The County Crows Got To Me, The First Day Cover Of Air Transport Of Mail To Ramouske, Quebec

THOSE FUNNY LITTLE MOMENTS OF LIFE, HOME OWNERSHIP, AND AYE, THE CRITTERS THAT INHABIT THE SHADOWS OF THE AUTUMN WOODS

THE VENERABLE COUNTY CROWS ARE WATCHING ME - TO SEE WHAT I'VE BEEN HALF-EATING

     IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING (AND I'M PRETTY SURE YOU WEREN'T), I HAVE BEEN DOING A LOT MORE WORK AROUND BIRCH HOLLOW RECENTLY. GETTING READY FOR WINTER, YOU MIGHT SAY. I LOVE THIS TIME OF THE YEAR AROUND THE BOG, BECAUSE IT IS USUALLY PRETTY QUIET THROUGH THE DAY. UNLESS OF COURSE, ONE OF THE NEIGHBORS, FLUSH WITH YARD EQUIPMENT, DECIDES TO BLOW LEAVES WITH THEIR ATTACHED SUPER-SONIC JET PACKS. LIKE ATTACHING A SNOWBIRD'S TUTOR JET TO ONE'S SHOULDERS. AS IT IS MY BUDGET CABIN ON THE NEXT BEST THING TO THOREAU'S WALDEN POND, I REALLY ENJOY PLAYING THE OUTDOOR HANDYMAN WHEN SUZANNE ISN'T WATCHING. (I GENERALLY REFRAIN FROM DOING INDOOR WORK BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO MAKE THIS WORSE) JUST LIKE WHEN I WAS GROWING UP, I HAD SCHOOL CLOTHES, AND PLAY-WEAR. I CAN'T DO ANYTHING, IN THE WAY OF YARD WORK, ESPECIALLY CLEANING THE GUTTERS, IF I'M WEARING MY STORE-DUDS. I HAVE TO KEEP CHANGING MY CLOTHES, SO I WON'T RUIN ANYTHING THAT IS NOTED, BY HE BOSS-OF-ME, AS BEING "BETTER THAN THE REST OF MY TATTERED CLOTHING." WHEN I USED TO TAR THE ROOF, BACK IN THE DAYS WHEN WE HAD OLD, CURLING SHINGLES, I ALWAYS MANAGED TO GET THE REPAIR MATERIALS ON MY "GOOD" CLOTHES. THAT DROVE SUZANNE CRAZY, THAT I WOULD BE WILLING TO DAMAGE MY CLOTHES WHEN THERE WERE OLD PANTS AND SWEATERS BEGGING TO COME OUT OF THE CLOSET. IF I COME HOME FROM THE SHOP, AND PUT IN A COUPLE OF HOURS AROUND THE YARD, SHE THINKS I'M WORKING ON MY BLOG ON THE DECK. AND ALL IS GOOD IN THE UNIVERSE. I JUST DON'T PICK HER UP, LATER, WITH TAR ON MY PANTS. I DO ENJOY THE SOLITUDE OF WORKING AROUND HERE, ESPECIALLY THE RARE MOMENTS, WHEN THERE IS A DISTINCT ABSENCE OF URBAN INTERRUPTIONS. THEY COME SOON ENOUGH, WITH THE RETURN OF THE SCHOOL BUSES, BUT THE KIDS DON'T DAWDLE; AND THE ONLY TIME THEY SLOW DOWN, IS TO TEXT ON THEIR PHONES, OR TOSS UNEATEN LUNCHES INTO THE BOG. NO WONDER THE CROWS AROUND HERE ARE SPOILED. THEY EVEN GET GIANT DILL PICKLES AND BIG ORANGES. I DON'T EVEN GET THOSE.
