United College Collegiate - Tric Tics Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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DESPAIR Shut your eyes! Blank your mind! Close your ears to sighs, And numlb your feet to the grind Of countless hours Empty and blind! Acrid earth cowers ’Neath the silent, steady gaze Of Need and Want. Ignorant and dumlb in the maze Of life; meaningless, feelingless, gaunt. SHIRiLEY GROSSER. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A WINNIPEG STREET CAR By LOLA MacEWING I was once a pulsating, moving thing. You wouldn’t think so now to look at me, but I still have my pride; I can still remember when . . . but that seems so long ago now. It was back in 1895 when I made my debut on Winnipeg tracks. There were ten of us “greenhorns” that year. We managed to start quite a controversy in Winnipeg. Some people shook their heads in dis¬ belief that these modem “new-fangled” electric vehicles could be relied upon. Horses used to glare at us when we clanged by on the steel rails; we had succeeded the outmoded equine-drawn streetcars. It amuses me to recall how smug and sure we were of ourselves. We didn’t believe it possible for ourselves to be demobilized. Yes, I was new then; brilliant orange with black trim. In front, I proudly carried a beacon light and a great iron monstrosity they called a “cow-catcher”. Chiefly designed as a rescue device for unsuspecting pedestrians, it succeeded only in making me look rather fearful and forbidding. My interior had been comfortably equipped with green plush seats and handy leather straps for the less fortunate to grasp While standing. There was no luxury spared then to make the journey comfortable for the passengers. At that time I was important enough to have two oper¬ ators on board. One man drove me while the other stood at the back to collect tickets, punch transfers, and signal “Stop” or “Go” by jangling a little bell. It was exciting to be a part of this new transportation system. Perhaps it is the same in any line of work, how¬ ever; one tires by the humdrum existence. Many times I felt I could scrunch my brakes at the thought of another monotonous day up and down the tracks. True, there is very little thought required; one is hardly able to go wrong following the same rails, passing the same landmarks, and, very often, clanging at the same autmobiles or stray dogs. I feel I had my revenge to a certain extent though. After a particularly trying day, it would cause me no end or fiendish delight to see a capacity crowd, swaying as they stood, suddenly lose their balance as I ground to a jolting stop. I’ve seen some wonderful scrambles in my day! However, it is generally with a mixture of pride and nostalgia that I look back to the days of “courtesy” and “service”. The motormen seemed calmer and more serene then. They made a real effort to keep on schedule and many a time I have found myself travelling lickety-split down the tracks in order not to break my motor-man ' s record for being on time. Today, no doubt, that would evoke a few derisive chuckles from any who have impatiently waited for a glimpse of bright orange to appear on the scene. Still, we tried, and I really regret none of my experiences. I came into contact with many interesting characters and it was a good life while it lasted. In any case, one cannot travel up and down the tracks for fifty-odd years without experiencing con¬ siderable “wear and tear”. A certain chronic creaki¬ ness set in around my joints, and I developed some rather nasty rattles. I should have suspected some¬ thing then, but I think the real sign of old age was when the noisy, clamoring crowds began to bother me. They pushed, jostled, struggled and fought to climlb aboard, with nearly the same procedure when alighting. It suddenly seemed so pointless and more frantic than usual. “Tension of the times,” folks said, but the good old days were gone forever. What really took the heart out of me was the appearance of those confounded trolley buses. The little gas buses had been accepted, and it was agreed that they eased our work. With Winnipeg growing by leaps and bounds, it was necessary to serve many more people. But the impudent self-assurance of these trolleys quite upset me. They seemed to creep in slyly at first. I warned the others that these young upstarts would displace us, but they laughed then. Well, I was right; now we’re being placed in the ranks of the unemployed. The future looks grim for some of us. However, perhaps I have the last laugh in any case. I may not move on rails now, but at least I have a permanent job in my retirement—I’m now a chicken Page Forty-one

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Section . . . GOD’S SNOWFLAKE A little snowflake is something odd, It partly forms the grace of God Floating down from high aibove As graceful as a Morning Dove. And as it lights upon the earth To slowly form the Winter’s birth, It brings with it a touch of grace Upon its tiny, sparkling face, To show that we are children of The One to bless from Heaven above. And when it lands—I know not where For it is not for me to care. For I am only one mortal of The Lord Almighty’s Hand of Love. M. GIROUX. THE EXPOSE OF THE FAREBOX RACKET T HE following is a true confession of one cf the most notorious enemies of the people — bus I am speaking to you from the interrogation cham¬ bers of this city’s prison. I was invited six months ago to come and answer a “few” questions. I am still here. I wouldn’t be here now if a well-known reporter hadn’t decided to live on forty dollars a month. It seems that he was going to become a bus driver in order to expose us, but he had a cha nge of plans. He said something about being afraid that he would end up like Captain Queeg. It all started March 12, 1930, when I graduated from driving school to the streets, gutters, and occa¬ sionally the sidewalks of this metropolis. This was the beginning of my infamous career as a bus driver. I’ll never forget my first day behind the wheel. I took my weapon out of the garr.ge and headed down town. It was raining, and the rain looked for all the world like champagne flowing into a cocktail glass. I approached a stop where a large group of people were waiting, huddled in a shelter. I slowed down invitingly and as they surged out onto the sidewalks into the rain, I swerved to the curb, sending a wall of dirty water showering over them. That was quite a thrill for me, happening on my first day. Not many drivers can boast of this on their first day. Another of my favorite tricks occurs when the bus is jammed to overflowing. I stop at the next stop and patiently wait as the crowds attempt to push into the already packed bus. When the last man is halfway in I shut the door without mercy, trying always for the neck. I’ll never forget the fun I had last winter. For no discernible reason, I opened the front and rear doors and travelled thus for about seventeen blocks. I was quite secure in my little nook, but the passengers would have done better to rent a frozen food locker. Suddenly I shut the doors tight, cutting off all venti¬ lation, and then turned on the heaters, shutting them off only when a passenger’s celluloid collar burst into flames. One of my personal favorites is directed towards out-of-town people. These are the type that trust¬ ingly ask you to let them off at a particular street. I usually smile pleasantly, assuring them that I will do so. As I pass the street in question, I mumble something that sounds like Wasamininechiorthj and say no more until the passenger begins to suspect that all is not well. When he or she timidly inquires as to the location of the stop, I loudly scold her for not listening and let her off in some distant suburb. One way to solve the problem of having the pas¬ sengers move to the rear of the bus is to step on the accelerator until the bus is doing about fifty and then, as you slam on the brakes, call sweetly, “Move to the rear of the bus, please.” My crowning glory came last fall—it was the talk of the depot for weeks. I was waiting at a heavy traffic corner when a man, halfway down the inter¬ section spotted me. He swung into a clumsy gallop, hoping to reach the bus before I drove away. I opened the doors invitingly and pumped the airbrakes impatiently in order to spur him on. Just as he came helter-skelter to the door with everyone eagerly watching (I prefer to play to the crowd), I slammed the doors at the exact instant that he reached them, simultaneously the bus lurched forward crunching his upper plates. These have been my true confessions, the shocking story of the “Bus Driver”. I have an invitation to “What’s My Line”, so I must go. Loosen the chains, men! I am free—free to drive my bus. AL BIRTLE. Editor’s Note: Any similarity between the character in the above article and a real bus driver is purely intentional. Page Forty

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