their hunger. Half a mile from their home, west on Hastings Street, North Burnaby's main drag, stood the fairground and Exhibition Park, western Canada's largest, year-round horse racing venue. The boys loved the track and spent hours peering through the slatted fenceânot only at post time, but in the mornings while the stable hands walked and watered their horses and the trainers put them through their paces. Growing bolder, the boys soon snuck in, and before long had insinuated themselves into the exotic world of the racetrack.
Eventually the young brothers won low-paying jobs such as hot-walking the horses. Dad, barely five feet six inches and thin as a rail in those days, was considered âpotential jockey material,â my mother tells me, and his apprenticeship began in earnest. By the time he was sixteen, he was earning mounts in a few races. Giddy from this turn of events, the Fox brothers got drunk one night and set out for the tattoo parlors of Vancouver's rough waterfront district. Dad had his left bicep permanently emblazoned with the profile of a thoroughbred, a horseshoe-shaped laurel of roses draped around its neck.
The war ended, and with it Dad's short-lived dreams of a career in horse racing. Servicemen returning from overseas flooded the job market, and Dad soon found he had few options but to trade places with them. He had spent enough time around racing touts, punters, and pari-mutuel windows to know that a life in the military was his safest bet. Shortly after Dad enlisted, his kid brother Doug, his best friend, contracted spinal meningitis and died before reaching his seventeenth birthday. Bill Sr. returned from Alberta, but a year or so later Dolly drifted away for good. No one in the family ever heard from her again.
Something positive did come out of this period, howeverâa life-altering event that my father would credit as his salvation. As a new enlistee housed in Ladner's army barracks, he met a cute and spirited redhead at a local dance. In Phyllis Piper he found someone who made him feel needed. At the same time, she displayed a stubborn independent streak that he respected. He sensed, correctly, that if they married, settled down, and had kids, Phyllis was not someone who would ever drift away.
Christmas Eve after Christmas Eve, Dad sat there relishing the bounty of gifts spread out under the tree, thinking about how far he'd come. Certainly the presents symbolized material success, but beyond that they implied love and connectionâa nuclear family, intact. For all his hardships, Bill Fox had managed to achieve something great. With my mom, he had helped to create a family, to care for and protect them, and at the end of another year they'd even managed to see to it that there was something left over. To ask for anything more would be asking for trouble. These, at least, are the thoughts I imagine going through his head those sweet evenings alone. Gaze never leaving the tree, he'd lean back in his chair, take a long pull on Santa's beer, his beer , and smile.
DON'T YOU WORRY ABOUT MICHAEL
Burnaby, British Columbiaâ1971â1972
In 1968 we were transferred once more, to Dad's shock this time, clear across the country to North Bay, Ontario. Dad had been considering retiring in 1971 when his eligibility would come up, and the seeming capriciousness behind this latest transfer sealed the deal. After three years back east, Dad retired and moved the family back to B.C. for good. It was the start of a new life for us, a civilian life, with all of the freedom and uncertainty that implied.
We weren't the only ones making this change. Almost all of my adult male relatives had military careers, and the early seventies set off a wave of retirements. From every corner of Canada, all the branches of the Piper family tree returned to their roots in the west. Resettled into new homes in the greater Vancouver area, all within easy driving distance of one another, the progeny of
Eventually the young brothers won low-paying jobs such as hot-walking the horses. Dad, barely five feet six inches and thin as a rail in those days, was considered âpotential jockey material,â my mother tells me, and his apprenticeship began in earnest. By the time he was sixteen, he was earning mounts in a few races. Giddy from this turn of events, the Fox brothers got drunk one night and set out for the tattoo parlors of Vancouver's rough waterfront district. Dad had his left bicep permanently emblazoned with the profile of a thoroughbred, a horseshoe-shaped laurel of roses draped around its neck.
The war ended, and with it Dad's short-lived dreams of a career in horse racing. Servicemen returning from overseas flooded the job market, and Dad soon found he had few options but to trade places with them. He had spent enough time around racing touts, punters, and pari-mutuel windows to know that a life in the military was his safest bet. Shortly after Dad enlisted, his kid brother Doug, his best friend, contracted spinal meningitis and died before reaching his seventeenth birthday. Bill Sr. returned from Alberta, but a year or so later Dolly drifted away for good. No one in the family ever heard from her again.
Something positive did come out of this period, howeverâa life-altering event that my father would credit as his salvation. As a new enlistee housed in Ladner's army barracks, he met a cute and spirited redhead at a local dance. In Phyllis Piper he found someone who made him feel needed. At the same time, she displayed a stubborn independent streak that he respected. He sensed, correctly, that if they married, settled down, and had kids, Phyllis was not someone who would ever drift away.
Christmas Eve after Christmas Eve, Dad sat there relishing the bounty of gifts spread out under the tree, thinking about how far he'd come. Certainly the presents symbolized material success, but beyond that they implied love and connectionâa nuclear family, intact. For all his hardships, Bill Fox had managed to achieve something great. With my mom, he had helped to create a family, to care for and protect them, and at the end of another year they'd even managed to see to it that there was something left over. To ask for anything more would be asking for trouble. These, at least, are the thoughts I imagine going through his head those sweet evenings alone. Gaze never leaving the tree, he'd lean back in his chair, take a long pull on Santa's beer, his beer , and smile.
DON'T YOU WORRY ABOUT MICHAEL
Burnaby, British Columbiaâ1971â1972
In 1968 we were transferred once more, to Dad's shock this time, clear across the country to North Bay, Ontario. Dad had been considering retiring in 1971 when his eligibility would come up, and the seeming capriciousness behind this latest transfer sealed the deal. After three years back east, Dad retired and moved the family back to B.C. for good. It was the start of a new life for us, a civilian life, with all of the freedom and uncertainty that implied.
We weren't the only ones making this change. Almost all of my adult male relatives had military careers, and the early seventies set off a wave of retirements. From every corner of Canada, all the branches of the Piper family tree returned to their roots in the west. Resettled into new homes in the greater Vancouver area, all within easy driving distance of one another, the progeny of
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