     CROWS. URBAN BUZZARDS. MY TORMENTORS! THEY KNOW IT'S GARBAGE PICK-UP DAY. THEY CAN SMELL IT. THEY WON'T BE LURKING IN THE SHADOWS NEXT MONDAY MORNING, (THEY KNOW ABOUT THE SCHEDULE CHANCE) BECAUSE, AS OF TODAY, GARBAGE PICK-UP HAS BEEN REDUCED TO TWICE MONTHLY. HOW THEY KNOW THIS, I DON'T KNOW, BUT APPARENTLY THEY'VE GOT A GRAPEVINE CONNECTION OVER AT THE DISTRICT OFFICES IN BRACEBRIDGE. TWO OLD BUZZARDS. THEY'RE ACTUALLY CROWS. BIG ONES. NOT RAVENS, BUT GARDEN VARIETY CROWS. THE TWO I MET THIS MORNING, PULLING APART THE BAGS OF GARBAGE, I HAD JUST PUT AT CURBSIDE, LOOKED FAMILIAR IN A BIRD SORT OF WAY. I THINK THESE TWO VULTURES, IN CROW ATTIRE, WERE PART OF THE CAST FROM ALFRED HITCHCOCK'S MOVIE, "THE BIRDS," AND IF I HAD STOOD NEAR THE STREWN GARBAGE FOR VERY LONG, THEY WOULD HAVE PICKED ME APART AS WELL. THEY WERE AS BIG AS THOSE WILD TURKEYS WE SEE AT ROADSIDE, ON OUR CROSS-COUNTRY TRAVELS, AND THEIR DETERMINATION TO FEED ON OUR GARBAGE WAS ASTONISHING; CONSIDERING THAT THERE WERE ONLY TWO CROWS, NOT A FLOCK, IF THAT'S WHAT ONE OF THEIR SQUADRONS IS CALLED. I HAD ONLY BEEN BACK AROUND THE HOUSE, FOR TEN MINUTES, GATHERING UP THE WEEKLY RECYCLING, SO THE COUNTY CROWS MUST HAVE BEEN CLOSE BY, WAITING FOR DINNER TO BE SERVED IN TRADEMARK BLACK GARBAGE BAGS. I KNOW, I KNOW, GET A GARBAGE BIN YOU FOOL. I HAVE THREE, BUT THEY'RE CURRENTLY LOADED WITH BIG ITEMS TO BE HAULED TO THE TOWN LANDFILL SITE. YOU KNOW ME TOO WELL. INDEED, THEY'VE BEEN LIKE THIS SINCE EARLY SUMMER. BUT IN MY DEFENCE, THE CROWS ONLY LIKE THE AROMA OF OUR CAST-OFFS ONCE OR TWICE A MONTH. MY MISFORTUNE RECENTLY, IS THAT WE'VE HAD MUCH MORE AROMATIC REFUSE IN THE PAST THREE WEEKS. NOT MEAT. WE CAN'T AFFORD IT. BUT OTHER FOOD STUFF DOES WIND-UP IN THESE BAGS, FOR A VARIETY OF REASONS, AND APPARENTLY, WE OFFER BETTER TASTING TRASH THAN ANY OF OUR NEIGHBORS, WHO PROBABLY DO HAVE MEAT REGULARLY.
     I CALL THESE TWO CROWS, "HECKLE AND JECKEL," FROM THE CARTOONS OF MY CHILDHOOD, AND THEY ARE AS CUNNING, AND CREATIVE AS TWO BIRDS COULD EVER BE, AND NOT OVERTAKE DISTRICT COUNCIL, AS A FEATHERED COUP, AND DISCONTINUE TRASH REMOVAL SERVICES ENTIRELY. THE MORE LEFTOVERS FOR THEM. AND BELIEVE ME, THERE ARE THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS MORE CLEVER CROWS OUT THERE, AWAITING OUR MOMENTS OF WEAKNESS, WHEN WE LEAVE OUR TRASH UNGUARDED. WHEN I CAME DOWN THE DRIVEWAY WITH A BIN OF RECYCLING, I COULDN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH CARNAGE HAD BEEN INFLICTED IN NO MORE THAN FIFTEEN MINUTES; IF IN FACT, THEY HAD LANDED ON THE TRASH, ONE SECOND AFTER I WAS OUT OF SIGHT, AROUND THE CORNER OF THE HOUSE. THE ATTACK ON THE DEFENCELESS GARBAGE BAGS, SENT HOUSEHOLD REFUSE FLYING AND TUMBLING, AS FAR AS THE CENTRE LINE OF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD ROAD. I DIDN'T COUNT THE INDIVIDUAL PIECES, BUT IT TOOK SON ANDREW AND I, THE NEXT HALF HOUR, TO PICK IT ALL UP. I WAS COVERED IN REFUSE, CUT MY FINGER ON A PIECE OF SHARP PLASTIC, AND ALMOST WIPED-OUT IN THE UPPER DRIVEWAY, WHEN I SLIPPED ON SOME WET PAPER TOWELS THAT FELL OUT OF ONE OF THE DAMAGED BAGS, I WAS TRANSPORTING TO A PROPER BIN. I HAD TO SPEND ANOTHER FIFTEEN MINUTES, UNLOADING ONE BIN OF GARBAGE, INTENDED FOR THE LANDFILL SITE, INTO ANOTHER CONTAINER, SO I WOULD HAVE A DEFENCE SHIELD AGAINST THE "CLAN OF THE BIRD."
