‘Whalley’s Corner Revisited’ by Len Wilson
From ‘Whalley’s Corner’ Series
I pushed open the glass doors of the Surrey Branch of the Hong Kong Bank of Canada and suddenly everything changed. Instead of a paved sidewalk bordering the main street of the bustling city of Surrey, I stepped onto the plain dirt walkway between a ditch a row of mailboxes and a two-lane road.
I turned to look at my reflection in the glass doors but I saw acres of budding blueberries. I expected to look across the main street and see hotels, malls and fine eating establishments. Instead I looked across the narrow highway to see tall stands of timber, and a sawmill. I looked to my right and saw Mattson Brother’s service station on the corner of Hjorth Road. Looking north to the corner of Grosvenor Road, I saw a huge billboard with The Vancouver Sun printed in fancy script.
I realized I was back in my childhood and at the bend in the road called Whalley’s Corner.
It was 1945 and I was six years old.
I heard voices to the south and my two older sisters were talking as they walked towards me. I struggled with the few parcels I was carrying and it all became clear. We had been down to Catto’s General Store on the corner of Hjorth Road and the Pacific Highway.
My sisters chatted, but I raced ahead to our yard, anxious to play with my brothers. Across the highway I passed a couple of small motels, and it wasn’t long before I came to a small building on our side of the road. This was Tom Binnies’ real estate office and next to it the Star Grocery. Beyond the pasture next to the store I could see our house.
There were no house numbers, but if we wanted to tell anybody where we lived you just said the yellow house across from Mr. Mutch’s farm. The one with all the beautiful fruit trees, the tall cedar trees in the back yard and the black shed at the end of the driveway with Chaplin Sask. painted in big white letters on its side. If you wanted to mail us a letter you addressed it c/o Mr. Archie Mutch, R.R.4, Pacific Highway, New Westminster, B.C.
On the East Side of the highway, Mr. and Mrs. Mutch had their house, barn, silo and milk house for pasteurizing and separating of the milk, but their pasture was on our side of the highway and surrounded our yard. Mr. Mutch was still logging most of his land so he leased the old Burrough’s farm including three houses. Mrs. Pratt and her family rented the original Burrough’s house on the corner of Ferguson Road and the highway. The house to the south of Mrs. Pratt’s had been converted to a confection store and post office and we lived in the third one.
My parents paid ten dollars a month rent, for our house, out buildings and fantastic orchard. We had apples, Bing cherries, pie cherries, Logan berries, grapes, prune plums, greengage plums and blackberries. Every spring my dad borrowed Mr. Mutch’s team of horses and plowed for the big garden he planted.
Mr. Mutch used the pasture behind our house from early spring till late fall. Every morning and night he moved his herd across the highway. In the morning the cows moved quickly, anxious to get their breakfast. In the afternoon it was different. One cow started mooing way out in the pasture and began meandering toward the fence. Soon from another part of the pasture another one would start, and then another. It seemed like they were yelling to each other, “milking time!” Soon they would all be bellowing and pushing at the fence. Mr. Mutch or his daughter Evelyn rushed across the highway and opened the gate. Then for all their complaining, the cows slowly crossed the road as irate drivers waited twiddling their thumbs.
Usually these cows were docile and slow moving, but my brother Douglas got them moving fast one day. He found an old twisted piece of water pipe and started swinging it around his head, making a strange sound. We never understood what affect this sound had on all the cows, all we heard was the thundering of hooves. By the time my dad got outside and had flung the pipe away there was a stampede. We kids escaped to the house so we never found out how Dad settled down that raging, pawing herd that was pushing our fence in.
Next to Mr. Mutch’s farm, where the old highway cut down to Ferguson Road was a vacant chicken farm. Vacant because the people who built and farmed it had the misfortune of being Japanese. All Japanese families were moved away with just enough time to pack and gather up personal possessions. Moved out of the community because of the war, they had become the “enemy.”
Across the highway from Mrs. Pratt’s house and next to the chicken farm the Daniels operated the Dorn Dog School. Besides having a house full of dogs, big ones, small ones, cutes ones, homely ones, all of them yapping ones, they had a telephone. The Daniels didn’t mind our family using their telephone. Our friends always gave Mom a bad time about talking (screaming) over the continual din of those barking dogs.
Nestled in the triangle between Ferguson and Grosvenor Roads was a service station. Mr. Hilton didn’t bother changing the name when he bought it from Mr. and Mrs. Whalley. The bus driver for the Pacific Stage Line always called out “Whalley’s Corner” and the name just stuck. Berg’s Meats, Labby’s Store, the Nu Way Inn and a few other stores and shops lined the highway as it turned and headed down Peterson Hill to the Patullo Bridge.
Although the war was still raging in Europe and the South Pacific, Whalley’s Corner was a quiet peaceful community. The war caused shortages, every family rationed, each member of the family receiving a ration book, and if you didn’t have a ration stamp you couldn’t make necessary purchases. Every night all the buildings were in total darkness because of Japanese submarines patrolling the West Coast.
One evening Mr. Mutch was milking his cows and left the barn door open. In the total blackout it wasn’t hard to spot his place and he received a severe reprimand from the warden.
School days we went to Grosvenor Road School consisting of only four rooms. It had a well where you could get a drink of water providing you brought a cup. There were outside toilets across the schoolyard. Every morning the older students helped Mr. Larsen, the janitor (whom I thought was a hundred years old) run the British flag up the flagpole. Before class we said the Lord’s prayer and our teacher read from the bible.
Working six days a week, Dad looked after the horses at a large mill in Coquitlam called Fraser Mills. We always knew when Dad was working because we could hear the whistle at the mill every time it blew for shift change and lunch. The mill also used the whistle for signaling, whenever there was a fire. Dad explained that the series of short and long blasts on the whistle meant a specific area of the mill. When the volunteer firemen heard these blasts of the whistle they would drop whatever they were doing and head for that spot.
There were eight kids so Mom worked every day. Every other day was wash day, which meant bringing the water in from the well and heating it on the stove. On the other days, Mom baked bread, sewed most of our clothes as well as canning fruit and vegetables to last over the winter.
There were plenty of chores for us kids to do but we still had enough play time. We enjoyed climbing trees and playing games like tag, run sheep run, red rover, marbles, skipping and hide and seek. We also had a radio that gave us many hours of enjoyment. Superman, The Shadow, Lux Radio Theatre, Fibber McGee and Molly, The Great Gildersleeve, were some of our favorite radio shows.
On Saturday nights, Dad brought the enamel tub down from where it leaned against the wall, so we could all have a bath. When it came my turn, everybody sat in the living room laughing at the radio program. I sat in utter loneliness. Hoping to get back to the radio quicker, I tried slapping the water with my hand hoping to fool Mom that I was really washing fast. It never fooled her and I would end up getting a good scrubbing anyway.
After we had our baths it was bedtime, but Mom always stayed up late preparing something special. There was always a sweet treat for us kids Sunday morning, and this way Mom and Dad had the chance to sleep in.
“Excuse me dear, you’r blocking the door” she said as she tried stepping by me.
I quickly stepped aside for the elderly lady as she gave me a quizzical look. “I’m sorry I must have been daydreaming,” I said, my embarrassment probably quite obvious. I shook my head as I stepped out of the way.
Suddenly the clock spun forward and I was back standing in front of the bank on King George Highway in 1995.
I looked across the main street and there were the familiar sights, the Rickshaw Restaurant, the Dell Shopping Center, the Post Office, the Flamingo Hotel and all the other businesses. I turned and went to my car and saw the Sky Train, whisking more people in one day than probably lived in the community fifty years ago.
Previously Published
Len Wilson’s Weblog, 2009
‘Pioneer News’, Spring 1996
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Leonard W. Wilson 