When the young couple from Hong Kong purchased the old, run-down gas station and convenience store between the highway and the country cross-road leading to our small Alberta town in 1982, all the locals had their doubts. “Won’t last a year.” “No business left in that place.” “Too run-down to fix up again.” and “They’ll never make it,” were just some of the comments heard at the town’s coffee shop.
But Patrick and Rita were tireless workers and vigorous young entrepreneurs. The floors, walls and shelving were cleaned and painted. The shelves were re-arranged and re-stocked. A large, new, well-lit sign appeared on the front top of the roof, reading “P and R SERVICE and GROCERIES” and the small sign on the door read “OPEN EVERY DAY 7AM-10PM. CLOSED NEW YEAR’S DAY.”
Several loads of crushed gravel from a local trucker were brought in, carefully levelled out and packed on their driveway and around the gas pumps. A new above-ground diesel tank and pump were installed, as well as a large propane tank with a small weighing and pumping shed for refilling BBQ and small propane cylinders.
Business grew quickly. The new owners were friendly and greeted all customers warmly as they entered, in their good, but heavily accented English. The word was that Patrick had serviced bank machines in Hong Kong while Rita had a good position at the airport. They had come to Canada with their life savings to start their own business in a country they knew very little about. They chose an enterprise they knew nothing about. They were risk-takers.
I stepped in for a few items one evening. Patrick had previously asked my name and remembered it as he welcomed me.
“Good evening, Walter,” he said “How are you tonight?” I liked them, as did all the townsfolk.
“Hello Dwayne,” he called out as another customer’s entrance rang a little bell. “How is Dwayne tonight?”
It was Dwayne Taschuck, one of a set of local identical twins. It was hard enough for most people to tell Don and Dwayne Taschuk apart.
After he left, I commended Patrick. “Patrick,” I said, “You and Rita have been here less than a year! Now I see you call each customer by name as they come in the door. That is very, very good. That’s remarkable.”
Patrick glanced quickly around the store and over his shoulder. He sidled a little closer to me and whispered “At first, very difficult. Everyone looks the same!”
I nodded solemnly, and tried not to laugh. The previous owner’s small residence was back a short distance behind the store. They had cleaned and repaired it somewhat but it was too old and too small for any significant renovation. One morning, a bulldozer demolished the house and pushed the wreckage to the far end of their property. Several more loads of gravel arrived and were levelled out smoothly where the old house had been. In the afternoon, a new, long mobile home was delivered. It was set down on cement blocks, the wheels removed and steps to both doors of the trailer were put in place. Before nightfall, they were moving their furniture, dishes and clothing, which they had stored in the old small garage that they had left standing, into their new home. It had all happened in one day; everyone was amazed and talking about it.
We had always purchased our groceries at our local store and we didn’t want to change. But we stopped often for one or two items and to visit or to buy a lottery ticket. They soon got to know our entire family. On one visit, Patrick checked my ticket.
“Walter,” he said excitedly as he turned around with the ticket. “Very good news today! Nobody is going to kidnap your kids! Nobody is going to phone you middle of night! Nobody is going to ask you for money everywhere you go! Today you are a very lucky man! You didn’t win the lottery!”
One day I asked Patrick if he had any marmalade. “Every once in a while, I get a craving for marmalade. Do you have any?”
Patrick got a strange look on his face. “I have marmalade,” he said. “But it is very old. Was here when we buy store. Very poor seller. We have the marmalade in box in garage. Maybe it is very old. In garage it gets very hot every summer, gets very cold every winter. Maybe it’s no good.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll try a jar. If it’s still good, I’ll buy the whole box. If it’s not, you and Rita come to my funeral.”
Rita was close by and had heard our conversation. “No Patrick, no!” she wailed. “Don’t sell old marmalade to Walter. No Patrick. That marmalade is too old.’’ I insisted. I’d just cautiously try it. Patrick returned from the garage wiping the dust off a small jar of Robertson’s Mixed Fruit Marmalade-Manufactured under Special Licence of Her Majesty the Queen, made in Edinburgh, Scotland. We couldn’t find a best-before date. Patrick gave me the sample jar. Rita wailed in protest.
The marmalade was just fine, and really tasty. Several weeks later I bought the whole case at a greatly discounted price. I kept all the matched empty bottles for small screws and cotter pins in my farm workshop. Marmalade apparently, can withstand extremes in temperature and never goes bad.