     I WANT TO BE CLEAR HERE, SO THERE IS NO CONFUSION. I LOVE THE BOG AND ALL ITS CRITTERS. THIS IS A HUMAN FOLLY, AND I WOULD NEVER THINK OF TRYING TO THROW A FLYING TACKLE ON EITHER HECKLE OR JECKLE. I DID TRY TO PEPPER THEM ONCE, WITH A LITTLE EXTRA WE HAD IN THE KITCHEN CUPBOARD, BUT IT MADE THE GARBAGE TASTE BETTER, ME THINKS, BECAUSE OTHER THAN SOME AUDIBLE CROW-SNEEZING, THEY RIPPED THE BAGS APART TWICE AS QUICKLY. I WON'T APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT I HAVE CALLED THEM IN THE PAST, OR EVEN THIS MORNING, AS I WAS PICKING UP TRASH OFF MY NEIGHBOR'S MANICURED LAWN. I THINK UNDER THOSE BLACK AS NIGHT FEATHERS, THEY HAVE PRETTY THICK SKIN, AND BRUSH OFF MY INSULTS WITH DEEP REVERBERATING CROW CHORTLES; AND I SWEAR I HEARD THEM TALKING TO ONE ANOTHER, FROM THE GNARLED OLD OAK TREE ACROSS THE ROAD. SOMETHING LIKE, "I TOLD YOU HECKLE, WE SHOULD HAVE WAITED UNTIL THE OLD FART LEFT FOR WORK, BEFORE HAVING OUR BREAKFAST SCRAPS."
     TAKING OUT THE TRASH AND RECYCLING IS A MISERABLE JOB, AROUND HERE, BECAUSE AS DUTIFUL AS I AM, IN THE FIELD OF HISTORICAL DOCUMENTATION, AS A HOME HANDYMAN I LEAVE AN AWFUL LOT TO BE DESIRED. THE OTHER MORNING, I CAME HOME FROM WORK, AT AROUND LUNCH, AND I FELT THINGS HITTING MY HAT, ALONG THE BACKYARD SIDEWALK. WHEN I LOOKED UP, I GOT HIT IN THE FACE WITH A CLUMP OF WET LEAVES, TOPPLED OVER FROM THE EAVES-TROUGH, WHICH IS OF COURSE, NOW FULL OF THOSE BEAUTIFULLY COLORED HARDWOOD LEAVES. TWO SMALL BLACKBIRDS, SUZANNE CALLS GRACKLES, I THINK, WERE SORTING THROUGH THE NATURAL REFUSE, FROM THE TREES IN OUR YARD, PRESUMABLY LOOKING FOR LUNCH OF BUGS; BUT REMINDING ME, THAT IT WAS TIME, FOR GOSH SAKES, TO CLEAN THE GUTTERS. THE RESIDENT CHIPMUNK GAVE ME CRAP THE OTHER DAY, BECAUSE HE WASN'T HAPPY WITH THE CONTENT OF THE BIRD FEEDER, WHICH ADMITTEDLY IS A LITTLE LOW