searching for justice

A letter from Jack Potter: a precis of his life and times

2004-09-15T10:51:00.000-07:00

A letter from JACK POTTER:
a précis of his life and times.

Dear Wally,
I really enjoyed your book Short Pants to Striped Trousers and admired the research you put into it. It brought back memories of my youth and early years in the legal profession that you might find interesting.

I was born in 1929 and my first memories were of living with my family in a second-floor apartment at 3843 East Hastings Street, just inside Burnaby. My father John Sloan Potter, a solicitor, emigrated from Northern Ireland around 1912. My mother told me he had been an alderman for the City of Londonderry. I didn’t fully accept the truth of this until several years ago when, on a visit to Ireland, I looked up the records: he was an alderman from 1905 to 1911. My father did some legal work at home and my mother got a kick out of an old lady who would come knocking at our door asking “Is the lieyer in?”

My mother Dagbjort (Bertha) Johnson, of Icelandic descent, told me she had been a teacher in the four western provinces. After that, in the 1920’s, she had a sandwich shop near the Hudson Bay store and it was there she met my father. She was shocked that, next door to her shop, “confidence men” fleeced the naive in card games and other schemes and when she informed the police they didn’t seem to do anything.

I started grade one at a school on Gilmore Avenue but after six months, my family being in dire straits, we moved to a very small rent-free house at 3741 Napier Street; probably seized by the municipality for unpaid taxes (first social housing?). I attended Kitchener Street school up to grade eight and my life at that time was quite pleasant – good school pals and friendly neighbours. Some boys ran afoul of the law and we had a ritual that after a boy was released from reform school we would let him be first up at bats at recess.

I didn’t know Mike Puhach very well at this time although we were in the same grade. He lived on the other side of the Masonic Cemetery on Douglas Road where my parents are buried.

I remember my mother buying me my first bicycle and helping me learn to ride it; and my father buying me a BB gun that I used to shoot at birds and rows of bottles and cans. Around this time my mother’s sister Gudrun Johnson came from Manitoba and got married. She and her husband Fred moved to Ladner and in the summer I had the very enjoyable experience of cycling down Fraser Street, then across Lulu Island, taking the ferry from Woodward's Landing across the south arm of the Fraser River and riding past the berry farms to their house on Bridge Street. The old municipal hall was across the street from their house. A small lock-up and a morgue was at the back of the hall and sometimes, at night, I could hear the prisoners yelling.

Ladner was a special place in those days; probably ruined now by the growth of Tsawassen. Farmers would come to socialize on the main drag on Saturday nights. We shopped at the Piggly Wiggly and went to movies in the community hall. I was the worst black currant picker on Mr. Connolly’s farm, my mother being one of the best.

Aunt Gudrun’s husband Fred was a carpenter and worked on the Boundary Bay Airport. It was a training base for WW2 pilots. I would ride out there and see the sky filled with Tiger Moths, the first trainer for fledgling pilots who would later graduate to Harvards. I was at the official opening of this airport presided over by Austin Taylor who smoked a big cigar during the ceremonies in spite of the "No Smoking" signs. I also went to Westham Island, past the famous Chung Chuck potato farm. My aunt would warn me not to go near the “jungle,” the camp of unemployed men on the riverside of the dyke. I could see smoke rising from their fires. Eventually my aunt and uncle moved to Vancouver where he built and renovated houses.

In the early Forties my father was to receive a small inheritance from his family in Ireland. He put the matter in the hands of a downtown lawyer who procrastinated over several years giving many excuses. Finally my mother had the inheritance completed by David Brander Smith of Bull Housser. We heard later that the first lawyer was notorious for not completing files.

My mother was determined to own a home but not in Burnaby. She thought there was a stigma attached to Burnaby because it had gone into bankruptcy and was run by a commissioner appointed by the provincial government. Finally she was able to buy a house at 2125 West 5th Avenue behind the old Kits theatre. My father died in 1942 and my mother, who had not worked for years, rented out rooms – often to veterans of the War.

I enrolled in grade 8 at Kitsilano High School and the first person to greet me was Jack Kyle, the basketball player and cricketer, not the broadcaster. We have remained friends ever since. My years at Kits high were very agreeable and I was quite surprised when I had coffee with a former student who told me about some unpleasant memories of students who had been threatened with expulsion for bad behaviour. We had some marvelous teachers – O. M. Sanford for social studies and Don Mackenzie for math; and some of the worst – one who told us to “take a bat and ball and play in the yard,” and another who was easily distracted if we asked him about some event taking place in the war in Europe. I was thankful that I took typing but later regretted not taking shorthand which would have been so handy when interviewing clients and taking notes in the courtroom.

I was not pushed but I wanted to go to university. Clive Nylander’s mother and mine were good friends, both Icelandic, and they had quite a lively argument on whether it was better for us to take first year at university or Grade 13 at Kits. My mother favored Grade 13 and I followed her advice. I graduated from Kits in 1947 and entered UBC in the fall. I majored in economics with a minor in English literature. I was ‘at sea’ for the first couple of years. I had thought of engineering but I did extremely poorly in chem Lab and could not change a spark plug or be handy with tools. I had also considered architecture but was not a good artist; later I learned that architects hired artists to do the renderings. Eventually I chose law.

I thought I could retain my high school friends but they were in different classes and had different schedules. Not wanting to miss out on the university experience I joined the ATO fraternity and still remain friends with some of the “brothers.” For a short time I was on the Ubyssey when Jim Banham was the editor and Les Armour its main writer. I didn’t become an editor because it took up a lot of time and late evenings at College Printers.

I liked our law class. It was fairly small – about 50, cohesive – almost like being back in high school. You could make friends. I was not a brilliant student and had to study hard. The late Ted Pierce was a top student. Tommy Franck became a professor, Callaghan a judge, etc. One of our favourite activities after exams was to celebrate at the Georgia Pub. On one memorable occasion the late George Campbell (Kim’s dad) left after about only an hour, which was unusual for our group. He came back a short time later with a famous Birk’s blue box. He opened it and showed us a string of pearls for his wife, who, he said, had been so patient during his studies that she deserved a gift. I was extremely impressed. Unfortunately we later learned that she ran off with a yachtsman.

I was on the staff of Legal Notes; our editor was Bill Gill. One summer I worked at the Coyle battery factory where I met Pete Manson who later became a very distinguished member of the Bar. I also dug ditches at the Renfrew Housing Project for veterans and got a wonderful tan.

After graduating in 1953 with a double degree I articled with Campbell Brazier and was not a happy student. I resented picking up Mr. Campbell’s dry cleaning and doing other minor chores. I switched to Tommy Dohm and it was not much better because he had me spending most of my time adjourning cases at police court. Upon being called to the Bar I opened a practice in the back of a real estate office on Renfrew Street. About a year into practice I met my future wife Margaret Rebagliati: where else? – at the Georgia Pub!