It was mid-February a year or two later when Patrick approached me in the store. He had a favour to ask of me. He explained the situation. The store was on county, not town, property. The town’s water supply was only available on the town property, just across the highway. For their trailer, they had installed an underground water storage tank that they filled with truck-hauled town water whenever it got low. For the service station and store, customers often asked for the use of a washroom. There was only an old, leaning, dilapidated outhouse sitting by itself about 100 feet from the store.
Patrick and Rita had contemplated building a small washroom addition to the store, but the unavailability of town water plus the extra cost involved with another cistern, pump, plumbing, and heating made the project too expensive. Patrick said that he and Rita had found a brand-new outhouse for sale in the Edmonton Journal. Where and how, in the Edmonton Journal newspaper, they had found a new outhouse for sale, I still don’t know!
Patrick said it sounded like what they needed to replace the original, Leaning Tower of Pisa outhouse. If they bought it, could I haul it home for them on my pick-up truck? It was mid-February, before calving started and the busy spring season on the farm. I couldn’t see why not, after chores, on a nice, late winter day.
A few days later Patrick phoned. He had arranged to meet with the seller and see the outhouse at the seller’s home in Edmonton on Thursday, right after lunch. Only the price was still in question. Could I go on Thursday after chores, arriving in Edmonton right after lunch? The weather sounded suitable, so I agreed.
Thursday, after the livestock was fed, I filled the truck with fuel, tossed some ropes into the pick-up box beside a six-foot length of 4x4 and drove to town to pick up Patrick. Patrick and Rita were in a serious discussion about which of them was going to accompany me on the trip, a situation I hadn’t even thought about. “Patrick, if you go,” said Rita, “you won’t get bargain! If I go, I’ll get bargain.”
“No,” said Patrick, “I’ll go! I’ll get a bargain.”
“No Patrick, you won’t get a bargain!”
Patrick was adamant. He was going and would “get a bargain.” He picked up a small cardboard box and we were off.
Edmonton was about one and a half hour’s drive from our town. We were just entering the long curve on the highway about one-quarter mile west of where we started. Patrick reached into the cardboard box. I heard a small snapping sound and then he was holding a bottle of Snapple up to my lips, some advance nutrient replenishment for the long journey ahead. I wondered what other goodies were in the box.
I don’t know Edmonton very well, but the address was on the north side of the North Saskatchewan River, not too far from Commonwealth Stadium, where I had been a few times before. The owner greeted us warmly, shook our hands and told us about his outhouse business. “I build outhouses for people for their cabins at the lake or wherever there’s no water and sewer. I custom build them to order, or I make ’em just like the one in the backyard. You might say it’s my show home model, completely finished. I’ve decided to quit the business—been doing it for 15 years—so I’m selling the floor model too. Won’t need it any more!”
He took us around to the backyard and there it was. A dark blue-painted outhouse with gleaming white corner trim boards. It was made of top-quality exterior ribbed plywood. Clear vinyl panels covered the low-pitched gable roof. Small square aluminum vents were above the door and on the back side. This was not your average outhouse.
Patrick opened a regular house door with a regular doorknob, a bathroom type that you could lock from the inside. We both looked inside. The walls were bathroom quality Barker board—a tile-looking finish—white squares with black outlines. The floor and seat area were covered with new, patterned, almond-coloured linoleum. It was a two-seater. The larger hole had a fancy-looking, greenish-coloured, unusual seat; the smaller hole had a regular white plastic seat. Expensive-looking chrome toilet paper holders were attached to the wall beside each seat. A brass coat hook was on the inside of the door. This was definitely not your average outhouse.
“Classy outhouse,” I said to the owner/builder.
“Well, I build ’em for doctors and lawyers for their getaway cabins. They like ’em a little fancy! They tell their friends and I get more business. I’ve never advertised. Kept me busy enough for an after-work hobby.”
Patrick had said nothing; he was busy checking and examining the outhouse. Finally he spoke to the owner.
“You say you want $400 for outhouse? 400 is a lot of money!”
“Well,” said the owner, “400 is my price. I know what I’ve got in it and the time it took. 400’s the price I quoted. I get $500 in the summer, plus a delivery charge, and they’re happy to pay it!”
Patrick paused. He pointed inside at the green toilet seat. “Crack and chip in seat,” he said.
“You’re right,” said the owner. “That seat came from some real fancy old Edmonton Hotel that they renovated. I think it’s pure marble—just feel the weight of it, see how heavy it is. You won’t find another one like it anywhere. But I can take it off and give you a white plastic one just like the other, if you want it.”
