By Christine Holmquist, daughter of Peter Holmquist.
My dad, Peter Holmquist, was a logger until 1956. He was a logging show participant for 50 years from the 1950s to 2000. He died in 2010, aged 83. Our family, my mom Doris, and younger siblings, Darlene, and Eric, along with myself, participated in the logging show circuit that started with the May long weekend and ended in Hope, British Columbia the weekend after Labour Day.
In 1956 both my mom and dad were in hospital at the same time – my mom giving birth to their second child and my dad in traction with a broken back from a logging accident. Dad listened to my mom when she advised him to get a safer job. So, he left logging for a career in selling chain saws, first at Purves Ritchies selling Pioneer saws and then as the distributor of Husqvarna saws, from his company Pacific Equipment.
Even though Dad was not logging, and we lived in a suburban house in Burnaby, our family participated in logging shows for decades. A dry log for my brother to practice log birling was on the concrete patio in our backyard. The three-car garage that never housed cars, was home to dad’s first “R&D” (research and development) centre where he built hot saws and had a practice log set up for hand sawing with his single crosscut saw. He also had a workbench for filing saws, holding oils cans and beat up red gasoline tanks, which that probably fuelled the one fire that occurred in the garage. The wooden covers for the hand cut saws which were to be shipped or driven down to master filer Martin Winters in Mount Vernon, Washington for sharpening were housed in the garage rafters. During one garage cleanup, I found a plastic bag of sawdust. It was from the first tree my little brother sawed through over a decade before. At the time, he had not yet entered school.
Our living room doubled as the in-house fitness centre. As more competitors were not logging regularly and keeping fit naturally and because overseas competitors, like New Zealand’s Ron Hartel, came with axe chopping prowess, the bar was raised to get physically fit. The belly bouncing greetings no longer made the grade. Dad would skip rope in our living room, on the carpet space between the TV and the reclining chair with the ironing board behind it which would be put away when company came.
Our family travelled with a trailer, and later a motor home, throughout BC, including two weeks living on the grounds at Pacific National Exhibition (PNE), Alberta, Saskatchewan, Washington, Oregon, Idaho and Wisconsin going to logging shows where my dad, and then my brother Eric competed. In those days, the provincial highways in BC were under construction by Flying Phil Gaglardi and W.A.C. (“Wacky”) Bennett. Our BC journeys were often on gravel packed roads, often alternating single lanes, and much too often for my mom’s liking were steep and winding. Mom would have a movie magazine open in front of her face and her foot on the glove compartment door while my dad navigated these roads saying “lot’s of room” as us kids watched the gravel slide down the mountains as he pulled over to let a vehicle coming in the opposite direction pass by.
Us three kids sat in the back seat in the days before seat belts, fighting who would sit where. Always. In those days before computers, we sang songs. “Itsy, bitsy, teeny, weeny, yellow polka dot bikini” was a favourite not shared by my parents. I recall my dad, turning around from the driver’s seat and saying, “can’t you sing another song?” So, we rose to the occasion and created a one-word song “Ashnola.” It made the bikini song look pretty good! Driving to the shows, we often overnighted at gravel pit areas off the main road. Dad would pull over, usually by a river and proclaim, “this is living!” Us kids would run off to play while Dad levelled the trailer and Mom opened the secured cupboards to unpack some food. Dad’s famous hamburgers were on standby. In the morning, Bacon fingers, or homemade Swedish pancakes were such a treat. Bacon fingers are still a comfort food. Take a slice of white bread (probably stale) into finger strips, dry them out in the oven till they’re even staler and then, lay a piece of crisp bacon atop each. Heaven! On reflection, Dad was probably making do with what was on hand, but man was it good!
If ever we got lost trying to find where the logging show was, we only needed to open the windows and listen for the noise of the practicing chain saws and breathe in the smell of the chain saw gasoline. We all usually “camped” on the fair grounds where the logging show was being held if permitted – at school playing fields, probably not permitted – and occasionally at an actual camp site where we’d arrive in convoy.
The camaraderie of the logging show community was incredibly rich. The webbed folding lawn chairs would come out and we’d sit around the campfire and at the beginning of each season get caught up on the gossip. What wife was that now for so and so? There were characters on the circuit for sure! For us kids, banding together at the campsites and grounds, friendships were forged, and future partners met.
This community framed our social experiences. My sister said her models for good men were from the logging show participants. We saw good marriages, bad marriages, and crumbling ones. We learned how to navigate socially when a marriage ended during the off season and then both partners continued to come to the “shows”. Who got the kids? Was he REALLY at the show with his new partner? That was the era when the men usually got the new partners.
Yet, aside from the marital woes that were a minority, the families on the circuit were “salt of the earth” gems. My life is enriched for knowing them. Good memories of sharing food around a crackling campfire – if you didn’t have a stick for cooking your hot dog wiener, someone would go into the bush and cut one for you. There are worse ways to spend time than watching the campfire flames crackle into the sky and the kicking embers to get the blackened logs to spread out more to make the magical moment last.
The actual logging shows were framed by who the announcer was. We drove north to Hazelton for one show and were the only campers parked on the school field. A mountain cliff rose from one side of the field. Before leaving in the morning to go to the logging show, Dad put a roast in the oven on low so that when we returned, we’d have a nice dinner. We drove “home” in the dark and took out the shrivelled blackened roast from the oven and tossed it outside for the wolves that howled along the mountain ridge. That was an example of a poorly run show.
Watching the shows meant sitting on wooden slat benches in the open sun or pelting rain, peering above the open umbrellas. “Contestants ready, timers ready, one, two, three, GO!” – Excitement abounded as we watched the same ole, same ole events – wondering who would win the event and how was the tally going for “All Round Logger”. Our cheering for the rival relay teams certainly impacted their performance – or so we thought… Mom brought her movie magazines to the stands and covered her eyes with them during the tree climbing events – missing all the time the climbers free felled to get to the bottom with the winning time. We watched with anticipation to see if the springboard chopper, who put in the fewest chops possible to secure his springboard could complete the chop before the board arched to the ground. And we were all commanded to watch out for the little red headed kid, son of a climber who was a kid in motion, so much so that, despite his parents’ best efforts, needed a community to keep him safe. We did that.
Once I started working summer jobs, I “had” to stay at home and work – missing out on the circuit. At that time, I welcomed the excuse of having to work. Looking back, I’d echo the songwriter who sang, “Those were the days my friends…” They were.