After one of Margaret’s friends arranged a blind date we started going together and nine months later were married. Our plan was to go on a two-year honeymoon to Europe. Every young person went to Europe in those days. We took trains and busses across Canada and the US and the smallest Cunard liner, the Ascania, across the Atlantic. We stayed with my uncle and his wife in Liverpool, saw a bit of Britain, went to France, Italy and Switzerland and planned to return the next spring to do more touring. We came back to London and I got a job in the accounting department of a large manufacturing company: it produced wire crates used by milkmen to carry bottles of milk to their customers. I could have taken work as a solicitor but I wasn’t prepared to give them a long-term commitment. Marg worked as a temp secretary.

In the fall of 1955 Marg became pregnant and so we returned home in December. I cast about for a job and worked briefly for Street and Wollen, had a short stint selling life insurance and then shared space with Wally Beck. Marg worked for Sigler Mclennan & Clarke and through them I was able to acquire the practice of Anderson & Anderson in the old Sun Tower. The practice included a retainer with The Vancouver Sun. I toiled there for 19 years trying to keep The Sun, including Fotheringham, free from libel suits. I believe I was largely successful however the dropped word “if” in a story turned a hypothetical question into a statement that the hardware store of premier Bill Bennett and his brother had government contracts. Their lawsuit for libel was successful.

I carried on a general practice, successfully defended a number of impaired driving cases, had a couple of complaints involving estates resolved in my favour, filed divorce petitions: (remember Joe Romans?). I ceased full practice in 1983 but did some work at home until 1999 when the cost of the bar fee became prohibitive.

I have some memories of the Magistrates courts and characters associated with them. A few years ago Norm Mullins did a nice piece in the Advocate about the “East End Bar.” I remember Ralph Reid who always seemed to be in the cafeteria drawing a top-hatted penguin on a paper napkin and writing under it “West End Counsellor.” Remember John Macey? He knew every trick in the book to win an acquittal.

I was awestruck when I first saw Angelo Branca in a Supreme Court jury trial. He was exactly what I imagined a criminal lawyer to be – suave, fluent in cross-examination, persuasive in addressing the jury. I thought he would have excelled in the role of defense counsel in the movies or television.

I had a few interesting clients – one whose name rhymes with Miller. He had a wife who was having an affair with a man she met at a roller rink when my client was toiling as a welder on a northern pipeline. After they separated he consulted me and asked what I thought of his idea of sneaking out to where his wife was living and beating her to death with a tire iron. I said it was not a good idea and told him “I don’t defend murderers.” We sued for damages but were not awarded any. I thought the judge should have considered my client’s hurt feelings and humiliation instead of telling him that his wife was of very bad character, wasn’t worth anything and that he was well rid of her. As we were leaving the courthouse, he said – “Remember that advice you gave me about not killing my wife, I’m glad I took it.”

Some memories brought forth from your book:
Del Black, friendly and casual who seemed always to be sporting a black eye or the remains of one. After his premature death, Lorne Montaine told me that Del was warned not to jog because he had not been feeling well for several months but he decided to jog in Stanley Park where he died. It was several hours before his body could be identified because he wasn’t carrying any item of identification.

I always wondered how an old curmudgeon like Clare Bell could have a son who was such a wonderful tenor. On an occasion when I served Judge Bell with a notice appealing one of his convictions he gruffly told me I’d never win because I wasn’t a New Westminster lawyer.

We stayed at the old Wickaninnish Inn one summer and it was most enjoyable. The then U.S. ambassador to Canada and his family were also there and he told us they were completing a coast-to-coast trip across Canada.

In the 80’s we went to Puerto Vallarta for a holiday with another couple. They had a friend living there permanently who knew Geoff Crawford. They were told that Crawford had a wonderful beachfront home with a tennis court; that people often wandered along the beach and, thinking it was a hotel, went in only to be told that it was a private residence. I learned from your book that it was converted to an Inn. The story we were told was that Crawford became fed up with bureaucracy in BC and moved to Mexico. Sadly, we later learned of his murder.

In the 50’s I attended a political meeting in the old Georgia Auditorium at which Premier W. A. C. Bennett spoke and a heckler yelled: “What about Sommers?” to which Bennett replied, “Never mind about Sommers, it’s the Liberal winters we have to worry about.”

My earliest memory of Bill Craig was when he was master of ceremonies at the first law ball I attended in 1951. He was the president of the Law Undergraduate Society. When I met him on the street he was always friendly and greeted me with a smile. The last time I saw him was when I appeared before him in court in a complicated case involving an estate where the deceased had “bogged off to Bellingham” to get married (remember Ray Herbert’s phrase in Domestic Relations?) which nullified her will. A number of lawyers were involved in the case but Bill remained very patient and courteous and ensured that there was a convivial atmosphere in the courtroom.

I remember Gordon Johnson in the 50’s when he was practicing with Dick Hannesson in an office on east Hastings Street across from the old Forst’s store. Gordon was the more outgoing and friendly of the two. Hannesson, perhaps because he was Icelandic (I saw him at Icelandic functions – I was secretary of the Icelandic Lutheran Church for several years) was more subdued. Their office was the one closest to mine on Renfrew Street and I went there to have documents sworn. Also close by was Nino Rose’s, a very good Italian restaurant where I often had lunch.

Chapter 10 of your book “Downtown Vancouver . . .” brings up a real sore point with me. The old Hotel Vancouver site stood empty for years after the building was razed and I thought it would have been wonderful to develop that block and the one south of Robson into a park, something like Central Park in New York. In my opinion our city fathers caved in to eastern liquor interests. I had the CEMP construction manager speak to our Kiwanis Club and he said the tower to be built on the site of the old hotel would be golden reflecting the sky and the sun.

After appearing in magistrate’s court at 312 Main Street I often waited for a bus at Main and Hastings. If I looked toward the city centre my gaze inevitably became fixed on the black TD Tower at the Pacific Centre. Not golden and reflective of the sky and sun, but more like that burnt out skyscraper in the movie “The Towering Inferno.”

With its many towering apartment blocks it appears to me that the north shore of False Creek is looking more and more like Hong Kong.

I noted your comments on murder cases and it seems to me that you regret the abolition of the death penalty. I am in favour of capital punishment in cases in which the evidence is direct and not circumstantial. The “liberals” seem to have presented us with a number of contradictions including a “life sentence” that is not really life but 25 years; and jails so filled up with convicted murderers that they invented the “faint hope” clause permitting early parole. I don’t think rapist murderers can ever be rehabilitated. I don’t think our prisons are equipped to rehabilitate criminals.

I have a theory that the behavior of people is very consistent and would cite the case of bank robber Stephen Reid. A paragon of rehabilitation, he is once again in prison for yet another armed robbery. I was involved in a couple of stalking cases and they are truly frightening. There is nothing that can be done to deter an obsessive stalker other than to keep him or her in jail.

I am quite disappointed with our police force in the case of Robert (Willy) Pickton, the man accused of murdering Skid Road prostitutes. I wonder why, early on in the serial disappearances of the women, the force couldn’t have hired retired officers to assist in the investigation. If Pickton is found guilty I believe he will convicted of murdering ten times as many women as the infamous Jack the Ripper.

