My park, my memories, my dreams

Article and photos by Doreen Marion Gee

When I gaze back over my life, Beacon Hill Park pops up over and over again in vivid snapshots of days long past. A flood of memories of that urban oasis spanning half a century is emblazoned in gold-leaf on the tracks of my memory. Some are beautiful and exciting, some are a little less savoury and a few are downright weird and hilarious. That beloved park is a part of me, just like the blood that rushes through my veins.

Every time I stroll through Beacon Hill Park, I feel as if I have come back home. In fact, much of my James Bay childhood was spent running like a wild spirit through fields of golden yellow grass at dusk and blissfully soaking in the ocean air and tingling sunshine under trees that touched the sky. My first memories are of splashing around the old Kiwanis Pool - the precursor to our watering can spray park. Back in the fifties and sixties, there was no filtration system in that wading pool. It stank of chlorine and was rarely cleaned or refilled. It still makes me gag to think of what unspeakable little wiggly things slithered through that mucky water but miraculously, no children ever got sick (at least as far as I know). All I remember was innocent bliss - sliding through a cool pool and then lying on the sidewalk, the sun burning my back. That wonderful smouldering smoky smell of steaming hot cement under my wet body still warms my nostrils.

Excitement and disappointment went hand in hand in the park of my childhood. I always dreamed of being an athlete - those demi-gods that walked on water. So, when I was picked to be on the South Park School Relay Team in the District Track Meet one year, I was dancing. On the day of the races, South Park was already leading the pack at first place on the baseball field in Beacon Hill Park. Then it was my turn. Even now, I can feel my little heart racing as I grabbed the stick and dashed down that gravel field with eagle wings. When I finished the relay, I waited for the applause. But all I heard were moans: Oh no, we came in third! Doreen, how could you! Instead of Achilles, I was a tortoise among all the hares. Third is good too, I exclaimed. But it wasn't and I knew it.

Beacon Hill Park evokes magical happy memories of a time in my life that was all candy-cane sunshine with none of the shadows. Fifty years ago, winters were frigid and summers were stifling hot. When we had our usual snowfall, it was showtime. My brothers and I grabbed our makeshift sleds and headed for the big hill under the Checker Board House. Hair flying, screams in the night, we flew down that hill with lightning speed. That pure wild icy adventure was a thrill that I will never forget. On that same hill, I experienced a different adrenaline rush when I was sixteen. It was the time of that dashing, handsome, sexy young man who would be Prime Minister. Pierre Trudeau was like a rock star - up there with the Beatles. When his helicopter landed on that windswept hill on a warm summer day in the sixties, girls were shrieking and fainting. He could have been Paul McCartney. My sister, Sylvia, and I ran like the wind to get near him and pushed through the mad throng just to glimpse his beautiful face. He still haunts my mind - his warm smile, flashing white teeth, curly hair, and muscular body. Never before or since have I witnessed such a powerful human presence; his charm radiated like starlight over the hills and ocean. I couldn't have cared less about his politics. I was in love.

More recently, Beacon Hill Park was the scene of strange and bizarre goings-on. Five years ago, I was preparing to move from my apartment right across from the park. Out of the blue, I received a phone call from a local psychologist asking if I was indeed Doreen Gee. When I said said Yes, she said Are you okay? Totally stunned, I asked her who she was and why was she calling! The doctor told me that she had found my personal journal tossed in the grass beside Good Acre Lake along with jewellery and a huge garbage bag. Suddenly it clicked. A homeless person or 'binner' had probably taken my bag of stuff that I had thrown in the garbage, decided it was not worth his time and chucked it in the park. Unfortunately I had gotten rid of my diary by mistake - which contained a lot of very intimate information about some serious problems in my life at that time. The psychologist was very worried about me and offered to give me a free counselling session! These things only happen to me, dear readers.

Beacon Hill Park was a core part of my formative years: Art lessons as a teenager under the huge willow tree beside Good Acre Lake, rides on Queenie - the famous old horse, picnics and strolls with girlfriends, baseball games, tasting the first soft ice cream from the Beacon Drive In under gigantic trees, and watching the sun dip beneath a vermillion sky from the Checker Board House on top of the hill.

Nowadays, when I sit down under the old willow tree to watch the herons and relish the last rays of sun exploding through dark branches, I say a quiet thank you to Judge Begbie and all the people who cared enough to keep this wondrous park a permanent treasure.

Our park, my park, will live on frozen in time - keeping my memories alive and well.