Patrick was silent for a few seconds. “Cobwebs in corners,” he said, pointing.
“Hell, that’s nothin’ ,” said the owner. “A broom or a mop’ll fix that.”
Patrick walked around the outside, slowly, searching. “There’s a bad crack in the roof,” he pointed.
“You’re right again,” said the owner. “We cracked it when we moved it. Bumped it against the garage. But I’ve got some leftover roof panels. I won’t need them anymore. I’ll throw in enough panels for a complete new roof, in case you crack another one on the way back to your place.”
Patrick was silent for a few more seconds. He looked around. “You have a fence in your backyard,” he pointed. “Hard to move the outhouse?”
“Not so hard,” said the man. “My son plays football for the Edmonton Huskies. He’s a couple of blocks away watching TV with his football buddies. I’d just give him a call and he and his friends will be here. Piece of cake.”
Patrick pondered. All were silent. “$300,” said Patrick.
“Nope,” the man said, “it’s $400, take it or leave it. I’ll get 500 for it in the summer, so you’re getting a deal already at 400. It’s 400, take it or leave it.”
Patrick thought some more. He took another long look at the little blue and white building. “I’ll buy the outhouse!” he said firmly.
Patrick slowly pulled out a wad of 20s and 10s from his pocket and started counting. I brought the pick-up around to the back lane. I took off the ropes, laid the 4x4 across the box of the truck and lowered the tailgate. A car arrived in the lane and four young football players got out. The owner brought out two 2x4’s about seven feet long. The football players laid the outhouse down, carefully, door up, on the 2x4s. Two football players on each side lifted, and like pallbearers, carried the outhouse casket to the small back gate. They lifted it up over the fence and put it on the truck over the extra roof panels the owner had already put out there. We placed the 4x4 I had brought along across the box of the truck so that the outhouse roof just cleared the cab, like a giant windjammer. The open bottom of the outhouse was just past and lower than the tailgate.
The pallbearers left.
The loading had taken about five minutes. The negotiations had taken considerably longer. We tied down the outhouse carefully and securely with the ropes I had brought along. Looking at the truck from the back, there was no doubt what kind of building we were hauling. We left just as the afternoon rush hour was starting. I drove slowly and cautiously. Everyone passed us, heads twisting around to look at us. “Just a farmer and a Chinese guy hauling an outhouse in the middle of winter.” I could read their lips.
Out of the city, back on our familiar highway, I speeded up. The outhouse rode like a — well, like a brick outhouse. We stopped once to check the ropes. They had really tightened up, but all were holding well.
I told Patrick what a well-built, wonderfully-finished outhouse he had purchased. It would be the very best in town.
Patrick was quiet. He opened the cardboard box again. It held chocolate bars, snacks, chips, peanuts, drinks. We indulged.
It was just about dark when we got back to the store. I backed the truck towards the old outhouse. We were untying the ropes when Rita arrived with a flashlight. She examined the outhouse. We slid it slowly down to the ground and set it upright. She examined it again. Patrick was quiet. “How much you pay, Patrick?” She asked, shining the flashlight in his face. Patrick didn’t answer.
“I told you. You would not get a bargain, Patrick! If I went I would get a bargain! But you didn’t get a bargain.”
I assured her it was a well-built, beautifully-finished outhouse. “There’s not a nicer outhouse in town,” I said.
Patrick was silent.
The next day, after chores, our hired man and I returned to P&R Service and Groceries. We moved the old outhouse well away from the hole and tipped it over. We drove in four pressure treated posts, sawed them off level and built a 2x6 frame around them. We manhandled the new outhouse into place and screwed it down very securely onto the frame. We went to the lumber yard/hardware store and got 120 feet of electrical wire, a switch and two light fixtures, one for the inside and one for the outside, above the door.
We said it was for the new outhouse at Patrick and Rita’s store. “Fanciest outhouse I’ve ever seen,” I said.
“Hmm,” said Milt, the manager. “I’ll have to have a look.”
We did the wiring and mounted the switch inside, by the convenience store door. We taped a small white cardboard sign above the switch. It read “OUTHOUSE LIGHT.” We were done before dark.
The P&R outhouse was the talk of the town for a few days. Folks stopped by at the store and went to look at the outhouse, even if they didn’t need to use it.
Everyone said it was the nicest one in town.