ON SUNFLOWER SEEDS. THE NEIGHBOR'S CAT MARKED OUR VERANDAH, IN NUMEROUS PLACES, AND ONE OF A HALF DOZEN SQUIRRELS, ON OUR PATCH OF HEAVEN-ON-EARTH, HAS BEEN RECKLESSLY NIBBLING AT MY OLD THEATRE CHAIRS, TRYING TO MAKE THEIR TREE-TOP NEST A LITTLE MORE LUXURIOUS. THEY DO THIS, WHILE LOOKING IN AT OUR HOUSE CATS, AND I'M PRETTY SURE, SMIRKING IN THAT SQUIRREL-WAY, LIKE EXTENDING A FINGER THEY DON'T HAVE, THAT OH JOY, THERE IS A PANE OF GLASS BETWEEN THEM. WE KNOW FOR FACT, THAT TWO OF OUR ADOPTED FELINES COULD BE VERY PROFICIENT, AT REMOVING MOST OF THE CRITTERS FROM BIRCH HOLLOW; AND IF THEY TRULY KNEW MY DISPOSITION THIS MORNING, AND HOW I MIGHT HAVE ACCIDENTALLY LEFT THE DOOR OPEN FOR "BEASLEY" AND "ANGUS," HUNTERS-SUPREME, TO GET SOME FRESH AIR, IT MIGHT HAVE REMOVED THE LEVITY, FROM WHAT WAS OBVIOUSLY QUITE HUMOROUS TO THEM. ESPECIALLY THE PART WHERE I NEARLY WENT ARSE OVER TEA KETTLE, AS THEY SAY, COMING DOWN THE SLIPPERY SLOPE OF THE OLD HOMESTEAD. OF COURSE I WOULDN'T DO THIS, DOOR-OPEN-THING, BECAUSE I VALUE ALL THE LIVES THAT THRIVE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, INSIDE AND OUT. I EVEN BUILT A HABITAT FOR THESE WEE CRITTERS, AT THE SIDE OF THE HOUSE, TO KEEP THE MICE, CHIPMUNKS AND MOLES CONTENT, AND OUT OF OUR CRAWL SPACE, ON THE ADVICE OF A WILDLIFE WRITER I KNEW. IT'S WORKED FABULOUSLY WELL FOR THE PAST HALF DECADE, SINCE I ESTABLISHED THE BRUSH PILE, THAT HAS ALL KINDS OF LITTLE DENS THROUGHOUT. IT'S GRADUALLY TURNING INTO EARTH ANYWAY. A MOUSE IN THE HOUSE, WOULD LAST ABOUT ONE FULL MINUTE, BEFORE BECOMING CAT FOOD, SO THERE IS AN UNDERSTANDING AROUND HERE, ABOUT THE LIBERTIES ALLOWED, AND THOSE WE WON'T TOLERATE. BUT WHO'S KIDDING WHO. THEY DO WHAT THEY WANT, WHEN THEY WANT, AND I JUST HAVE TO BE A LITTLE BETTER TUNED TO WHAT THE COUNTRY CROWS CAN INFLICT, IF GIVEN HALF A CHANCE.
