    “Special treatment for us … we can go  anywhere we want… likely safe enough.”
    “These stopes have been sealed  off as dangerous.”
    “Then what are we doing  here?”
    “We  do what we are told.”

    Then  we set up the Ronka in a  pattern that looked logical. Difficult
    to arrange a grid with right angles but no alternative.  Then we  Sat for lunch
    on what Harry called a  ‘Potugueser’ and  had lunch.  The lump of rock
    was as big as a half ton truck.   When it fell there was a man underneath.

    “He is still there…never saw the rock  moved.”

    Many  new  Canadian  immigrants  find work as miners.  In  the 1960’s  many
    Portugue immigrated to Canada.  According to Harry the body was never
    removed.  True or false?  No idea.

    MONDAY MY 16,  1960

    A new  motor was scheduled to arrive in Sprague this morning.  We spent time plotting what data
    we had.  Harry  kept  us entertained with his library of mining fiascos.  

    “Can Met invested $36,000 in an air conditioning system that never worked.”
    “There are Jumbo vehicles down here that cost $50,000 but never worked.”
    “The haulage ways and stopes are filled with abandoned  equipment…it’s like
    travelling through a graveyard.”

    He actually never spoke these words.  To speak  like Harry try adding

    the word fuck wherever you can.  Becomes kind of  lyrical.  Go back
    and try doing that with Harry’s comments…how many F words  can
    be put in one sentence?

    This  huge machine could drive roof  bolts into the ceiling of Can Met.
    The bolts combined with heavy metal  netting helped prevent mine collapse.
    They needed constant attention.


    Meanwhile, we  set up the motor generator and  laid out our spread  wire through this part
    of the mine.  In some places we had to crawl through ceiling rubble.

    Joe Weber, an  ex-Nazi,  said he ‘was released  from his war crimes in 1953.’  Joe had
    no kind words for Csn. Met. which he said  was  a company founded  on greed.
    Uranium mining is not the best kind of  mining because the market is saturated
    quickly.  Rush to market can cause safety problems.  Joe was an unhappy man.

    Harry MacGinis kept referring to ‘the whorehouse’. a metaphor  which confused  me a bit.

    “What whorehouse, Harry?”
    “The Company warehouse…each time we go there we get fucked.”

    Then Joe piped in.

    “Can Met lost $1,500 worth of gas each month…stolen.”
    “There was  $50,000 worth of spare parts ordered  for a  nonexistent truck.”

    My crew loved telling these stories.  Sounded  true but who really knows. Theft
    is common among miners. (*Remember the Yukon story?)  High  graders in the gold

    mines are quite famous in Timmins, Ontario.  Books are written about them.  Where

    could  you hide a chunk of  gold ore…in your uneaten lunch sandwich?
    in your thermos bottle, in the shift bosses pocket, in a crevice in your
    own body?


    TUESDAY  MAY 17, 1960

    How did  machines as big as this  ever get 2,000 feet down the shafts at Can  Met?   The ‘Cage’ had to be large even  if the
    machines  were taken down in pieces.   This was  brought back up when the mine was abandoned.  many others  were just abandoned
    in the stopes and passageways far below.  These wrecks startled me as they suddenly appeared in our cones of light from our helmet lamps.



    Today Harry MacGinnis came into the cook house reeling drunk after spending the
    night at what he calls the Legion which is ‘just a shack  built in the woods by
    the boys’   Seems drinking binges are common…at least according to Harry.

     By 8.30 a.m. we were down in the mine finishing up our resistivity
    work and then began hauling in our base line cable.   Just walking alone in
    the dark with a cone of light from my mining helmet was an experience…combination
    of mystery, fear ad curiosity.   Often large objects  would suddenly burst upon
    the cone of  light…startling.   Silence and  blackness.  Back at the Scoop
    I took a picture of the boys but my flash bulb exploded . The  Sound was like a cannon
    as it echoed down the dark passageway.

    Today  Harry decided to take the Pope apart then shifted back to is
    favourite target…his mother in law.  “She is  harder than a whore’s heart.”

    Job complete.  Contrast between my two worlds…the sophistication of the
    University of Toronto and the earthiness at the bottom of  Can Met uranium mine.
    Which do you find more interesting?

    WENESDAY  MAY  18, 1960   

    Train heading home.  Phoned Marjorie as soon as I reached Sudbury from Elliot Lake.  So 
    nice to hear her voice.   I wonder how she would have liked the mine experience. Then on 
    to Toronto where Eric met me at West Toronto Station.   Drove Eric to his post
    as lifeguard on Toronto’s notorious Cherry beach then on to the company HQ.on O’Connor Drive.

