Shelbourne Plaza - Part One

Recently a woman phoned and asked if I had any history about the Shelbourne Plaza.

Well, it just so happens I wrote an article about the plaza in 1982 and even though thirty years have passed, I thought some of you might be interested in the history - bear in mind there have been a lot of changes since 1982....

Here is the article:

One day while mailing a letter at our local plaza, I was startled to see a sign in the window of El-Rosa Modes (ladies wear shop) which read: "The good die young - thanks to high interest and rent, closing out sale". This little business has been part of the Shelbourne Plaza since 1968 and it is very sad to witness its demise, as well as being a frightening indication of the times.  The proprietors, Mr. Swan and Mrs. Rosina Steel, regret being forced into such a situation. 

Many of their goods are manufactured right here in Victoria and include custom design work to accommodate physical disabilities. Daughters of customers have grown up and carried on their mothers' patronage. The passing years have seen slim young girls change into well rounded matrons.

Right next door is the thriving business of The Nearly New Shop, operated by Margot Currie and her daughter, Brenda. At first I thought the fact that they remain in business is because second hand goods might be more popular in the present economy, but they informed me that their lease is up for renewal in 1983, so only time will tell that story.  

The staff of The Nearly New also runs the sub post office very efficiently, with exceptional service at Christmas.  This postal service has been disrupted twice due to break-ins resulting in the entire contents of the safe being removed. 

At one time, their location was occupied by a small variety store, run by a young Dutch couple who now operate a butcher shop in Houston, Texas.

Shelbourne Plaza was the first of its kind to open in Victoria. Prior to this there were only two small grocery stores in the area - The Wooden Shoe on Cedar Hill Cross Road (where the picture framing business is now located) and Wilson's Grocery on the corner location of the present Saanich Peninsula Credit Union.

No K-Mart or Hillside Shopping Center existed. Most of our shopping was carried out in the old Safeway store located on Fort Street, where Postal station B now stands, or the other Safeway outlet on Quadra near the Fox Theatre.  If we went to town, we usually took advantage of the grocery departments at Eaton's or the Bay.

The one million dollar Shelbourne Plaza celebrated its grand opening Jan 28, 1960. The developers decided to incorporate the word 'plaza' into the name because plazas of ancient Spain were the community and shopping centres of the day.  The grand opening was well attended even though it was a cloudy day, with intermittent rain and accompanying chilly winds. 

George McIlveen was the proud manager of the Shop Easy store at the time of the opening.  Reminiscing in his attractive Irish brogue, he recalled some of the specials offered that day:  Zee bathroom tissue - 4 rolls for 49 cents, leg of pork for 57 cents per pound, two pounds of ground beef for 89 cents a pound, 8 tins of Aylmers tomato soup for 80 cents and Florida grapefruit were 6 for 49 cents.

One of the bold statements in the Colonist write-up was "When fully occupied it will be the most modern and up-to-date shopping center in Victoria."

We've sure come a long way since then, with plazas and malls scattered throughout the city.

One year, soon after the plaza was opened, our children entered a Halloween costume contest sponsored by the merchants.  The kids wore costumes that were giant replicas of playing cards.  Mummy and daddy spent many hours painstakingly constructing the costumes from large pieces of cardboard - Queen of Hearts for Terry and Jack of Diamonds for Mark. We created these costumes in the form of sandwich boards often used in advertising.  

Our kids won for 'most unusual costume' and the prize was being allowed to scoop up all the brand new pennies their hot little hands could hold.

Easter of 1961 brought another promotional stunt, this time in the form of the Easter Bunny who arrived by helicopter on the blacktopped parking area.

Our Shop-Easy was the first store in the district to begin evening hours. The manager at the time, Robin May, recalls one particular night when he had closed up shop and driven home.  He no sooner reached his abode when he received a call from the police to say his store was on fire.  Having just left the premises, he found this hard to believe.  He checked with the fire department and discovered the fire brigade was already on the job.

