Memories made in Kelowna
The other day I watched a video clip about a family that had a fully integrated meat business in, as well as near, a modestsized town, meaning they had a ranch for raising the beef, dressing it and then selling it retail on the main street.
Hey, this was the case in Kelowna in 1949 when I was 13 years old and Don Bennett’s family had a similar business.
Uncle Frank was the cowboy with the ranch out in Glenmore, which we would visit. I didn’t like looking at the abattoir where the cattle were slaughtered and was never there when it was happening.
On Bernard Avenue, two other brothers had the butcher shop on the south side of the street, called the Palace Meat Market, only a few doors away from the Golden Pheasant Restaurant. Further east was a soda, ice cream and milkshake shop where “teens” would hang out and play the juke box, at five cents a tune.
But that’s another story.
Don’s dad, Alex and “Uncle” Ian owned the shop. Both were very convivial guys who found amusement in most anything. The Golden Pheasant was always called the “Brass Rooster” and their shop was the “Pale Ass Meat Market.”
They had a big GMC delivery van that was once used as an emergency vehicle. The highway as it approached the south side of Westbank wound its way down to the modest creek, then crossed the bridge to go up to the other side.
With icy conditions on the steep slope down, one winter, a Greyhound bus crashed, hard enough that many were injured – thus the need for the meat van to become an ambulance.
On pleasant spring days we often went down the “main drag” after school for something to do. Around 3:30 p.m. one could get a little hungry and we would stop in and get a couple of wieners to eat as we continued on our way.
Another butcher, Dave, was younger and played commercial hockey in the winter, so he was rather fit. Knowing I was squeamish about what was going on in the back room, he called me in and said, “Hold out your hands.” Thinking he might have a treat I went along with it and he slammed in two handfuls of chicken guts. There were no huge processing plants in those days.
As revolting as it was, we all laughed and the guys helped clean up my hands. Wary of tricks, we would still drop in for wieners, but somehow something about getting even came to mind. By this time it was summer and there was a big electric fan on a tall stand near the front door, blowing in cooler air.
So, in getting our treats we slowly peeled off the outer wrap and as we got to the door threw the wieners into the fan, which was at full speed. It was incredible when shards of meat blasted all over the shop.
On a Saturday afternoon the sight of two young guys running in and out of pedestrians along the sidewalk with Dave close behind threatening us with a meat cleaver got some attention.
It seems that the best places you’ve lived in depended upon your age. Back in 1950 when I was 13 and on a warm summer day, hanging below the car ramp of the Westbank dock as the ferry was coming in definitely had its thrills. This and the “Aquatic” made Kelowna, from age 12 to 14, the ideal place to be.
Other kinds of fun were enjoyed elsewhere at other age spans. Right now looking from my deck the view seems hard to beat.
Most days we would walk to the club then spend a lot of the time playing “Rag” tag. Being hit by a tennis ball hurt and if you missed it travelled too far. So, we took part of an old towel and tied it into knot, which was ideal. The game was played in the pool, on the diving tower as well as up and down the spectator stands.
Part of it included hiding on the 10-metre platform, just taking it easy. About 20 guys our age played and I recall only one injury.
On the five metre platform, Bruce Bryden, in trying to avoid getting tagged, dove off the back – into a small rowboat – his injuries were limited to a broken wrist and collar bone.
For a rest, we would go around to the “Hot Sands.”
The dock on the Westbank side had its unique appeal. The water seemed clearer and there were dry reeds on the beach that we would try to smoke. While it tasted awful, some discovered
the fun of taking a mouthful of smoke and diving down as far as possible, then blowing it out. We then swam back up, watching the bubble of smoke rise and break at the surface.
Once or twice in the off-season we bicycled onto the ferry, when a strong wind had built some waves. Few cars left a lot of empty deck, which in rolling was challenging to ride. The deck hands took no responsibility, looked at us scornfully and told us we were crazy. I don’t recall any injuries.
But big time excitement happened at the dock. Wooden pilings were set to form the typical “U” shape for small ferries with the ramp for cars to get to the highway. Underneath there were steel structures ideal for hanging from as the ferry came in – always with the bow propeller blasting a wall of water at a speed that lifted you to lying flat, with the huge bow and propeller stopping just in time.
With that rush over, we would climb to the top of the pilings to wait until the ferry departed. Jumping in had to be carefully timed, into where the churning waters from the propeller were flowing fast. This would pull you under as well as spin you around, with the mass of water rushing you through some vertical structures to back under the ramp.
We would continue to hang out until the next ferry... and repeat.
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The Kelowna Branch of the Okanagan Historical Society operates on the unceded traditional territory of the Syilx people. It gratefully acknowledges their traditional knowledge, the elders and all those who have gone before us.
This article is part of a series, submitted by the Kelowna Branch, Okanagan Historical Society. Additional information would be welcome at P.O. Box 22105, Capri P.O., Kelowna, B.C., V1Y 9N9.