Jack Potter in retirement:
With regard to myself I have been living a life of quiet retirement watching our four children and one grandchild growing up. That they have all exceeded me in their careers is the best relationship a parent can have with his/her children. Our daughter is an executive (married to a businessman), our oldest son a set dresser for the movies (and lives with a very talented art teacher), our second son is a chartered accountant (married to a government securities lawyer) and our youngest son is an architect (married to an architect).

About 20 years ago Michael and Chris Puhach re-ignited our interest in opera and we have had seasons’ tickets and have travelled with them to San Francisco several times and were fortunate to see the great Pavarotti and other wonderful singers perform. We have had many enjoyable “opera” evenings with them when they serve dinner and play opera records. And we have enjoyed many memorable New Year’s Eve parties with them.

I play golf with Ivan Tufts, Phil Fee and Carl Jonsson who tolerate my being a high handicapper. Once at the Langara pro shop there was a young man working there who was the spitting image of you when you were in your 20’s – wavy blond hair and good looking. I inquired if he could be your son but he said no. I also bowl 5 pins and do a bit of landscape painting and play some bridge. Lately I have been attending dinner meetings of the Senior Lawyers section of the Canadian Bar Association at the Vancouver Lawn & Tennis Club. Carl Jonsson is our chairman and we have had a number of interesting speakers including Tom Berger and Gordon Gibson. The fellowship makes it well worth attending.

I have taken the liberty of writing out my obituary for the Advocate to save someone else having to do it. To quote the last paragraph:
Recently I heard a person describe himself as a Christian agnostic. This might fit me – I have never understood the theory of evolution but more eminent minds than mine have also found this concept difficult to grasp. I also do not know why living creatures were put on this earth. I have constantly marveled at the complexity and beauty of the universe and have been totally mystified by it all.

In short I hope my life will not be viewed as having been totally without accomplishment but from this vantage point seems to have been unduly short and I will have departed this earth with millions of others in relative obscurity. The words of T. S. Eliot in the Wasteland might be fitting.
“ . . . we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in the memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under the seals broken by the lean solicitor . . .”

I enjoyed your book and hope you will keep writing.

Regards,
Jack Potter
July 25, 2004

Aldo Stradiotti: Fraserview in the Twenties

2004-09-01T14:12:00.000-07:00

In my book Short Pants to Striped Trousers I described the Vancouver suburb of Fraserview as it was in my childhood in the Thirties. A clear picture of what it was like before my time is found in the warm and sometimes moving words of Aldo Stradiotti.

At the end of his days he wrote an article for the local paper, the Revue. Published on February 7th and 14th, 1988 it was Aldo’s unique way of saying goodbye to his cherished part of Vancouver and its people. Aldo Stradiotti died on February 21, 1988.

Growing Up In Southeast Vancouver Circa 1920
The following are glimpses through the eyes of a youngster who became an oldster having lived and worked almost his entire lifetime in southeast Vancouver, an area now known as Fraserview.
In this account no research was done through records or archives. It is not a scholarly treatise, it is merely the recollections of an old man who has lived and loved this area.
Where dates are used they are approximately correct – they may be a bit askew. Names of people who were known to me, or who had so much personality or character or eccentricity are included. Others, possibly more important in some eyes, are omitted.
The year 1920 A.D. was a traumatic time for our family, as well as for South Vancouver. The moving to 54th and Nanaimo to a one-acre plot of land was the culmination of a long dream for father Gino. Being European born and raised he longed for a piece of land where he could set down his roots, raise his family and cherish his dream of being a real Canadian – his dream of returning to La Bella Italia had long since vanished. He was to become a citizen of this country and all that that meant.
In Fraserview, the most southeastern corner of Vancouver, the name of our family became synonymous with our area. At first there were a few somewhat trying and amusing times. Gino, being a cook (chef) and having worked for many years in kitchens in which French was the language of the place, became fluent in that tongue (as well as Italian and English). As there were few, if any, Italians in our locality and there were several Francophones, he was heard to speak in the Gallic language and some neighbours knew him as the Frenchman. His kids were at times obliquely called “Frenchie” until some muscular persuasion ended the sobriquet.
South Vancouver at that time was a self-contained municipal entity, governed by a reeve, councillors, a school board, etc. etc. Kerrisdale (Point Grey) also was separate from Vancouver proper and governed similarly to South Vancouver. In 1928 these two municipalities amalgamated with the City of Vancouver and this occasioned some changes in the names of schools. In Van South – two schools, Secord and Gordon, were renamed Sir James Douglas and Sir Sandford Fleming as there already existed in Vancouver proper the schools Laura Secord and General Gordon. Also, avenue numbers were changed to two digits lower, 56th became 54th, 59th to 57th and so on. Addresses also changed, for example our former house number of 1913 changed to 2355.
To be noted too: In 1922 the traffic flow was changed from left to right. That is the British system moved over for the North American type. The New Year’s greetings of 1922 were “Happy New Year – keep to the right.” It caught on quickly and as vehicular traffic was relatively light it proved no real hardship. Horse-drawn traffic moved slower and adjusted easily. I personally had no great trouble – but then I was not yet seven years old.
To provide glimpses of our little area of the world there were two overwhelming characteristics: the geography of the area, both physical and economic, and the character and personality of the inhabitants.
The main feature of that part bounded by 47th Avenue (now 45th) to the river was a general slope southward. It sloped modestly from 45th to about 61st Avenue, then steeply to the river. By 1920 logging had ended but during the previous 50 years it had been the lower mainland’s most vigorous industry and southeast Vancouver was a major skid road area; not in the social sense but rather in the original, literal use of that term. Young people today cannot envision the problems of earlier times when heavy equipment was unknown and motive power was provided by teams of horses or oxen and sometimes steam power.

In relation to logging in general, teams could not pull large logs, so lengths of logs were lessened. But the real problem was in the flared butts of the tree which could not be moved by the animal teams. Springboard falling was a must; the tree was cut several feet off the ground to eliminate the flared butt and steam donkeys were used to stockpile logs which were then pulled by horses and oxen along skid roads or cross-timbered roads. Many stumps remained in place during the Twenties and Thirties: in fact there were more than 100 that come to mind, larger than the “show” stump in Champlain Mall.
Nanaimo Road in 1920 was a “planked” road. That is, the surface of the road was lined crossways with 4-inch by 12-inch planks. With use, some of these planks were fractured leaving a rough, barely usable surface. At this time Victoria Road from Kingsway to 54th Avenue was used only on it’s east portion with streetcar tracks adjacent to the road on the west side. From 54th Avenue to Marine Drive, Victoria Road was usable only on the west portion. In 1928 this road was cemented from Kingsway to 44th on the west portion. The streetcar line was double tracked from the city center to 44th Avenue – from 44th to 54th it was single tracked.
The sidewalks in Fraserview were of wood boards 2”x12”, three wide, running longitudinally to the street. There was a ¾-to-one-inch crack between the planks which caused much searching for lost marbles or coins. Because the streets were unusable for bicycles the sidewalks were used. The surface of 54th Avenue was split rock – probably about three-inch minus – tough on bare feet.
Vivian Creek was the main topographical feature between Victoria and Kerr Roads. It was named after the pioneer Vivian family. It flowed out of a large swamp lying between 46th and 51st Avenues, through a large pond at 54th Avenue and Vivian Street, then to the river. At Marine Drive there was a gully about 45 feet deep spanned by a wooden bridge. Where the creek entered the North Arm of the Fraser River a sand bar had developed. Just east of this mini-estuary was an island called Rowlings Island which extended from the creek mouth to Kerr Road. In 1951 when the Fraserview veterans housing area was being developed, fill from that site was dumped into the slough and the land was reclaimed.
Rowlings was one of the big loggers of the area. He lived in a large home on Marine Drive just east of Nanaimo Road and on the south of the Drive (Marine Drive was known to many as River Road). Rowlings also had a large wind-driven pump on the river below his property. It was not used during my youth but it was said that water was pumped uphill for his logging uses, teams, etc.
Almost immediately across from the Rowlings home was that of another logger – Gibson by name. He called his home “Chula Vista” and in the front of his property was a huge tulip-magnolia tree – a beautiful scene. I don’t know if that Gibson was related to the famous logger Gordon Gibson and his brothers.
As kids our playground was the large area which is now the Fraserview Golf Course. We picked blackberries – not the large modern ones – but the small, sweet type that grew on vines. My they did make the tastiest jam I have ever eaten! In the Vivian creek ravine there was a huge sawdust pile built up from a sawmill that had flourished before my time. This pile of sawdust was about where the 18th fairway is located and we would jump down this pile – mostly “au naturel” as there were no people living within many blocks.
Just to the south where Vivian Creek crosses Marine Drive there was a holding of about four acres. My first recollection was that the tenant was a teamster called Multnomah. He had his name on the harness of his fine Clydesdales – which left an impression on us kids.
In contrast with the Multnomah family was Alan Boag who lived near the north end of Vivian Creek. An old north Ireland bachelor he owned a large stone house on the northeast corner of 54th and Elliott and most of the land from Elliott to Vivian and 54th to 47th.
Previous tenants of the big stone house were the Wright family who later moved to 54th and Kerr; and the West family who stayed for several years then moved out of the district.
When Boag moved into the stone house in the mid-twenties, he was something of a curmudgeon who chased people from his property – “It’s mine and it’s going to be mine alone.” He was an agnostic who could not quite visualize Noah having an ark big enough to fit in all the animals of the earth in pairs. That threw him, so he put all religion aside. He was, however, not an unkind man and as an ardent CCFer he left his wealth to the “Boag Foundation” – for use in expanding the socialist philosophy.
In fact, an “underprivileged” Pierre Trudeau was a recipient of the largesse in his trip to China – before he became politically active within the Liberal Party.
To appreciate the type of living in our area it is a must to understand that civilization had only half entered our lives. It was amazing to the old-timers that all of South Vancouver had been properly surveyed and staked. It is almost incredible that this bushland was marked out in mainly 33-foot lots with roadways and lanes included.
For about 400 feet east of Nanaimo on 56th (now 54th) Avenue and also on 55th (53rd) Avenue one-acre plots were laid out. Beyond the one-acre plots a “soldiers settlement” of about six acres was set aside for veterans of the First World War.
The first tenant was Fred Eyre, an ex-sergeant in the army who was rough and tough on the outside but who showed friendship and kindness when it counted. But a subsequent tenant of the land was Malcolm Campbell – a dairyman – who operated a dairy there and herded his cows on the site of the present Kingsford Smith School.
Some men are good, some men are no good and the rest of us are just average. But Malcolm Campbell was the best of the best. No account of the district is complete without a eulogy to this man. During the Great Depression I am certain that he gave away more milk than he sold. But his largesse was done with kindness and compassion. His debtors would be asked to come to his dairy to “work.” He gave them sort of meaningful things to do but everyone knew that he could have got by without this “help,” but it was his way of eliminating the stigma of charity.
In the 1920s the area around the south end Wales Street was a gravel pit for South Vancouver. One-ton trucks, in contrast to the huge earthmovers of today, ran from the gravel pit to surface the roads of the municipality. Remember that very few of the roads were paved. In the 30s “relief” work crews converted this area from a gravel pit to the golf course known as Fraserview.

Speaking of relief crews, this leads to thoughts of the Bad Old Days. In nostalgia old fogies often associate the old days with being good. There is a dichotomy in this. Those days were good because we were younger – no arthritis or old-age diabetes or all those ails of aging. But there was the dark side too. Social assistance programs were practically non-existent.
A case in point is that of a neighbour who was widowed with three young children aged about eight, six and two. She could not go out to work as there were no day-care groups so she did the one thing remaining for her. She took in a man who could provide the groceries needed. In fact, she prostituted herself to provide for her family. Two kids resulted from this union. Today with the loose co-habiting arrangements this would seem passé. In the twenties it was an unfortunate, forced scandal. The sequel of this story is that she was in turn abandoned by her common-law mate and subsequently had to make a similar arrangement with another. She died of tuberculosis, probably engendered by the hard life she was forced to lead. This was not a completely isolated incident, but it serves to demonstrate that the Old Days were not necessarily the Good Days.
From the lack of sophistication of our area a few good things emerged. The part south of 54th was not highly populated. Streets were cut through only in part and then a trail led to someone’s home. Such streets were Clarendon and Berkley which ran from 54th to about six blocks south.
On these streets were a mélange of dwellers. One highly forgettable character was Trotter (Harry) Watts who seemed to get by with little work. And on the same street were families who begat the finest citizens.
Alan Thomas (PhD) became a noted educator in Illinois after having served as a teacher in the boondocks of B.C.
The three Craig boys became an accountant, a graduate engineer and a judge.
The Carney family provided a (PhD) in Lit from Sister Josephine and priesthood from James. The latter became and is now the Archbishop of the Vancouver Diocese.
Not too bad a record for the sticks – if Trotter was excluded.
There were other gems to be remembered. Walter Gage who became President of U.B.C. grew up close to Tecumseh School. John Sutherland and Ben Kerslake Farrar became, respectively, a noted teacher and important cog as an engineer in Trail. Many others emerged from these humble beginnings to achieve considerable fame.
To finish off with an overview of some remembered and sometimes cherished thoughts: The view from the top of the hill overlooking Richmond and the Gulf of Georgia—a peaceful reverie in moments of tranquility. Memories flash across that “inward eye which is the bliss of solitude.” The tower and windmill below the Rowlings property; the old pilings from a long unused dock just east of Nanaimo; the huge water tower at Dominion Mills; drinking from the spring just outside the Hornbrook home, in isolation, deep in the bush but close to south Kerr Road; the red dock at the foot of Victoria Road prior to the start of Keeley’s mill; the old frames and keelson of the “Vigilante” abutting Gladstone Park.
Also the not so cherished – the sight of about 30 shacks between Nanaimo Road and the mouth of Vivian Creek where many families were forced to live during the Depression.
I suppose our view of the old area is similar to that of the cuckolded dove who, when she saw the lark that emerged from the mislaid eggs said “You’re not very nice looking but you’re mine and I love you.”