    Flooyd Faulkner is getting married on Saturday.  Floyd has been a real leader
    of men with a tricky sense of humour.   He calls me  ‘Fucking Al’ for instance  and
    has done that ever since the terrible Groundhog River job back in 1957.  We lived
    together in the  wilderness for nearly three months…only contact was an occasional
    food drop and the emergency  evacuation of  poor Walter Helstein who had fallen on
    an alder picket and pierced his hand with subsequent screaming infection.  That job
    was  a test of endurance and  privation.   So I accepted the nickname with good humour.
    Roughest job I ever had.  How rough?  We had to cut the blowfly larva off our sides of  bacon for instance.

    Floyd had been  a cage operator in Kirkland Lake until  his other shift operator was
    mushed  into jelly when the cage cable broke.  Floyd quit that job…resolved to
    only work on the surface thereafter.

    The day after his marriage he  will fly to Hudson’s Bay for three months on a geophysical job.
    This business can be hard on family life.   

      I picked up my passport and health 
    certificate today.   Shortly I will fly to New York…then Glasgow….then Dublin.
    Our equipment should arrive  by ship  about the time I land.

     KINMOUNT … MADE FAMOUS BY MY FATHER


    Gord  Brand said  “Short job for you in Kinmount for two  days…can
    you get your car…pay 9 cents  a  mile?”  “Sure”
    Dad is mad…hates to lose the car as trip from West Toronto to Whitby
    plant is a  nightmare by street car and bus.  The only redeeming factor in that
    cross Toronto trip is that the Racetrack is at the mid point.   Whether going 
    to work or coming home he could stop to lay a bet or two.  Harder by streetcar.

    THURSDAY MAY  19, 1960

    The Kinmount site…a known anomaly where E.M. machines  could be tested.   That’s our family 1953 Meteor.  What cannot be
    seen  are the clouds  of black flies and mosquitoes…dense clouds  of them sucked blood in May each  year.





    The Arizona crew testing their equipment.   Initially I was slated to join this crew but suddenly the Irish  job  materialized.



    Left for Kinmount at 6 a.m. travelling north east on largely empty roads.  Saw
    two cow  moose that ran beside me for a short distance just east of  Kinmount.
    Our test site was  on  a  barely visible grassed ever bush road  where I
    met Gord Brand and Paul Head  who  had set up the large new Induced Polarization
    unit.  Operatonal .    Lunch consisted of a case of IPA…Ale.   Then I spent the
    afternoon laying spread wires through the bush.  Came upon one shack
    containing many dead  porcupines.  A mystery.  Porcupines are rare and
    supposed to be protected.

    Drove to Peterborough in the evening.  Staying at Rock Haven Motel.
    Two big turtles on the side of the road…a Snapping Turtle and a Painted Turtle.

    Paul Head told stories about the Arizona job where I was supposed to
    go until Ireland came along.  The Irish  job  seems to be a bit of a
    mystery.

     In Arizona near the Mexican border

     Apparently one of our guys got tangled up in a fast marriage
    down there and had to be rescued by the company.  The story was more
    earthy than I describe which made me wonder about the truth of the 
    matter  As with all stories told.

    FRIDAY MAY 20, 1960

    After  a great breakfast we drove back to the job site…from triple lane highway to
    double lane to single lane  to gravel road to turf road…to the job site  again.
    The month of May is the worst month for blood sucking insects…clouds of
    black flies trying to bite lumps of  flesh and burrowing their way along tight brltlines 
    or squirrelling into ears…then mosquitoes by the thousands.  The females want
    and need human blood…or any other kind of blood.   We managed to only get
    1.5 miles of readings done.  This instrument can be dangerous …shock value of 500 volts.
    So we were careful.   


    SATURDAY MAY 21,  1960

    We got a good early start today.  Working fast,  pushed to do so by the clouds
    of bloody insects.   We finished the job by 6.30 p.m. and I took off immediately
    for Toronto arriving home at 9.30…covered 250 miles in three hours.

    Dad spent part of the evening killing black flies that were still trapped
    in the car….and  cursing me in his usual hilarious way.  Dad  knew the
    Kinmount job site because  I took the family there a year ago.  When
    we arrived at the grassed  over end point, I asked:

    “Well, Dad,  what do  you think of it?”
    “Get me out of this goddamned bastardly bush this goddamn minute.”
    Mom, Eric and I often laugh when we think of that comment by Dad.

    This is my Dad, Red Skeoch, who made cursing sound like pop music.


    SUNDAY MAY 22,1960

    Drove to farm with mom and dad.  Rain and fog but we got a few plants in the
    ground then drove up to visit Frank and Lucinda (mom’s brother on the next farm north of ours) ..
     returning to Cherry Beach to pick up Eric from his lifeguard job.  Eric has a lot of great stories
    about lifeguarding.   Like the time he held  his binoculars to his  eyes  and announced…”Screwing
    match over there!”  “Where?  Where?”  And Eric opened his hand.  “Right here” showing a Screw and
    a  match in his hand.   I thought that was hilarious.  He had other stories best not put in  print.

    It had been a  grand  day.
    Our dog Peter had a great day prancing around in the mud.  Not so good
    for the  car though.

