I’m Brian Alan Burhoe.
Writer. Goodhearted Curmudgeon. Celtic Christian. Creator of Civilized Bears.
ABOUT BRIAN ALAN BURHOE:
“A Graduate of the Holland College Culinary Institute of Canada, Brian Alan Burhoe cooked in Atlantic Coast restaurants and health care institutional kitchens for over 30 years. Holds a Nova Scotia Journeyman Cook’s Certificate. Member of the Canadian Culinary Federation, Canada’s largest federally chartered professional chefs’ organization. [1]
“Brian lives with his wife Mary Lee on the ragged Atlantic coast of Nova Scotia.
“Author Brian Alan Burhoe’s articles reflect his interests in Food Service (Home & Restaurant Recipes), Northern culture, Church history & Celtic Christian literature, imaginative fiction, wilderness preservation, animal rescue, service dogs for our Veterans — and more. His fiction has been translated into German & Russian.”
SOURCE: Suite 101 – Online Magazine and Writers’ Network. [2]
Life & Works of Brian Alan Burhoe – All About Us & More
Well, that sums it up in some ways.
My earliest memory is of walking behind our house and staring with awe into a sun-lit and dark-shadowed evergreen forest.
Our home was new and hand built by my father. Surrounded by the rolling hills of the Northern Appalachians. It overlooked a place my parents called “that’s Glen Falls down there.” I’m told the house stands there still.
And that forest? It was alive with birdsong and insects floating in the golden sunbeams and a red squirrel running up one tree and leaping over to another one, noisily scolding me. I didn’t know why it was so mad at me. Perhaps my unsquirrel-like behavior. And it seemed to me — so small and new and unlearned — that the rich-scented and brown-barked Forest with its bright splashes of green went on forever.
Family stories: like the time I was caught raiding the pea patch. First one pod, then another. Opening them and pulling out handfuls of sweet-tasting peas. Sure looks like I was enjoying ’em, eh? And then a startling “Brian!” Mum’s voice. Caught! I turned around. But she wasn’t glaring at me in anger. With the bright sun over her shoulder, she was looking down into the viewfinder of her Brownie box camera. Mugshot and booked — in the family album.
Mum did that a lot.
And there — in those earliest years — despite my precocious pursuit of pea pickin’ piracy — I was learning that if I worked hard and lived honest and loved the soil that gave me life and valued the freedom won for me with blood — I’d have a life lived large…
Brian Alan Burhoe: My Beginning
I was born in the foggy old seaport of Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada, on what I’m told was a glorious Thanksgiving Day. [3]
Dad (Albert Chester Burhoe, b. South Brookfield, Nova Scotia) had been a soldier in the Algonquin Regiment, Canadian Army in Holland — a farm boy, lumberjack and carpenter before he enlisted.
Mum (Edna Claxton, b. Hull, Yorkshire) grew up on the family canal boat and worked as a bus conductress on the double deckers during the War. She arrived in Canada (at the historic Pier 21, Halifax, of course) on January 7, 1946, with 300 other English war brides on the “Reunion Ship” Stavangerfjord.
When I was 4, my parents sold the house and we moved to West Yorkshire, England, for four years.
Mother’s Country…
Although I missed Canada — those deep conifer forests with all the wildlife, those rolling multicoloured hills of the Northern Appalachians — Yorkshire was a fantastic place for a lad. The wide green fields in summer with swaths of blue everywhere — the bluebells. The calm shining canals (“Don’t fall in the canal, Brian,” Mum would always say. And being a dutiful son, I never did).
Visiting my grandparents. A native of the Isle of Man, Gran was filled with welcoming hugs, fantastic folktales and old beliefs. I stopped in often, especially when I started a Mirfield school while still 5 — a regular break on my walk home. At a time when most grownups still talked long-faced and sad about the War just gone, Gran’s kitchen was a place of wonder and warmth.
Grandad was a combination of smiling good heart and strength. As a toddler he had fallen into a burning fireplace, badly injuring his fingers. Yet Charlie Claxton skippered the family canal boat in the Thirties, with wife, daughter and son (Norman) for crew. And served the War in the local Fire Brigade. I remember snapshots of him in uniform on shelves. He was proud of the Claxton family history in North Yorkshire, going back a thousand years to the Old Norse settlers (Vikings).
I remember being sent to the local Fish & Chip shop to carry home that traditional English supper wrapped in newspaper — savouring that hot delicious smell all the way home. Stopping at a sweet shop, where Mum would pass me the coins for a bag of fresh Rowntree’s chocolates and mints from a kindly old lady: “That’ll be tuppence ha’penny, Luv.” The aroma of hot mincemeat pies still brings back memories of our Olde English Christmastimes.