Jack Potter - August 2004:
I enjoyed reading Aldo Stradiotti’s account of early days in South Vancouver. It was a wonderful description of the early topography, government and life in Fraserview. I was struck by the great changes that have taken place over 80 years: planked roads to paved roads, wooden shacks to modern homes, horse drawn vehicles to comfortable trolley buses.

I have some memories of South Vancouver, not as extensive as yours or Aldo’s but they might be of some interest to you.

My mother was quite a social person and loved to visit people, mostly Icelanders who had emigrated from the Prairies. I was about 10 or 11 when I went with her; my father usually stayed home; he was pounding out a book on Shakespeare. Close friends were the Erlendsons who lived on Butler Street one block east of the Doman truck farm on Doman Road. In those days we spoke of “roads;” now they are called “streets.”

We would take the No. 14 street car at Hastings and Boundary to Main Street, then transfer to the Joyce Road streetcar and get off at Joyce Road; walk south to 45th and then down Doman Road to the Erlendson’s property. This journey took almost half a day and we had to walk about a mile.

It seemed customary for my mother always to present the Erlendsons with a pound of coffee. They had a large property which included about six Italian prune trees (not plum as Mr. Erlendson admonished us) and an enormous walnut tree as well as other fruit trees and a garden. I can still remember the delicious aroma of apples and fruit when I peeked into his cold room. We had some marvellous Christmas dinners there: Runa was an excellent cook and Mr. Erlendson was a master at carving the turkey. He was a carpenter by trade and a socialist politically; often railing on against the “faskists.” They hosted some wonderful garden parties in the summer serving traditional Icelandic food like Rulla Pylsa, lamb flank rolled up and laced with saltpeter, cloves and allspice (which I still enjoy when obtainable);Vinarterta, a six-layered cake with a prune filling and yogurt-like skyr (which really disappointed kids who thought it was ice cream!).

We would sometimes go for walks and I remember going past the Fraserview golf course and seeing golfers teeing off from a tee box close to the sidewalk. I noticed that there was a green box of sand from which the players took sand to tee up their golf balls. I have often played Fraserview but have been unable to find the tee box I saw as a kid.

You might remember the stories of Albert Foote that appeared in the weekend edition of The Sun. He lived around Earles Road and wrote amusing stories about his cronies who lived in the neighbourhood. Several years ago I tried to get his stories from The Sun morgue but their collection was very sparse – perhaps the public library might have them.

I don’t have many memories of southeast Vancouver other than the pleasant visits to mother’s friends. My last memories are of riding on the new streamlined streetcars that were first introduced on the Joyce Road line in the 40s or early 50s. In comparison with the old streetcars they were quiet and comfortable and a joy to ride in.

Jack Potter

A letter from Jon D'Angelo

2004-07-15T16:45:00.000-07:00

Hello Mr. Craig,

This is Jon D'Angelo here. Hope you have some vague memory of me squirreling around your home in the mid-to-late seventies dating your daughter Nancy. I have been aware of your public advocacy since your retirement toward changes needed in the judicial system and applaud your efforts.

Your recent commentary in the Sun, regarding a former judge David Ramsay, was a breath of fresh air. I hope you continue your dialog publicly wherever you can, as it may wake up the local consciousness effecting change to this current criminal justice system.

Some time ago I read your book and found it to be quite a journey. It was simply outstanding. I particularly liked the historical aspects of the city you described.

I will never forget the day I suffered from cold sweats, stress and tension when the time came to pick up Nancy for a date. It was to be my first meeting with you. She had painted quite a picture of you, albeit somewhat eclectic and for some reason I was simply terrified. The closer I came to the front door at your east 22nd home, the harder it was to place one foot in front of the other. Fortunately my interest in Nancy kept up my courage and helped my heart keep pumping as I approached the door. After a quick knock, you immediately opened the door and, with a broad smile and hand extended, graciously welcomed me. I was disarmed in one fell swoop. That wasn't so bad, I thought, I can do this.

As I read your book I couldn't help revisiting memories I had of being around your home. However my memory is either a big fog or I was so completely self-absorbed that I had no real idea what you were going through in your career. Other than finding you digging in the garden every time I showed up, you gave no indication of the significant experiences you had to deal with as you began your judicial career.

I wish I had had more sense and maturity at the time to talk more with you about your upbringing and your experiences. It would have been wonderful to hear more of those stories.

My parents, who are both still doing well at 84 and 80, taught me all the basics of family decency but could not really guide me through the dynamics of life in our North American society and particularly Vancouver. In hindsight a fair bit more mentoring would have been of great help to me considering the number of times I have landed on my face.

Again I support your public advocacy toward judicial change. And a personal story I am about to relate makes me wish even more that your efforts succeed.

In 1956, a year before I was born, my parents were living in a small wartime house at 2nd and Chesterfield in North Vancouver. Only four years prior my father landed in Vancouver, suitcase in hand and pennies in his pocket. In time he became a contractor building homes and word of his success got back to relatives in Italy. It began what would be a twenty-year effort assisting any family members and friends and relatives to settle and productively assimilate with far less struggle than he had endured. (My father is my best friend for a number of reasons).

One day my mother's first cousin on her mother's side wrote to say she and her new phonsay (fiance) Antonio Balducci wanted to come to Vancouver. Arrangements were made for them but her phonsay insisted that they wanted no handouts and he would pay for accommodation. He also asked my father to find them an apartment. My mother was beside herself. Cramped as our home was she could not allow her mother's first cousin to live anywhere other than under her roof until she was married and settled.

Wishing to please Mom, my Dad simply jacked up the house and built a basement suite. The rental cost was $60 a month. Their wedding reception was at our home, all expenses paid. Mom and Dad were maid of honor and best man. Eventually my parents became godparents to their three daughters.

My father employed Mr. Balducci and then helped him start his own landscaping company. As the years passed my father helped him bring over his three brothers who all became very successful. Antonio Balducci did very well financially and with the help of his brothers the company grew tenfold. My father provided his labour and his companies labour for free when they decided to build their first luxury home in North Vancouver.

It was located at the corner of 19th and Grand Boulevard and it is still there, but has not been kept up to its original pristine condition. The whole interior was hand stuccoed by my father, it was a beautiful home at the time. The house right next door is still the residence of my father's only remaining brother, Ted. It was another home built by my father.

As the company flourished the Balducci's became millionaires. The majority of the rock wall work stretching from West Vancouver to Horseshoe Bay along the upper levels freeway was done by Mr. Balducci and his company and is an example of his work.