    THERE IS A FAMOUS ANIMAL VERSUS HUMAN SKIT, FROM THE FORMER SEINFELD SITCOM, ABOUT THE PHILOSOPHICAL, UNSPOKEN AGREEMENT, THAT IS SUPPOSED TO EXIST, BETWEEN SQUIRRELS, PIGEONS, AND THE MOTORING PUBLIC. BASICALLY, IT'S AGREED, THEY WILL STAY OUT OF EACH OTHER'S WAY. EXCEPT, GEORGE COSTANZA, IN THE SHOW, HITS A SQUIRREL, BUT IT SURVIVES WITH EXPENSIVE MEDICAL TREATMENT; HE THEN KILLS A PIGEON WITH HIS CAR. "WE HAVE AN AGREEMENT," HE YELLS OUT. IT'S HOLLYWOOD SCRIPT WRITING, FOLKS. THERE IS NO AGREEMENT. EXCEPT AMONGST THE CRITTERS, WHO MAKE THEIR OWN RULES, INDEPENDENT OF OUR INTERESTS TO THE CONTRARY. SINCE WE TOOK UP RESIDENCE OPPOSITE THE BOGLANDS, IN THE FALL OF 1989, THE ONLY WILDLIFE CASUALTY, OTHER THAN A WEE FROG BENEATH A LAWNMOWER, WERE TWO CHICKADEES, THAT FLEW INTO THE FRONT WINDOWS. I WAS TRYING TO GIVE THEM HEART STIMULATION WITH MY FINGER, BUT I WASN'T SURE ABOUT THE MOUTH TO BEAK RESUSCITATION. I BURIED THEM IN THE PET CEMETERY, HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW, AND NO SIR, I'M NOT CONCERNED ABOUT A STEPHEN KING-TYPE SCENARIO, FROM A BOOK OF THE SAME NAME, WHEN THE DECEASED CRITTERS COME BACK TO LIFE AND OVERTAKE THE HOMESTEAD. UNLESS, THAT IS, THE COUNTY CROWS HAVE MORE MAGIC IN THEM, BEYOND BEING ABLE TO RIP OPEN GARBAGE BAGS, WITH THEIR BEAKS OF DOOM, SET OUT FOR MONDAY MORNING PICK-UP. I'M KEEPING MY EYES ON THEM, AND JUST IN CASE THEY DECIDE TO TAKE OVER BIRCH HOLLOW, I'VE GOT A COUPLE OF CATS LOADED FOR BEAR, LICKING THEIR LIPS, TO EAT SOME CROW.


DON'T YOU JUST HATE IT WHEN YOU LOSE STUFF? NOW IMAGINE WHEN THE ARCHIVIST / HISTORIAN HAS TO CONFESS, SOMETHING HAS GONE MISSING


     Last winter and early spring, we acquired literally thousands of bits, and pieces, of very historic and important ephemera, from several estates. I wrote about an earlier estate, that presented us with four times the volume, of our latest purchase, but then, we were younger and confusion seemed to inspire us to organize more thoroughly. Three years later, we've become soft and used to having our evenings free of work-place carry-over. But the rules of the antique and collectable profession, clearly state, in philosophy of course, that the work day is "the rest of our lives". There are no days off. It is supposed to be, that an antique dealer loves the business they're in, so very much, that taking a day off would be like a trial separation. The profession brings together a long seeded love for old things, that may date all the way back to childhood, when we stuffed our pockets full of found objects, on the way to and from public school. What began as hobbies for many of us, became the seeding of a full scale profession, for those purists who found fun and profit-making, could indeed go hand in hand. Under the right circumstances, of course.
    So for Suzanne and I, who have been honing our way through the ages, with our business, truthfully, there are days, when it's simply too enjoyable and fulfilling, to then find out, we actually made money at the same time. Acquisition of course, is of critical consideration, in this regard, because it's what pours in the new fuel, to keep the flame full and bright. Stop-up the fuel supply, and we would look for a new profession, or simply collect and leave a really big estate for our sons. In the case of the paper collection, this most recent truck load, didn't require the same level of industry, to sort out, and instead of letters from China, as we had previously dealt with, we were buried with correspondence from Germany, post First World War, most of it actually, post Second World War, and written in German; which we're still trying to translate. Our collection of Chinese letters, by the way, was from a Canadian Missionary, back to Reverend Ewing Reid, at the Alhambra United Church, in Toronto. We sold these for just under a thousand dollars, to a collector in British Columbia, who was more interested in the postage, and postmarks on the covers, than in the historical content of the letters. There is a great requirement to analyze the paper heritage thoroughly, to make sure what the value actually is, and why? When we sold a large packet of World War One letters, it was the content of the notes that was most important to the collectors of military history. The same for the packets of World War Two letters, which were largely made-up of "thank you" cards, sent back to the volunteers of the Alhambra Church, who had generously sent gift bundles overseas, as Christmas gifts from Canada; to our soldiers fighting in Europe.
     Amongst the personal correspondence, I found a first day cover, (which is an addressed, stamped, postmarked and cancelled envelope, that appeals to collectors because it is "first day" of that particular issue), of a very important first air mail delivery to a remote area of Quebec, by air to Montreal. I'm not sure of the value, because there is also a signed letter from the responsible postal executive at the time, as a companion piece to the "cover," and this could very much affect the valuation. Which is of course, hugely based on condition of the ephemera, and clarity of stamps, cancellations, and the envelope itself.