He rushed back to the store, where clouds of smoke, firemen and equipment greeted him.  It turned out to be a case of where there's smoke, there isn't necessarily fire.  Someone had been burning rubbish in the incinerator at the back of the building and some nearby boxes were smoldering.  The smoke seeped into the store. A passerby saw the smoke and assumed the worst.  Unfortunately the firemen found it necessary to break one of the heavy glass doors to gain entry to the store before the actual source of the smoke was established.

There were professional offices in the Plaza, as well.  When mild-mannered Dr. Pepper, the optometrist, was adjacent to Dr. Piper, I was often reminded of the tongue twister "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers".

Next door to the Shop Easy there was a hobby shop run by Terry Walls, who later moved to Harbour Square.

Many will remember when the drugstore was owned by Martin Doan.

Margo Beauty Salon began its days in the other half of the current drugstore but later moved to its present location in a separate building near the Plaza.  When the salon first opened, the cost of an average permanent wave was $12.50, by 1982 that cost has risen to $45.00.  

The other half of this small building (now occupied by Harvey's) originally housed the Tasty-Freeze which had previously been isolated by at the front of the parking lot. Back in those days the Shop-Easy had a machine which produced and provided the hamburgers for the Tasty-Freeze.

Many people will recall when the hardware store was owned and run by Sleggs and boasted a small lumber supply.  The hardware store has always been run by friendly, helpful people and the present family is no exception to this rule.

Who could possibly forget Isobel Dempster who so ably ran the Plaza Paint Pot! The individual attention she gave to matching wallpaper and paint was something to behold.

Margaret White, who used to manage the Merry Mart variety store, says that one Halloween they had such an inviting display in their window it was just too much temptation for some youngsters.  They hurled a rock through the window and grabbed as much candy as their hands could hold. They were in the process of calmly dividing their loot when the police arrived.

There was a small pet corner which housed goldfish, hamsters, etc. presided over by the lone male on the premises, a young man named Melvin Falk.  He used to fondly refer to all the female staff as his six mothers. He was devoted to his duties and I understand that after completing a course in ichthyology (study of fish) he was employed by the Manitoba government.

Often Margaret received a phone call from an anxious mother informing her that a little person was on his way to the store clutching some money which was to be spent on a birthday card and present.  Would she keep an eye out for him? Margaret not only helped the youngster select a present but often called the mother back to say 'mission accomplished' and assure her that the little shopper was en route home again with 'so much' change in hand.

One of the girls on staff was mother to a baby usually looked after by grandma.  Occasionally grandma took a break and went into town, leaving the baby in a buggy at the back of the store.  The girls took turns keeping an eye on the precious bundle until the rejuvenated grandmother returned. These are but two examples of the folksy, friendly atmosphere in that little store.

The War of the Roses

Many years ago I wrote an article about growing roses:

For years we have had a running battle with the creatures that attack our roses.

In the beginning all was peaceful as we sat back with a cool drink in hand, appreciating the lovely display of blossoms on our rose arbor, far from the busy traffic of Shelbourne Street. Then trouble began.  Various bugs insidiously invaded our new haven.

We purchased the necessary rose spray which we very carefully mixed - so many ounces to so many gallons, sprayed copiously and all was well.  Or so it seemed.

The following year an army of little green looper worms attacked and we were thoroughly disheartened. Finally we found the proper ammunition to deal with them and managed, we thought, to finish them off.

To our dismay, they sent in reinforcements in the form of paratroopers by the hundreds, floating down on silken threads from the many oak trees on our property.  We rallied, sprayed once more and felt very confident we had overcome the hordes.

About this time, the odd black spot began appearing on the leaves, but not knowing much about roses, we ignored this situation until it was too late.  An elderly neighbor told us he had some wonderful stuff that would restore our roses to their former beauty.

We diligently applied this potion, only to find later that 'black spot' was one of the things it did NOT resolve.

