Cold, Wintry January Night, 1961

Today as I went outside and the extreme cold of our latest polar vortex hit me like a boxer's blow to the body, I had a flashback to a wintry night in January in 1961. It is 2:00 in the morning and I am walking on the snow-packed sidewalk along Pembina Highway with the Union Station on Broadway and Main as my destination. There are no buses traveling at this time of night and I do not have the luxury of owning a car, so I am walking. I have just left the Fort Rouge Yard Office of my employer, Canadian National Railways. I am bundled up for the long cold walk in a surplus WW2 army coat. The great-coat is reasonably warm but not even close in warmth in comparison to present day winter wear. It is full length with a hood and it weighs several pounds. I wear woolen mittens with leather mitts pulled over them. Beneath the great-coat, I have on a pair of half-johns under a pair of denim jeans. On my feet are heavy woolen socks and a pair of winter shoes. I waddle along penguin-like.

Soon I reach what will be Confusion Corner. On this day, it is where Corydon runs into Osborne Street which in turn crosses Pembina Highway. On the south-west corner is the Grill, a cafe which stays open 24/7. In it will be the usual collection of revelers who have stopped in for some coffee and food after a night out of partying. Interspersed among them on counter stools and in booths will be the usual collection of CNR workers from the nearby Fort Rouge rail-yard who are having a coffee break or splurging on a mid-shift meal. More discreetly seated is the small collection of transvestites who find this cafe to be a safe place for gay men.

The cashier waves at me but knows I will not be sitting down, that I am only warming up. I acknowledge with a small nod of my head some of the people I know from previous encounters there. After about five minutes, I head out into the bitter cold on my walk along Pembina which has now turned into Donald Street.

I cross Stradbrook and River avenues and approach the fairly recently constructed Midtown Bridge. This is a bridge which I will learn to fear crossing during warm weather as it is made of welded hexagonal steel which provides a clear view of the river below. I have an innate fear of heights and also of water due to some near drowning experiences on the farm. Combine these two and walking across "transparent" steel always wakes up a fearful stirring in my stomach. In winter, the bridge tends to be icy but it remains free of snow as the snow falls through the "holes" down to the river below. In winter I can walk across with much less trepidation. Occasionally I stop to admire the frozen river below.

I was observing the river below on another cold night when a Winnipeg police car pulled up beside me and a flashlight beam of light was directed onto my face. "And just what are you doing here at this time of night?" Somewhat taken aback, I managed to get out an answer that I was a CNR call boy on my way to the CNR Union Depot on Main Street at Broadway Avenue. I showed him my pack of mail to be delivered. With a laugh, he said that it was too cold a night for call boys or call girls to be out. They drove off. I muttered to myself that the CNR didn't have any call girls on staff. It took a while for his joke to finally register with me.

A call boy was a relic left over from the early railroading days when there were few phones. Trainmen and yardmen would be advised of their changes of shift and work assignments by a boy or young man who would cycle to their home with written instructions. Now we were simply glorified delivery boys and go-phers. And I guess you all know the connotation of call girl.

These same officers would often on cold nights pull alongside of me as I was walking on Pembina Avenue or Donald Street. The cop riding shotgun would holler at me to get in the back. Then they would drive me to Broadway and Main to the Union Station. At the station the shotgun cop would get out and open the back door for me. It wasn’t because he was being polite or kind. I had no way of getting out because the inner back door handles of the police cruiser had been removed to prevent any escape attempts by suspects. I was always grateful and would thank them profusely. They simply smiled and as they drove off to their police station on Rupert Avenue, the shotgun cop would always holler out, “See ya around, kid!”

As I reach Broadway Avenue I can see the new electric sign hanging on the side of an insurance building. This new innovation had the ability to show you the up-to-date temperature in Farenheit degrees, and also, the time, alternating every few seconds between the two. Tonight it was reading -37F or -38C. It is at -40 that Fahrenheit and Celsius have the same value. I feel colder as I turn right onto Broadway. A few blocks ahead is the Union Station which had been modeled after Grand Central Station in New York City.