Travelling on double decker buses and steam-driven trains. To places with names like Ravensthorpe, Castleford, Brackenhall, Huddersfield, Calderdale, Knottingly, Saddleworth, Helmsley, Harrogate, Heckmondwike, Wakefield and the wild, windswept Yorkshire Moors.
Stone buildings. Old castles, often in ruins, always haunted…
“I saw the Green Lady right in there when I was a little girl. She’s been protecting something — or someone — in this castle for centuries…”
And old stone churches, chapels, abbeys — for some reason I loved the churches even more than the castles.
We visited the near-by Kirklees Priory Gate House several times, where Robin Hood had been betrayed by the Abbess Ursula. The bleak brown stone building seemed more like an old fortress than the home of a religious order of nuns. Inside, the walls were a dilapidated mess of broken wood strips and fallen plaster. Giving a sense of treachery and abandonment.
Once, Mum nodded toward some twisted green yew trees beyond the Gate House, saying, “Robin Hood’s grave is through those yews. Your Dad and I saw it during the War.” She described it as a time-worn burial place under “whispering trees.”
We only visited York Minster Cathedral (the largest Gothic cathedral in Northern Europe) one time. I had never dreamed that such a place, with its soaring square bell towers, and inside its high curved ceilings, imposing stone statues and fantastic sun-fired stained glass windows, even existed. But it seemed as a boy that I had somehow been there before, years earlier. It was an event that stirred a religious sense that has stayed with me.
York was my favourite town…
That day, we walked along the massive stone wall that surrounded Old Town and Mum pointed out the streets that the bus she conducted took during the War. Shaking her arms, she described keeping drunken soldiers in line on the upper deck (“But the Canadians were always gentlemen, and would help me with the rowdies. That’s how I met your Father”). And the near hits the bus had (in York and along shire roads) during nighttime Blackouts.
After being in York Minster, we walked along the narrow cobblestone streets of the medieval Shambles, where dark timbered houses spread out over us. It was a bright sunny day — yet a disturbing cold from the stones under my feet made me shiver.
I loved roaming, as we did every summer, through green rural England. The English countryside is a world of its own — one I later rediscovered in Tolkien’s Shire. “I am in fact a Hobbit in all but size. I like gardens, trees and unmechanised farmlands…” And even later, in Barsetshire, Wessex and the grounds of Blandings Castle. There were still patches of that glorious Once-Upon-a-Time England alive in post-War Yorkshire.
Every December we took the train to Heckmondwike. The big Christmas tree in Market Square always reminded me of Canada. We never missed the Mirfield Christmas Pantomime. Still remember the thrilling thump of the Giant hitting the stage in Jack and the Beanstalk.
Brian Alan Burhoe: Mirfield Memories…
Dad worked at the Ledgard Bridge Boat Yard in Mirfield. As a carpenter, he was one of the twelve-man work crew building wide beam canal boats. Constructed in the traditional West Country keel style going back centuries, they still used oak timbers and planking for the hull, pine boards for decking, all caulked with shredded hemp and tar. I got to see all of the boats that Dad helped build on launch days. Boy, I loved those dramatic launches!
I was there to watch the Gwendoline (shown in this old snapshot) go down the slipway on a warm August day in ’53. Recently restored by the National Waterways Museum at Ellesmere Port, Cheshire, the Gwendoline is the last surviving wooden canal boat built in Mirfield.
There were friends made there, by our stone row house on Shill Bank Lane, Mirfield. My best mates were Barbara Hirst, next door, and Barry Hartley, across the lane.
A knock on the door. “Can Brian come out to play?” And we spent the day making the new world our own.
Kicking an ancient brown soccer ball about with wild enthusiasm. Trainspotting: ignoring the new and lifeless diesel engines, but thrilling at the passing of those old living metallic dragons — the Steam Trains. Saying hullo to the happy pigs in the farm next door. Sneaking into the local textile mill — Barry and I laughing cheekily and running the gauntlet as grim-faced workers bellowed at us over the noisy clattering machines.
That mill had a brick chimney that seemed to rake the clouds. “We watched it almost catch a buzz bomb during the War,” said Mum. Daily, the chimney poured out dense black smoke that no doubt added to the occasional swirling smog bank that hid the English sky and tasted bitterly of sulphur.
On rainy days we stayed indoors, learning to read.
I taught myself to read in the British newspaper comic strips of the day. Old Eagle, Beano and Mickey Mouse Weekly comic tabloids we shared. And beloved Rupert Bear Annuals given each Christmas.
Biffo the Bear. