George Murphy has deep connections to the Jasper Place area that go back to early childhood. He is still connected to the area. Here he discusses growing up in Jasper Place and the homes where he lived, how the “Dogpatch” area got its name, and his education through to graduating from high school.
In the early 1940s my parents (Bud and Elda Murphy) and I moved into a rental home on 157th Street north of Stony Plain Road. We rented from Bill and Orpha Haigler who owned and lived on the same acreage.
One of the grandest things about the neighbourhood, for a little boy anyway: on the east side of 157th Street was the beginning of the rodeo grounds, with cattle, horses, bulls, people, and lots of action. The grounds stretched from just north of Stony Plain Road to just South of 102nd Avenue between 156th and 157th Streets. There was lots of parking across from my house for cars, horse-drawn wagons and the odd bareback rider.
Mom was an ex-farm girl and used to animals. She was often in our front yard chasing rodeo cattle and horses out of her flower beds with a broom.
I was a curious kid and had lots of room to wander so one day, while the rodeo was in full swing, I crossed the street and climbed up into the announcing booth. The announcer was a really neat guy and invited me to make a few calls. I don’t remember how I did, but I do remember Mother finding me up there and hauling me home on the double!
As a result of that adventure Mom pounded a stake into the front lawn and tied a rope to me and it. I just happened to have a little dog, Tippy, who had just as much wanderlust as I. Tippy chewed the rope and away we went. Mom caught us two blocks away.
There were houses with families lined along Stony Plain Road and a good friend lived in one. She and I decided to play with matches that I found in my house while Mom was away. We decided a bush across from her house needed to come down so we set it afire. Lots of panic! We ran back and forth from her house to the bush with pails of water and managed to get the fire out – but not before the bush was destroyed.
Mom, of course, came home past the still smoldering bush, checked the match dispenser at home and got a confession out of me. Next thing you know, two angry mothers were dressing down two not-so-smart and chastened kids.
Then along came my baby sister Carol in 1944. What wonderful times! Being the BIG brother and trying to get her to play. Getting her, with parents’ help, all bundled and tucked into the sleigh and heading for a grand sled (a pacified walk) with a visit with the Haiglers next door. “Uncle” Bill Haigler was an illustrator and a great cartoonist and “Aunt” Orpha was such a host! It was so much fun being their guests.
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Later on in 1944-45 my parents had saved enough money to buy some property on 155th Street at the corner of 103rd Avenue. It was a full half block from 103rd to 104th Avenues on the west side of 155th Street and, at the time, contained a very old shack which became our home for the next four or so years.
Dad had been working for aircraft repair In Edmonton and was seconded to the American Army/Airforce and shipped to Anchorage Alaska where he was stationed for the duration of WWII.
When Dad returned he and Mom decided they wanted a real house. They had little money so they decided to build one themselves. In the meantime Dad was helping build small houses on the east side of 155th Street north of 103rd Avenue. Some are still there.
Mom and Dad decided their new house would be built on the most northerly part of the lot at the south end of 155th Street along 103rd Avenue. So, Dad took his spade in hand and began to dig a basement. Not long after he had some neighbours helping out.
It must have been too much for them because one day I came home to find a huge spitting, hissing monster digging a hole where our basement was going to be. It was a steam-driven tractor with a front blade the likes of which I had never seen before.
While Dad was the main driving force behind the new home build, Mom could sure swing a mean hammer. I would come home from school and find her on the roof, alone, happily nailing roofing.
Once the house was good enough to live in Mom and Dad sold the (now somewhat renovated) shack to a family who had emigrated from Scotland. They moved the shack west on 103rd Avenue to approximately 159th Street.
Mamie and Stewart Ross became fast family friends and their children (although scattered) remain in touch.
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Dad had spent 10 years as a trapper in the far North (East and North of Great Slave Lake (at times at or near Clinton-Colden Lake) and he had the reputation that he was handy enough to do almost anything. One cold winter day he discovered the body of a wolverine in our front yard. There was a note attached from someone he didn’t know requesting that Dad skin the “SkunkBear” such that the pelt remained good enough for display. Dad did it and somehow got in touch with the fellow and passed over a pristine pelt at no charge.
Mom’s approach to life was much the same; sharing was a way of life. We kids never knew who we might find in one of the spare rooms in our new house because Mom would invite to live with us a troubled child or friend’s child going to a local school (mostly teenagers). As I recall, we made friends pretty quickly.
Around that same time, two things became top of mind for residents: What should be the official name of the town and the whole town was inundated with stray dogs.
A petition was circulating asking residents what they would like to see as the new name for the town. I remember laughing at a lot of responses – they put down ”DOGPATCH”!