We finally concluded that the mild winters of Vancouver Island are most conducive to the propagation of the insect community.  So now we have a large array of bottles and tins, all marked in metric (yet another challenge).  I cleverly located, among all the paraphernalia I keep, a little glass bottle showing clearly marked metric measurements.  This helps somewhat to dilute the intensity of Ken's wrath as he prepares to enter battle.

With all the environmental studies that have been published and the information and warning on the use of insecticides, Ken has become overly cautious when he enters combat against the enemy.  Actually he is quite a comical sight.

First he dons an old pair of jeans (which unfortunately have a zipper that insists on doing its own thing), then he puts on a equally old shirt and jacket. Next comes a face mask and then a pair of ski goggles (discarded long ago by our son, for a more superior set), a cap to protect his scalp, and finally a pair of gloves.  He is ready to engage the enemy.

The first few minutes are usually quite successful, but then the nozzle on the spray becomes clogged.  Off come the goggles and gauntlets until that situation is remedied. Back to the battleground and another interruption as the goggles steam up under the concentration of fierce battle.  This is followed by time out to throw down the gloves and pull up the errant zipper on his jeans (they do say to be very careful...).

Once, when Ken was thus attired, some teenage boys walked by and kept looking back at him as if they couldn't believe what they saw.  I couldn't resist - I had to capture it on film.

All is quiet on the western front at the moment, but I am keeping a wary eye out for interlopers.  One cannot afford to relax vigilance in The War of the Roses.

Bottlemania

It all began quite innocently, back in 1982.  We decided we were in need of some exercise, so one crisp morning we set out for a brisk walk.  We made our way along Cedar Hill Cross Road and then began the steep climb up Mayfair Drive leading to the top of Mt. Tolmie.

As we passed the deserted viewpoint parking area, what to our wondering eyes did appear but some broken glass and several empty bottles of beer.  

They were right in our path and looked very unsightly. We very carefully picked up the broken glass, placed it safely in the nearby refuse container and then retrieved the bottles, carrying them home to join our own ‘empties’.

The next time we went walking, we were more aware of our surroundings and noticed several more beer bottles enroute.  More a matter of cleaning up the environment than anything else, we tidied up as we went along, once again returning home with three or four empties.

The next week we armed ourselves with a plastic bag ‘just in case’ and discovered that without really looking, we came across quite a number of toss-aways - our bag was bulging.

What started out as a joke became serious business. Soon we were spotting a bottle or a can at quite a distance, their locations revealed by the glint of the sun or suspiciously flattened grass.

Once, my husband spotted something brown In the bushes: “There’s one” he shouted feverishly and lunged forward, startling a wild rabbit into a dash for freedom.

Sometimes we didn’t have to go far afield in our search, as unknown revellers tossed bottles on our front lawn, which bordered a public walkway.  This meant that little effort  on our part resulted in maximum profit.

One morning during breakfast I noticed as I peered out the window something glinting in the sunshine dappling the bottom lawn and told my husband I’d investigate once I had eaten.  To our utter dismay, we witnessed a little old lady, enroute to grocery shopping, stoop and pick up ‘our’ bottle.  The nerve of her!  With baited breath, we observed her movements from our kitchen window and watched as she stashed the bottle under some long grass and continued on her way. 

Just as soon as I finished breakfast I strode down to the hiding place and retrieved ‘our’ bottle.  When the lady returned later for her loot, the look of bewilderment on her face was something to behold and we imagined her saying to herself  “I could have sworn I hid a bottle under that grass!”

But you reap what you sow – the next day while out on an errand, my husband kicked a bottle into hiding, thinking to retrieve it later.  But when he returned, it had mysteriously disappeared. Was the little old lady exacting her revenge?