    MONDAY MAY 23, 1960

    Bought some 35 mm film at Honest Ed’s on the way to Cherry Beach  with Eric.
    Then  Dad  and  I went to the horse races at Old Woodbine.   Dad  was in
    his element.

    “We’ll get into the club house unless you bugger things up.”
    “What must I do.”
    “Nothing.  Just look straight ahead with no expression.  Do not
    look at the ticket booth. Act like you own the place.  Follow me.”

    Dad knew the guys in the ticket booth.  No problem.  I lost a couple
    of dollars but Dad seemed to make a few.   Later we picked up Eric
    and  had supper at Bassil’s Restaurant before returning home

    TUESDAY MAY  24, 1960

    Barry Nichols gave me my flight.tickets along with $300  expense money.

    Gord Brand and Paul Head left by Land Rover for the Arizona  job.

    I handed  in my expense  account for our car…$49.31…covered 480 miles
    in three days.

    Dan Bereskin arrived from Saskatoon as  a seismic  assistant and was
    immediately shipped off to the gas pipeline job  near Niagara Falls.

    WEDNESDAY MAY 25, 1960

    Back at office.   Everyone seems a little envious  that I got the Irish job.
    All is ready.

    WEDNESDAY  MAY  25, 1960

    Today  I took several uranium samples to the Rover Scout crew.
    Rested.

    THURSDAY MAY 26, 1960

    I did nothing today except look up my friends checked my bag.

    FRIDAY  MAY 29, 1960





    Final briefing day.   Dr. Norman Paterson asked me to demonstrate
    how the AFMag  worked.   Sort of strange because I thought he knew
    everything.  Maybe he was just checking me out…not the AFMag.
    Then we had one of the secretaries  type up my  report on the
    AFMag.   That was a strange experience for sure because she
    called  me ‘Dr. Skeoch’   Seemed strange.  

    Then Barrie Nichols took me aside.

    “Alan, you must pretend to be a permanent employee with
    vast experience running the Turam  E. M. unit.  Can you
    do that?”
    “Sure…no one else seems to know the machine.”

    I picked up the volt meters and  went home.



    SATURDAY MAY 28, 160

    Shopping day…technical books, rainwear, self-timer, filter for camera,
    map case.   Talked  with Marjorie. We get along so well.

    Thirty tomato plants for the farm then back to the racetrack
    with Dad.   In evening Mom and I  went to see The Man from Havana
    with Alex  Guinness.  

    SUNDAY MAY 29, 1960

    Uncle Art, Uncle Norman and Cousin ‘Long’ John  arrived
    at the farm to have a beer with Dad…his brothers and nephew.  I went over to Red Stevenson’s place
    for coffee in the evening…always welcome there…nice feeling.

    MONDAY MAY 30, 1960

    Mrs. Stewart next door wondered if I  would drop in on her Mom
    in Glasgow since I had a  bit of a layover.  Promised to do  so.  Mr.
    Cook drove me to the airport where Doug and  Harry had  arrived
    to wave me off.   TCA stewardess nice.  The airport in New York is
    immense.  KLM, Royal Dutch  Airlines had a man sent to meet me
    and escort me to the right terminal.  Boarded at 6.25 after a  long rush.
    Nine hour flying time.  Dutch are very friendly.

    TUESDAY  MAY 31, 1960

    Landed Prestwick airport south of  Glasgow.  Had  been  a landing 
    point for World War II bombers … at least the planes that survived
    the long flight across  the Atlantic Ocean.   Rather depressing place.
    Spent much of the day in Glasgow.  Long lines of heavy stone tenements
    turned black  from coal  fires.   Visited Mrs. Stewart’s Mom who had prepared
    a  special  steak  with a fired  egg on top.  Because  of the blackened tenement building
    I expected the residents to be unhappy.  The reverse was true … cheerful place.  I was
    introduced to other tenants and taken on  a  tour of Glasgow.   Then back to
    Prestwick for the fight to Dublin.

    WEDNESDAY JUNE 1, 1960

    AT last I arrived in  Dublin, Ireland.  Ready for the job.
    But equipment had not arrived  at Arbuckle, Smith and
    Company.  No Turam.  I will have to wait in Dublin.  Who knows
    how long.  Fell asleep three times today.  Very tired.  Being alone
    in a new city is not all that pleasant.

    Kevin Behan …wife  and daughters …made my days in Dublin enjoyable.  They did not have to do that.   Irish hospitality.


    I phoned Mrs. Behan who some friends had suggested as  a Dublin
    contact.  She was full of joy.  “My husband  Kevin will be arriving from Italy shortly,
    we want you to come out to the house immediately.”   And
    so began my  days  in Dublin’s fair city…”

    END EPISODE 85

    (THIS EPISODE LINKS BACK  TO THE FIRST IRISH EPISODE)



    alan skeoch
    July 2020