From age 2 to age sixteen I lived in one of the little white houses on top of the hill above the mining operation. It probably never occurred to me that others went to sleep without the soothing sound of the tipple shakers sorting the coal, the roar of the belts loading bins, or the chuffing of train engines on the tracks. It was, as I will tell anyone who will listen, the most wonderful place on earth to grow up. The scope for imagination was endless. We had all the hills to roam, caves to explore, bush to create hideouts, that any boy could ever want, and a lake to swim in. We were wild animals in the summer, minimal supervision, basically no organization by our mothers, and compared to the farm kids in the area, no responsibilities. We all had the usual kids chores of the day, fetching wood and coal for the stoves, hauling water from the spring and taking out garbage, weeding the garden. But for the most part we were free to ramble, and when the tipple wasn't operating, as often as not it was our playground. We could explore the empty boxcars awaiting filling and usually keep any treasures we found, bottles, old lumber, once a gunny sack full of cigarettes,(we didn't get to keep those). Any season but winter we could divert and dam the many streams that flowed, it seemed, everywhere. We would often "borrow" grain doors (made to fit across the boxcar doors to contain loose cargo) from the big pile down by the tracks and use them to build clubhouses, forts, pirate ships and anything else our imagination could encompass in various places in the bush out of the parental eye. By the time I was ten the bunkhouse was no longer used by anyone so it was also our playground. ---------------------------------------Picture: Looking from my back yard at the tipple operation and office.

The mine manager built a skating rink, full hockey size with electric lights, just for us kids and we would spend hours getting our feet frozen and playing shinny, pom-pom pullaway, prisoner's base and crack-the-whip. After a fresh snowfall when the rink had to be shovelled, we would make trails in the snow and play fox and geese on the ice. I remember many times coming home up the hill and taking my skates off,(the rink was only 200 feet away) then putting my feet in the oven of the cookstove and moaning as the pins and needles went through my feet as they warmed up. Never got a frost bite that I remember though.

My Dad(in glasses) and others working at the mine shop, taken with my first camera.

My cousin Bob on the "crow's nest" at the top of the East bins on the tipple.

Click Here for an aerial photo of The Old Mine taken in 1940. It takes a while to load but gives a good view of a small underground mining operation of that era, with accompanying text and hopefully, explanation of some of the mysteries of the trade.

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