Because I am cold, I pick up my pace and soon I walk in through the doors into the rotunda of the station. A security person checks my name off and notes my time of entry. My heavy boots resound through the vast empty space of the rotunda. I make my way to the second and third floors where my delivery of letters takes place. Each office is empty and silent. I leave the required mail at each office and pick up the occasional piece of out-going mail that is addressed to the staff members at the Fort Rouge yard.

There is no life up here. The offices have been swept and mopped and cleaned by the afternoon crew of cleaners who work from 4 p.m. to 12 midnight. It is after 3:00 a.m. and I am the only person moving through the upper part of the building. No wonder they call this the graveyard shift.

But then I come to an office where there is human life. In it are men who operate a vast board depicting rail traffic in and around Winnipeg. With the push of a switch they can change traffic lights over the main rail lines from green to yellow to red thus stopping or allowing traffic on the rails to proceed. They can also switch trains from one track to another by pushing a switch which signals electronically to activate the switching devise on tracks several hundred miles away. They control traffic west from Winnipeg to Regina and Saskatoon and east to Ontario. They are ground traffic controllers who control all rail traffic in a similar way to air traffic controller who control air traffic in the skies. However their domain is two-dimensional and the routes are fixed.

I always take my allocated 15 minute break here and take off my greatcoat. Then I watch the blinking lights, listen to the exchange of radio talk between the engineers and the controllers, and watch the progress of any moving trains approaching or departing the Fort Rouge or the Transcona yards. I am careful not to disturb the concentration of any of the controllers, but those who see me respond with a nod and a smile or a small wave. I feel part of the "brotherhood" of those who move goods and people around Canada through all hours of the night and day.

I put on my greatcoat, gather up my mail, and take my leave. Downstairs I check out with the security guard and then I start my return journey retracing my route back to the yard office.  I arrive back near 5:00 a.m. I distribute my mail into the proper pigeon holes and then I pick up my local yard mail and set off on a circuitous tour of the Fort Rouge Yard. I walk to the east end of the yard where there is a warming shack. There I leave mail and also paste some bulletins into a switchmen's bulletin book.  These are sheets of paper which tell of openings of jobs on various shifts in the yard. The men can bid on these jobs as they come open. Jobs are filled on basis of seniority and not ability which is why for many years the CNR is a money-losing company.

Then I head to the south end of the yard to the shack there where I duplicate my delivery and pasting and then I make my way to the west-end shack where I do more of the same. Finally I walk back to the yard office. I always am careful of where I am walking, constantly on the lookout for moving trains or shunted cars which can come rolling down the track, 40 tons or more of silent deadly battering ram.

I report to the chief clerk and if he is satisfied with my work for the night, I will hear a few words of praise and the sought after expression, "OK, Bryski. Bugger off... but don't get caught by any of the brass!' These are men who are now arriving for their day shifts from 8 to 4.
I exit the building and walk to the Salisbury House located near the infamous Bobby-Jo's Motel near the corner of Pembina and Stafford. There I wait until my southbound electric trolley bus enters the loop. I watch the driver change the route designation on the front, check into the little shack or toilet, and then I patiently wait while he has a smoke. When he is finished, I board the bus and pay my 15 cent fare and we are off, north bound on Stafford.

The trolley bus heads north on Stafford picking up people along the way who are going to work downtown. The bus then turns right on Academy, crosses the Maryland Bridge, and heads north on Sherbrook. I get off at Preston, cross the street, and walk a block west to Maryland Street where I live.  It is 7:30 a.m.  I have walked over 15 kilometres during my shift and I look forward to my bed and about a 7 hour sleep.  I will wake at 2:00 p.m. and be ready to accept my next assignment from the crew who handles the spare board at the yard office. I am on the spare board because I am a fairly new employee and I don't have the seniority to bid on and receive either a temporary vacancy or a full-time job. If by 3:00 p.m. I haven't received a call, I will go back to bed for a few more hours sleep. The night was cold but it was a good shift.