Twenty-six years ago they decided to cash in and moved to Abbotsford. Their wish was to travel the world. From the jungles of Brazil to camel riding in Egypt, to walking the Great Wall and lounging in Red Square, they did it. In love and living life the as they wished. Last month, at the end of a three-month back-packing trip in Spain, France and England they were picked up at the Vancouver airport by their son-in-law. When just five minutes from home their vehicle was broadsided by a SUV carrying four young men fleeing the police.

Mrs. Balducci, age 68, was killed. Mr. Antonio Balducci, age 70, with broken ribs, a broken pelvis and fractured leg, dragged himself from the vehicle and held his wife in his arms as she died.
Their son-in-law was unconscious and sustained internal injuries causing kidney failure days later.

The police had received a call that an individual had been held at gunpoint and robbed. One police car gave chase to the suspect vehicle but had to terminate the pursuit one block before the fatal accident. The officer saw the SUV run a red light and broadside the Balducci vehicle. Two loaded handguns were found at the scene.

Charges of criminal negligence causing death do not sit well with any of the family, their relatives and friends. To them it was murder. Needless to say everyone feels the four men will get off easy.

Again I wish there were more voices like yours out there. I commend you on your efforts and hope you have the will to continue. I also hope this new generation has the purpose of mind to change the system for the better.

All the best Mr. Craig. I hope you don't mind me contacting you.

Jon D'Angelo
July 7, 2004.

Commentary - sentence for child abuse

2004-07-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

Is their any justice in a nine-month sentence for child abuse?

I was perplexed by the July 6, 2004 National Post story “Judge says abusers meant well: Outrage over light sentence for couple who caged and beat boys”

A subsequent examination of Judge D. J. Halikowski’s reasons for judgment dated February 9, 2004 convinced me that a nine-month sentence did not in any way reflect the aggravated circumstances of the indictable offences of forcible confinement and aggravated assault. These offences carry a maximum punishment of 10 years.

In characterizing 13 years of sadistic confinement and unimaginably sordid and disgusting acts by the boys’ parents, Judge Halikowski stated: “What may have started off as a well-intentioned form of discipline descended darkly into abusive behavior that crossed the threshold into torture.”

The crown proposed a sentence in the range of four to eight years. Counsel for the parents requested a non-custodial conditional sentence. The National Post stated that Halikowski rejected the submissions of crown and defence and concluded that the abuse was too severe to warrant conditional sentences and a “lack of intent prevented him from handing down harsher jail terms (than nine months).”

Judge Halikowski seems to have disregarded the fundamental purpose of our criminal law in the context of the mores of our Canadian society and our intense concern for the welfare of children. There is no indication he reacted to the fact that two young boys had been subjected to the very thing that could not be imposed on their parents: cruel and unusual punishment.

And the sentence of nine months appears to reflect empathy for the offending parents: their physical and mental handicaps being of such significance as extenuating circumstances to rule out a sentence on all fours with the facts of the case.

We have criminal law because criminals will always be among us. The criminal law and particularly the sentencing process must not focus on the predicament of offenders at the expense of their victims. That is what occurred in this case.

Judges are burdened with a duty to afford protection to that vast and overwhelming percentage of citizens living within the law; judges are trustees of the criminal law as it is expressed in the Criminal Code of Canada and other federal statutes. If sentences imposed on convicted criminals are not proportionate to harm done to victims and to society generally, then the criminal law fails its beneficiaries: law abiding persons.
Children are within the generality of ‘law-abiding persons.’

Judges must be ever-mindful of the words of Chief Justice Dickson in Ogg-Moss v The Queen, a 1984 decision of the Supreme Court of Canada:
One of the key rights in our society is the individual’s right to be free from unconsented invasions on his or her physical security or dignity and it is a central purpose of the criminal law to protect members of society from such invasions.
And I would add the following comments to the words of Dickson:
It is the duty of parents to fulfill the absolute trust that binds them to protect their children from violence. And once a parent pleads guilty to assault of a child, thereby admitting a breach of trust, it is wrong to consider as mitigation that the violence began and was inflicted by way of correction in the advancement of the education of the child.

Considering the span of the crime and its inhumanity and the conclusion of the judge that it ultimately amounted to torture, it is impossible to accept his equivocation that the crime was intrusive but not physically harming and that there were no long-term psychological effects for the victims.

The rule of law does not exist in a constitutional vacuum. It is our judges who are its keepers and when a citizen stands guilty before the court society expects a just sentence: one tempered with mercy but measured meaningfully to reflect the ferocity of the offence and the plight and quandary of the victim. It must resonate at the street level and give cause for people to consider the consequences of criminal behavior.

The facts and circumstances of this case warranted a sentence in the upper end of the four to eight-year range of sentence proposed by crown counsel. But that is only my opinion reflecting the hard-nosed attitudes of judges who grew up in the Depression and War.

Today we have a new generation of lawyers and judges, too many of whom, it seems to me, see no evil in criminal behavior and violence, extrapolating into the assessment of an offender and his criminal act the notion that deep down he is like the rest of us and that his redemption will be lost if he is punished by being sent to jail. There is a growing tendency to emphasize the predicament of the guilty, in some cases extending to the characterization of the criminal as a victim alongside his chosen victim.

When a sentence imposed on a convicted criminal appears to be nothing more than an indulgence, every Canadian has the absolute right to protest. Every citizen has a constitutional right to criticize a judge’s conduct in a particular case or to criticize any particular decision or series of decisions. Such criticism may be outspoken and even harsh, provided it does not impute impropriety on the part of the judge or the court.

Wallace Gilby Craig – www.realjustice.ca - July 8, 2004

Memories of Annie and Dinah

2004-07-04T19:04:00.000-07:00

In 1983 Barbara and I moved into our house in North Vancouver and within a few months we went in search of the dog of her dreams, a Dachshund. Somehow we learned that a Victoria breeder was "burdened" with a standard red female pup, beautifully bred but too short in the body to be of show quality. He had been trucking her around to dog shows with her more valuable siblings and we caught up with him at a show at the North Shore Winter Club. Twenty minutes later she was in our arms, trembling and apprehensive, free from the dismal atmosphere of confinement.

We named her Annie.

On Annie's first night we put our innocent looking darling into a comfortable cage in the kitchen, covered it up, shut the door, and tiptoed off to bed. Within minutes we were shocked rigid by the loudest and most maniacal yodelling we had ever heard. My long experience with the placid Labrador breed came in handy and I assured Barbara that the ruckus would soon stop. It didn't and it got louder and louder. We surrendered and brought Annie and her cage into our bedroom. She promptly went to sleep. We remained tense and in shock, whispering assurances to each other and listening to gentle snores coming from the cage.

Annie liked a tug of war and so I often got down on the carpet with her and dragged her back and forth while she pulled and tugged like a ferocious bulldog. But Barbara had a different approach: she had a special knack in tying up old socks for Annie; and when she sat on the carpet and tantalized Annie, the little Tasmanian Devil would go crazy chasing after the sock -- through Barbara's legs and around and around until she sank her teeth into it. Having won the game Annie often would give the old sock a shake and sometimes throw it in the air and try to catch it.

From her first day Annie loved to go out into our back yard. If I was raking up cones from our fir trees she chased after them; and the moment I began to shovel soil or dig up anything she would be jump in and start digging with me. When I threw dirt to one side and sometimes on her she would yip,yap and dig deeper. When the yard was quiet Annie showed another side, going about checking and sniffing everything.

When Annie was nicely settled with us we presented her with an odd companion -- a very large female Labrador. Dinah took up residence on our closed-in back porch giving her the run of the yard and sundeck.

One of Annie's obsessions was burying bones. I remember her going off, ever so carefully, constantly checking to see if she was being followed, searching back and forth until she found the perfect hideaway. After digging a hole and lowering the bone into it, Annie backfilled soil by pushing and tamping with her nose. Last, a final look about to see if she had been watched and a jaunty walk away from the site, all the while oblivious to the fact that her nose was covered with dirt. When Dinah joined the family she exhibited the same bone-burying techniques. But Dinah devised a scheme of her own that developed from her ability to chew through a bone more quickly than Annie. Once done she would stand watching Annie's routine and as Annie walked blissfully away Dinah would slip in behind her and dig up the bone.

Annie went through many phases, they were unpredictable, often amusing and generally inexplicable. From Annie's point of view sleep habits and bed location had to be flexible. At first we gave her no choice by making her sleep in a dog cage in the kitchen but she responded by deciding where it would be placed. After a few months she decided to reject confinement in favour of a loveseat in our living room. We should have seen this coming because Annie had cleverly commandeered our living room loveseat as a perfect observation point from which she could look out our front window and see everything that passed by. Since it was equipped with arms at the exact level of her chin she could doze off between any action on the street. And when the moment suited her it became her bed. Later in life when she experienced a weakening in her back legs Annie accepted a floor bed of comforters and blankets withholding final approval through a couple of moves until we got it right. Then her dachshund heritage came to the fore and she became a burrower. It was also her way of telling us -- "Lights out folks, I'm going to bed now."

I have a vivid picture in my mind of Annie ending some of her exuberant runs around the house with a jump onto her floor bed. She loved to do that and also to roll over on her back, eyes shining, paws bent, waiting to have her stomach rubbed.

As might be expected Annie grew up a little overweight, but by a stroke of good fortune a chance comment by one of our friends turned things around. "I see Annie is putting on some weight," he said. Coming from a dacshund man this was an intimation of neglect, and since I had been hearing the same from our vet, Dr. Lilley, I thought "that's it no more house dogging for Annie."

It was crisis time and also time for a walk with Dinah into the wild and bushy heaven of Mackay Creek. I immediately conscriped Annie. Up Dudley Street hill we went, crossing Sunnycrest Drive toward a thicket of Laurel that concealed the trail entrance. Annie showed no enthusiasm as a dragooned labrador and all I could think about was the belief that everyone had expressed: this short-legged house pet would recoil in horror at the sight of dense bush and trees. If she did I was going to carry her down and make it a forced march! We ducked through the opening in a thicket of Laurel and Annie got a look at the creek, 100 feet below. Right before our eyes she was transformed into a bush dog. Without a backward glance Annie headed down the steep, winding trail, beginning the first of a thousand walks in our heavenly forest.

Annie's happy times on the banks of Mackay Creek were interspersed with scary times. A dumb/scary one was a headlong rush she made for a golden lab and a German shepherd. At full speed Annie rushed ahead of us and out of sight to get at them, yapping and growling. Seconds later we heard her yelping. Back she came, bleeding from a bite to one of her perfect ears. She was cowed but unrepentant, and her reward was a trip to the vet for stitches.

A most frightening incident happened during the occupation of the creek by a family of coyotes. I had just finished our usual walk and was halfway up the zigzag trail to Sunnycrest when I looked back to see if the dawdler dachshund was keeping up. What I saw stunned me: a large, healthy coyote standing 20 feet below me, motionless, staring straight ahead. I couldn't see Annie because she was hidden by overhanging ferns on the top side of the first lateral switchback. The coyote was within four feet of her. Dinah caught sight of the coyote and went hellbent after it and I picked up Annie and chased after Dinah. Brazenly, the crafty wolf kept just out of range knowing that we would soon tire and give up. Annie never realized how close she came to being dinner for the coyote family.

Annie always liked to run ahead and on one occasion she attacted the attention of a large owl. It swooped out of the treetops and dove toward her, veering off when only a few feet away. I can imagine the owl's thoughts: "looks like a fat rabbit, barks like a dog -- I'm outta here."

One day in that same part of the ravine I lost Annie. She was still young and I made the mistake of thinking she would act like most dogs and answer my calls. With Dinah at my side I scurried back and forth, calling and whistling. It seemed as though a half hour had passed and I was sure I had lost her. How could I explain this to Barbara? I was devastated. Then I chanced upon her sitting quite composed in her invisible fashion, watching the show I was putting on.

One of the funniest of Annie's creek capers involved an intrepid Airedale that ventured into the bush by itself. As we came to a log bridge just above Annie's swimming hole we met this handsome dog and immediately Dinah began racing around with it just for the sheer physical joy that dogs have in them. But Annie was not amused and she started to bark and snarl at them. The Airedale must have noticed this typical dachshund lack of enthusiasm and since the run was coming to an end he veered toward us at full tilt to thumb his nose at Annie. Annie took off, her legs a blur, calculating a tight angle of interception that would give her one life-ending bite to his hindquarters. But she hadn't factored in the Airedale's afterburner. As Annie hurtled into the air, all teeth and venom, he gave it a burst and she just missed, ending up in a 360-degree roll with not even a patch of Airedale fur for her effort. One happy and amused Airedale trotted out of sight.

Not funny in the same way as the Airedale pursuit, but still great comedy, was the day we surprised a coyote. We three dogs were mooching along on a warm spring day, the bush in full leaf concealing our movement and the murmur of the creek muffling the sound of our passage. Just as we came around a sharp turn at Annie's swimming hole we saw a coyote looking the wrong way, hunched over relieving himself. Dinah was off like a shot and got within a few yards of the coyote before he saw her. Frantic to escape, the coyote tore into dense bush with Dinah baying and crashing along on his tail. They were out of sight headed for the inner trail and the racket had Annie transfixed and me thinking "damn, how'll I be able to catch up to Dinah." Only seconds passed when the sounds of the chase made it clear that they were coming back straight toward us. Swish, the coyote shot out of the dense bush running lightning quick past Annie, no more than a foot from her, splashing across the creek into even denser bush. I looked at Annie and she was more stunned than me, although I'm sure she knew how close she came to bagging a coyote. Then Dinah showed up, breathing heavily, gasping "Where did he go? Where did he go?"