Another beautiful morning as I worked in the garden I was astonished to see two young chaps blatantly  foraging under our forsythia bush. I called out “What do you think you are doing?” One of them threw me a carefree happy smile “Lady we’re just looking for our case of beer.  We stashed it under here last night cause we couldn’t drink it all’ Quite undeterred, they continued searching till one of them hit pay dirt. Then they sauntered away,  their precious package safely in hand. I called after them “I wish I’d known that was there!” thinking to myself that I’d be weeding more thoroughly under shrubs in the future.

Being raised during the Depression, we always find it difficult to ignore potential income. But now, at ages 89 and 93, the thought of staggering up Mt. Tolmie, retrieving bottles enroute to save a dime or two, has somehow lost its appeal... 

Close Encounters of the Best Kind - Part Two

Once we spent an unforgettable week camping on Hornby Island.  We held a treasure hunt on the beach, complete with a complicated treasure map which the kids had to decipher.  That was the year we built a little raft and they had great fun floating around the cove, keeping within wading distance of the shore.  

It was very peaceful there; Ken and I managed to read several books and witnessed some breathtaking sunsets.

Another year we made a point of visiting just about every campsite on Vancouver Island, stopping at Ivy Green, Englishman River, Qualicum Falls, Stamp Falls, Miracle Beach and Elk Falls.  

It was very enjoyable.  I never cease to admire and appreciate the wonderful camp facilities we have on the Island.

A few years later we graduated to a tiny trailer that we pulled behind our 1951 bottle green Ford.  

This time we headed for the Interior, our destination being Aiyansh, my birthplace and, at that time, the home of my sister.  Aiyansh is located 70 miles inland from Terrace and was reached by navigating a rough logging road which curved around Lava Lake.

Pulling the trailer meant more gas consumption and we found ourselves stopping quite often at service stations where the request to ‘fill her up with regular’ was often repeated by Ken. Near Clinton we ran into a storm and when the windshield wipers became futile at dispersing the sudden downpour, we decided to stop for the night.  We pulled into a lay-by and ran through the rain to our little trailer.  Once inside we lit the propane lamp and I made some nice hot cocoa.  It was fun to hear the rain pelting down on the aluminum roof and know we were all snug and set for the night.

Our son had the upper bunk and our daughter the lower.  Sometime during the night our daughter found it necessary to eliminate some of the cocoa she had earlier consumed and so took advantage of the white enamel pan we had for just such an emergency. All was deathly quiet but for the ping of our daughter’s output.  Her brother leaned nonchalantly over his top bunk and said “fill her up with regular!’

Later on this same vacation we decided to take a side trip into Barkerville. At this time in his life, our son was into archery on a small scale and everywhere we stopped, he wanted to buy arrows. We walked past  the replica of a house of ill repute of the gold rush days.  To indicate the occupants of the building, a female dummy had been strategically placed in one of the upper windows, with a tantalizing leg, complete with ruffled garter, slung casually over the window sill.  Our son, completely oblivious to the real significance of the building, saw only the sign advertising its wares, “Sporting House.”  He immediately wanted to know if he could buy some arrows there!

We eventually reached Aiyansh after a hair-raising trip on the logging road.  Our little trailer looked pretty forlorn.  The sheets of cardboard, with which we had ‘securely’ protected the windows, now dangled almost completely off the frames as a result of the bone-shaking drive over the gravel road. Everything was covered with a layer of fine dust.

But it was all worth it for the kids to explore the barn,



see the interior of a ‘real live’ log cabin, where grizzly bear skins adorned the walls, a working wood stove stood in the kitchen, water came by hand from the nearby creek, fish could be caught in the lake,



and feral kittens played in the fields.  



A camping experience they have never forgotten!

Our camping days are over now, we prefer the convenience and comfort of home, but on looking back I would not have missed those days for anything. There are many forms of close encounters but I think we had the best kind.

Close Encounters of the Best Kind - Part One

'Close encounters of the third kind' weren't heard of fifty-six years ago when Ken and I first ventured into the woods but I'm sure our first camping trip caused just about as much excitement.