    Now here is the crappy part, I'm writing about today; because, first of all, I'm venting my frustration, and showing my rather glaring imperfections. And secondly, because something similar has probably happened to you, but you've never admitted it!
When I put in a two hour search of our house, and my archives, and couldn't find the "cover" and the letter that goes with it, from the Post Office, I understood, at that moment, a moment of profound sadness, I had once witnessed, of my mother. There she was, standing alone in the bathroom of our two bedroom apartment up on Alice Street. She didn't know I had been watching from around the corner. She had been ordered to stop smoking, by Doctor Eaton, who was trying, at the time, to control her blood pressure. But addictions don't go quietly. My father Ed, was still smoking like a chimney, and Merle had been stashing away cigarette butts, to dissect for loose tobacco. I saw it as my job, to keep her off the death sticks, and I used to empty the ashtrays before she could scavenge. She had found enough, and with a paper roller she bummed off a friend, made a sort of Cheech and Chong style cigarette, that looked like a huge joint. She had retreated to the bathroom of our apartment, and opened the window, so she could exhale out the screen, to avoid immediate detection. Obviously, this was a dance with nirvana, she planned to fully enjoy in private, and was very careful about lighting the fat boy, and sitting it on her bottom lip for the first deep inhalation; that by the way, would start her coughing and hacking into the sink. In the slow motion replay, of that moment, the first puff did what it was supposed to do; gave her the rush before the coughing jag. The poorly rolled Frankenstein cigarette, stuck, probably by weight more than anything else, to her top lip, and her fingers slid right over the length of it, leaving it precariously balanced, like a plank over a canyon, you'd remember from Road Runner and Coyote capers, from Saturday morning cartoons. The cigarette stuck there for a few moments, and then, well, it seemed to jump by itself, up, and then make a spectacular, Olympic style dive into the open toilet; where it floated for awhile, and then sank to the bottom. Merle tried to rescue it, but alas, it was no longer what it had been. It would never glow again. That's when she started to cry. She'd been looking for that one big smoke haze for days, if not a week, and there it was, over in a split second. While this may be a long way around, in making the point, of how I felt, being unable to find my first day cover, let me continue with my explanation.
     I knew it hadn't been accidentally dropped into the toilet, or clawed to shreds by the cats. I wasn't worried about it having been thrown-out or recycled, because we have never done so in the past, with the hundreds of thousands of papers we've handled and sorted without incident. Then I picked up a book at a local second hand shop, that I thought would appeal to our clientele. It is a 1974 hardcover edition, entitled "Goggles, Helmets, & Airmail Stamps," by Georgette Vachon, published by Clarke, Irwin and Company of Toronto. It's mostly about those brave bush pilots, in Canadian aviation history, who reached isolated areas of the country, to bring supplies from the urban centres, and of course, "the mail." I actually opened the book, on the very first look through, to the precise page and paragraph, that dealt with the issuance of "the cover" I had somehow misplaced. Here it was published in the history book; something of heritage significance that I bloody well lost. It was, at that moment, like I was getting a slap to the back of the head, by some divine entity; reminding me how reckless it was, to file it in a place that was so secure, it was even secret to the instigator. I definately thought about Merle at this moment, feeling a little bit helpless, wondering where the heck I had stashed this important documentation; so important that it had made it onto page 102 of the book. I don't like admitting, folks with our background in document stewardship, could be so casual about setting materials aside for safe keeping, that only a few months following acquisition, has become a Sherlock Holmes mystery. Here's how the book addresses, the creation of the paper I sort of own, but just can't locate for the time being.