Another unpredictable and frightening coyote encounter occurred as we were walking on the west side of MacKay Creek near the pipeline trail. It was a summer day, the creek was murmuring, the wind was soughing in the treetops. Suddenly Dinah raced up the steep bank struggling over logs and through bush in an attempt to run down a coyote. In full cry she disappeared onto the ridge and moments later I heard the loudest and wildest barking and yelping -- it had to be a battle between Dinah and the whole coyote family.
Scooping up Annie I began clambering over logs, tripping and stumbling over rough terrain until I reached the top. The furious sound of fighting had ended and Dinah was tracking along about 100 feet behind a coyote on the downslope to the creek. After a few frantic calls Dinah stopped and waited for us. Moments later we reached the trail and met Tom Bell. Hearing the frantic howls he concluded that the coyotes were killing a dog, and had rushed to rescue it. We speculated that the coyote was luring Dinah away from her den and litter. But Annie, still wild-eyed and gripped by the vicarious thrill of a chase, was sure that Dinah had killed a coyote.

Every dog has a fish story. In the late fall coho struggle up Mackay Creek to spawn in gravel beds just below Handsworth bridge. Sometimes a spent coho would drift back to Annie's swimming hole and come to rest in plain view. Annie's moment came when I glanced into a shallow end of the pool and saw a well-preserved coho, shiny as a silver dollar, close to the edge in about six inches of water. I called Dinah over and she was quick to check it out but would not reach into the water to retrieve it. As Dinah walked away Annie went straight into the pool. She ducked her head under water and came up with the salmon. Back on the sand she secured it with one paw and began chewing away. Over Annie's righteous outrage I took it from her, assuring her that with a little exagerration she had the best fish tale any dog ever had.

When Annie was quite young she became an accidental water dog. It happened just across from a lone Sitka spruce growing on the bank of the creek just a short distance from Annie's swimming hole. Decades ago a tree had fallen across the creek, it's trunk creating a little waterfall. When the creek was low the log was exposed and I often walked down it to stand midstream, always avoiding the slippery partially-submerged part. On Annie's baptismal day she decided to walk the log, so to speak, but being so full of pride she took one step too many and in a blink she flipped into about two feet of water. When she surfaced it was swim or die. Having earned her swimming cap Annie began to mimic Labrador Dinah by venturing into the water to retrieve her own sticks. Her gold medal performance was unexpected and something I will never forget. The sun was shining into her pool, the water was deep but quite still, and while we stood agape Annie walked straight in and, with her tail rising out of the water, began swimming in easy circles. When satisfied that we had a full measure of her achievement she came out to a well-deserved petting.

Quite often I would to stop and sit with Annie and Dinah so that we could enjoy the serenity of our bit of wilderness. The best spot was on the east ridge that ends where Emsley Creek flows into MacKay Creek. Under a canopy of Douglas fir and hemlock, sitting in silence, looking down into a wide basin, together we enjoyed the bliss of muffled sounds of wind and burbling water.

Annie and Dinah -- always remembered.

Wallace Gilby Craig - www.realjustice.ca - July 14, 2004

Seven-Year Sentence Sent A Weak Message To Sexual Predators

2004-06-16T16:10:00.000-07:00

Commentary by Wallace Gilby Craig – Thursday, June 10, 2004

*********

Go ahead, tell someone, no one will believe you, once a whore, always a whore.
David Ramsay

On June I, Associate Chief Justice Patrick Dohm imposed a seven-year sentence on former judge David Ramsay for sexual assault causing bodily harm.

On June 3, the lead editorial of The Sun unreservedly and emphatically commended the B.C. Supreme Court associate chief justice:
Judging the judge: Justice Dohm did the right thing
Despicable case of ex-judge Ramsay properly concluded.
In its lavish praise of him the editorial:
(a) failed to assess whether the “severity” of the sentence was even remotely on all fours with the “egregious” circumstances of the crimes, and
(b) ignored the fact that a seven-year sentence* may now be the de facto maximum for sexual assault causing bodily harm.
There is no doubt that Regina vs Ramsay is a benchmark precedent.

The Sun editorial closed with an expression of gratitude:
. . . for the sake of his victims, for the sake of the aboriginal community, and for the sake of the administration of justice, Mr. Ramsay first needs to go to jail. For a long time.
Thanks to Justice Dohm, he will.

But consider this: Ramsay’s crime spree lasted at least 10 years and all the while he was one of Her Majesty’s judges! His sentence was one half the maximum of 14 years. He will likely serve less than four years. That is not a long time.

In the public interest The Sun editorial board ought to have questioned the rationale behind a seven-year sentence. Did Dohm consider a maximum or near-maximum sentence? If he did then why did he fall back on a tepid seven years?

Dohm minced no words in describing what The Sun viewed as “egregious behaviour”:
. . . callousness towards those young women, his violence towards two of them, his conduct in discarding two like one might discard a pair of old shoes.
And of Ramsay as a judge:
It is apparent the accused used his office to solicit satisfaction of his perverted lusts and to shield him from their consequences . . . In our society judges are the trustees of the administration of justice. One can hardly imagine a more infamous breach of trust. The accused’s conduct was utterly reprehensible . . . He sat in judgment on them for the very behavior he himself was instrumental in causing them to engage – and he had full knowledge of their circumstances . . . a greater tragedy is difficult to imagine.

Standing before the court was a dangerous offender, by day a presiding judge, but in the dark of night a violent serial sexual predator. Dohm spoke precisely and forcefully but the seven-year sentence he imposed did not accord with the dimension of Ramsay’s depravity.

Seven years is a light sentence. The facts of the case cried out for a maximum sentence.

Consider the words used by Dohm in grounding his sentence outside the quagmire of the plea bargain and the sentence of five years requested by the Crown:
. . . to remain within counsel’s agreed range would in my opinion bring the administration of justice into disrepute and be contrary to the public interest.

His words raise troubling questions: How does a seven-year sentence escape being tarred with the same brush of disrepute as the five-year sentence requested by the crown? What is the demarcation between them? In logical terms there may be a distinction. But the sentence he imposed, greater by two years, adds only approximately fifteen months jail-time. When placed on the sentencing scale of zero to 14 years there is no real difference. The sentence of seven years is much too lenient.

Another troubling aspect of the seven-year sentence is the impact it will have on future cases of sexual assault causing bodily harm:
· It is a precedent setting case involving a worst-case scenario;
· It is a judicial road sign that flashes the words: Sentencing closed from eight years to 14 years;
· It will be manna for judges who prefer the light side of sentencing.

The Ramsay case stands as a missed opportunity to send a message to sexual predators: Beware! If you prey on teenage prostitutes you will receive a severe sentence, even the maximum!

I will end with the despair of one woman.
February 14, 2003. After participating in a march along Hastings Street in memory of the missing women of Vancouver’s skid road, Pauline Johnson, a grief stricken mother, said:
I can’t believe the men of this world can pay for their sexual pleasures with these young girls. I can’t believe society can condone that.

Wallace Gilby Craig is a former judge of the Provincial Court of British Columbia