There were stray dogs everywhere but I never had a problem with them. Mostly, they were hungry, uncared for, and forlorn but very wary.
Once on my way to school during an extremely cold period a dog crossed in front of me. He was obviously lacking a warm home since he had a very long pee icicle dragging on the snow as he walked. I tried but he was unapproachable.
There were many fairly affluent households in the town but lots of us who lived just at, or below, the poverty line had anywhere from massive backyard gardens to potatoes in the front yard. I remember Mom hoeing and weeding and watering. But she had the easy job! I had to dig the garden by hand (Dad helped).
Then came relief! Dad bought a rototiller and I celebrated – but too soon as it turned out. Dad used the new machine to till everyone else’s garden for a small fee and left me and my shovel in the lurch! A saving grace, however, was the great number of arrowheads my shovel dug up.
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Going to school was always interesting. I started grade one in the old Jasper Place middle (geographically central) school with Mrs. Schramm as my teacher. [I went to] grade two in the same school and learned how to make and throw snowballs at one another.
Grade three saw a number of us move to the new Canora School where a lovely and patient teacher helped me understand that it was okay to read and say “had had”. For a young student grappling with comprehensive English grammar, it was a revelation.
Grades four and five [were] at Canora again but most of those years were spent in hospital where I was introduced to, and fascinated by, Dr. Doolittle books. The fantasy of speaking to animals kept me entertained throughout my stays.
Grade four at Canora presented another revelation. I had returned to school just in time! We had a Christmas concert approaching, so were all herded into the hallway where we were, one at a time, asked to begin singing “Jingle Bells”. Those who were remotely in tune got sent to one area while those deemed “failures” were sent back to their seats. No explanations. We all had a friend or more in the other group. Why had this happened? No answer.
Grade six saw us move again all the way to Glendale School on 161st Street and 98th Avenue Then part way through the year – back to Canora we went.
It was during this year that I began hearing taunts, especially from other boys. Having spent 10 years trapping in the far north, Dad was familiar with the local clothing. He made Carol and me caribou-Hide parkas where we wore our mittens on strings that were strung across our shoulders and through our sleeves. They were especially handy if we wanted bare hands for snowball making and throwing. This also attracted teasing from the other kids since it apparently made us look like sissies.
This is also what I remember as the “Year of The Garlic.” Some of the boys decided to eat garlic cloves in order “to ward off colds.” This was unacceptable according to our male teacher. He warned us that discipline was awaiting those who chose to appear in class emanating the essence of the “stinking rose”. My hands still tingle when I remember his strength as he wielded the strap!
Grade seven was in what was then the Jasper Place High School on 156th Street and Stony Plain Road. I found that to be a tough year. I argued a lot with our teacher because I was so certain of my position. Something must have paid off however, since I was among a select few who did not have to write final exams.
Grade eight and another school on roughly 104th Avenue and 151st Street. It was an okay kind of year. An ex-friend who was older and tougher than I became the bully in my life. He quit school and disappeared at the end of the year.
The other notable for me that year was a bit of a game changer. Our teacher was a “rough and ready” kind of guy who always called us by our last names and threw things (documents, books, test results) onto our desktops.
I took a science test for which I had studied pretty hard and thought I had done okay. A few days later he was marching through the classroom aisles throwing the completed tests at each student loudly calling out their last name and result. He came to me and called, “MURPHY 100%. YOU’LL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN!” Well, he was right. The fourteen-year-old me wasn’t mature enough to handle that properly.
Grade nine was back to Canora where we were on the cusp of adulthood. We took classes on the second floor in the old Canora School with oiled wooden floors that creaked. This was also the year for “Shop” or “Home Ec.”. Shop was conducted in the old “first” school in the line along Stony Plain Road at 155th Street. The teacher was not trained to handle grade nine boys and his go-to discipline included a piece of 2”x4”.
Grades 10 through (part of) Grade 12 were spent at the old Jasper Place High on 156th Street. The boys parked our inhibitions and learned to play hopscotch in the basement.
We were then sent to Britannia at 160th Street and 104th Avenue for Grade 12 to finish our initial schooling. There we had a good basketball team which we named the REBELS.
Most of us graduated and went on to adult lives, moved around and lived in many places. However, a lot of us still live in (or close to) Jasper Place today.
This post is part of the Jasper Place Community History Project’s Community Stories series. These are stories about current and former community members presented mostly in their own words. We have not fact-checked these stories. As a result, there may be some discrepancies concerning dates, locations, spellings of names, and other details.
The series is curated by Paula E. Kirman and Colette Lebeuf.