     "The flight of the (aircraft) Bremen, was an historic one. But the record of the rescue missions also deserves its place in the annals of aviation history. It took courage to face the dangers of a transatlantic crossing, but it also took courage to face the fog, snow and ice of Quebec. Men like Duke Schiller and Romeo Vachon may not headline history, but let the record show their achievement. Vachon returned to his mail run without a backward glance at fame and glory. Air service had broken the isolation of the north shore, but there were other areas to be opened up, other centres to be linked by air mail. Canadian Transcontinental Airways, expanded its services to the south bank of the St. Lawrence, and established air delivery between Rimouski, Montreal, Ottawa and Toronto. The test runs of the company were not particularly successful, as reported in "Le Soleil." "Crash of an airplane Saturday at Rimouski. The plane which was carrying European mail was greatly damaged. A new disaster in aerial navigation occurred at Rimouski last Saturday." The problem was the pilot's inexperience with the effect of tides on landing conditions, along the St. Lawrence. The solution arrived at by Vachon, was economical but effective; day and night surveillance of airports along the banks of the river, by airport personnel, volunteer crews and mechanics, who repaired and maintained adequate conditions for take-offs and landings.
     "With this problem solved, everything was ready for the official opening of the service on May 5, 1928. The pilots had been chosen (C.S. Caldwell, C.M. Dean, J.H. Saint-Martin, Harold Ayres and Irenee Vachon, Romeo's brother), all were experienced, and the venture looked promising. The planes were to pick up European mail from Rimouski, in five and a half days, the terms of the contract specified a total delivery time of less than one week for mail from London or Paris to Toronto. Spring that year had been accompanied by continuous rain, and landing strips were bogs of mud. But the opening was not postponed. The company was determined to fulfill the promise in the headline of May 4, 1928: 'Mail delivery to Rimouski to Montreal, Ottawa and Toronto will start tomorrow.' The two airplanes had to leave Rimouski at daybreak in order to reach Montreal at seven or eight o'clock. One of the planes then carried the mail from Montreal to Toronto; picked up the mail there and flew it back to Montreal. The next day, May 6, a third plane flew from Ottawa to Montreal, took on the mail that had been flown back from Toronto, and continued on to Rimouski, where the mail from the three cities was placed aboard the 'Regina,' bound for Europe. Mission accomplished. The newspapers of May 6 reported the successful opening of the new air service. 'The airplanes of the Canadian Transcontinental Company, have established a new record. Remarkable success has marked the inauguration of this new airmail service between Toronto, Montreal and Rimouski. In two days, 1,700 pounds of European mail were transported with great speed over hundreds of miles. Three company planes, directed by Romeo Vachon accomplished this record without accident or appreciable delay"
     The book's author, notes, "Commenting on the inauguration of the new airmail service, Mr. M.T.E. McDonnell, Vice President of the Canadian Pacific Railway, in charge of the parcel delivery service, emphasized the benefits of such a service in the development of trade and industry. He pointed out that aviation had achieved such a high reputation in the province of Quebec, and indeed throughout Canada, that the transport industry should co-operate fully, to ensure a speedy and efficient air service. The advantages deriving from the rapid delivery of letters and parcels were considerable. For example, a parcel which left Rimouski, early on Saturday, would arrive the same day in Toronto, and could be put on a train to Winnipeg, where it would arrive Monday morning. It could then be forwarded to Vancouver and reach that city by the following Wednesday. Ordinarily the company's ships reached ocean ports toward the end of the week. The new air service would mean a reduction of two days in delivery time."
     The text notes, "The coincidence of the inauguration of the airmail service, with the fortuitous arrival in Rimouski of the 'Empress of Scotland,' (passenger ship), set off an immediate expansion of the service to accommodate the needs of the Canadian Pacific. The pilots who took part in this airmail service, were pioneers in the development of commercial aviation in Canada. After 1928, airmail delivery moved out of the experimental stage, and began to be extended across Canada. By 1935, there were twenty-six airmail routes under government control. Overseas mail continued to arrive by ship for some time, however. Regularly scheduled transatlantic airmail service was not commercially feasible until 1939, twenty years after Alcock's and Brown's first non-stop flight across he Atlantic, and twelve years after Lindberg's historic flight from New York to Paris."
     Now all I have to do, is find my first day cover, of this historic mail delivery. Rats! When I find it folks, it will be illustrated here with great joy. Wish me luck. I'm diving into my archives with a hell of a big snorkel. If I don't come back up, tell my wife I love her!