It took us several years before we could afford the luxury of a tent, four sleeping bags and a cook stove.  We were in the midst of building our own house and money and time were pretty scarce.  Camping was about the only type of holiday that matched our pocketbook.

I think all children should experience the thrill of camping outdoors at least once in their lives.

On the first day of our departure, the kids and I spent the morning trailing from house to car with armloads of various camping supplies while their father frantically finished off some cement work or other construction. Ken worked until the kids and I had the car all packed up and then tried to get 'in the mood' before we took off.

There were always last minute skirmishes to make sure we had all the necessities.  I remember making a long list and checking off each item: an axe, matches, bandaids, food, with reminders from certain members of the family "Don't forget the peanut butter, mum!"

We seldom left in gay abandon as there was usually an unexpected disaster just as we thought we were on our way. It often took until we were over 'the hump' of the Malahat before I saw the pressure gauge of my husband's face slowly change from one of tense preoccupation about an unfinished project at home to anticipation of joys ahead. Then he began to enter into the mood and started joking about the bears we might see and adventures we might experience.

I well remember the first time we stepped out of the car at Englishman River Falls.  Our little son was so excited.  He was about four years old and had difficulty speaking some words.  He spotted a squirrel running up a tall tree and ran to his dad shouting "Daddy, daddy, I see a skurl, a skurl!"

Daddy, trying to guide his son down the road of life, stopped to correct Mark's pronunciation.

"You mean squirr-el, not skurl'"

Again our son tried to twist his little tongue around that elusive "Q" but with no success. Finally, in desperation, he shouted out "Oh, okay then, 'chip-mump!" With that being settled, father and son wandered off down the path to find the skurl.

Oh the fun we had collecting water in pails and gathering firewood by the armful for our campfire.  There is nothing to equal the aroma of bacon frying early in the morning or seeing the soft curl of smoke from the fire drifting up through the trees, while the echo of someone chopping wood rang through the stillness.

We lay awake at night listening to the distant roar of the waterfalls and telling creepy stories, but the kids felt safe because we were all together in our cosy tent.

There was a house on the corner of the road leading into the campgrounds where one could buy delicious home-baked pies which we often purchased for dessert when our supplies began to run low.

As we explored the trails around the falls, Ken added to the fun.  Sometimes he unobtrusively tossed a stone into the bushes and then said "What was that?  I think I heard a bear!"

The kids entered into the spirit of adventure and squealed with delighted fear.  We also hid pennies in the trunks of dead trees and the kids had a great time trying to find these hidden treasures.

Sometimes we left the campground and went to the beach at Parksville where we spent the whole day playing in the water, knowing it was perfectly safe and shallow, stretching for miles over warm sand. 

On those days we packed a picnic lunch and returned home at the end of the afternoon to our home-away-from-home in the woods.

To be continued...

Memories of Yellowpoint

For over twenty-five years, Ken and I spent a few days each April at Yellowpoint Lodge, near Ladysmith. We have such happy memories of those precious times.  

We packed the car up with books, scrabble board, wine and 'goodies' for our stay.  We had the same cabin each year, so it seemed to us like 'home away from home'. Sometimes we invited friends to stay in the cabin which adjoined ours, separated by a common door.

After a good night's sleep, it was a bit of a walk from our cabin to the Lodge.  As we meandered along the trail we encountered other guests and exchanged pleasantries.  We often came upon rabbits, deer, otters or even eagles, perched high in the tree tops.  There were Easter lilies galore and many wild roses.

As we approached the lodge, the gong rang out welcoming us to breakfast.  With much anticipation we joined the very well-behaved guests lined up either side of a long table outside the dining room, where an array of juices, cereals, prunes, yogurt, porridge and temptingly warm muffins greeted us.  Once we entered the beautiful country-style dining area:

and chose our tables, we selected from more substantial offerings of scrambled, fried or poached eggs, bacon, sausages, toast or pancakes, all accompanied by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Of course, over the years, we made many friends. 

After breakfast we often joined them in the spacious and comfortable lounge for cosy conversations held to the accompaniment of gentle classical music and the odd crackle from the fire in the giant floor-to-ceiling fireplace.  

And then there were the walks through the quiet engulfing woods or along the inviting beach.  Often we came across items of interest on the beach and one year Ken made a point of photographing some of the flotsam and jetsam we encountered.  We had much fun composing captions for the photos.

Lunch was a repeat performance of the breakfast routine. Various salads were offered, as well as delicious home-made soups and just-out-of-the-oven chunks of wholesome bread, all very nourishing and satisfying.

We returned to our cabin to light our fire for ambiance and then read, rest and play scrabble. Around 4 p.m. we began our pre-dinner glasses of wine, and, if we had friends in the adjoining cabin, we invited them to 'come through' and join us.

Once again we strolled toward the Lodge, beckoned by the dinner gong.  Supper was usually brought to our tables of eight by friendly young staff. Some evenings we sat with the same people, sometimes with new people we had met.  After dinner we enjoyed some more chit-chat around the big fireplace before returning 'home' to our cabin for some more reading or one more scrabble game.

Once snuggled up in our comfortable bed, we were lulled to sleep by the steady lapping of the waves on the beach outside the window below us and often by the contented purring of the resident (forbidden) cat on the foot of our bed.

(My niece, Dale Stofer, painted this lovely rendition of the Yellowpoint cat)

We have very fond memories of our times at Yellowpoint and are fortunate to have wonderful photos to take us back in time to enjoy it all again. 

An Inscrutable Man - my father

My father, Arthur Featherstone Priestley, was born in England.  As I stated in an earlier post about my mother, my dad met my mum in the Indian village of Aiyansh, near Terrace, in northern BC, where her father was the first 'white' missionary in the area.

Dad decided to settle in Aiyansh and built a house overlooking the mighty Nass River.

He also built a store to serve the Indians and settlers.  The supplies for the store arrived by boat and were hauled up the steep incline by means of a skid, which dad no doubt also constructed.

As well as having a large vegetable garden, catching salmon, shooting deer and moose, Dad did a great of trapping - beaver, wolf, otter, lynx, marten, weasel, mink.  I don't know who he sold the hides to, but his efforts paid off.   

He also provided all the wood for our cook stove and heater, using a whip-saw to do the job.

To add to these accomplishments, dad was made a Justice of the Peace and Notary Public, and Mount Priestley was so-named in his honor.

I still don't know why, in 1917, when  my older sister was only 6 years old and my brother Les was just 11 months, dad volunteered his services in the first world war.

He left mother to look after the store and care for the two young children, with the help of neighbours. Interestingly, dad served as a stretcher-bearer even though on home ground he was known to faint at the sight of blood. He was discharged from the army May 24, 1919.

Upon his return, he and my mother had two more children, my brother Ken in 1921 and then me, in 1924.

In 1927 we all paid a visit to dad's parents, who had relocated to Vancouver.  We must have attended the PNE because dad won a car!

However, dad didn't drive so he sold the car and we returned to the north until 1929 when we sold up and moved to Victoria.

Dad had many vocations.  He ran a second-hand store, an auction room and for many years worked for the hardware firm of McLennan, McFeely and Prior.  He was so knowledgeable that people would ask for 'Pop' Priestley to serve them.

My father didn't get a driver's license until he was 75 years old, when he became a bouncer (!) in a hotel/pub in Port Renfrew.

Dad lived until he was 100 years old.  He loved to play cards and golf and although he was a very insular person (you might say 'inscrutable'), he loved 'the ladies', especially if they were attractive.  He was not what you would call 'warm and fuzzy' and I certainly did not like the way he treated my mother.  There were times when I could cheerfully have strangled him, but he was my dad, and Father's Day seems like a good time to remember him, all his accomplishments as well as his foibles.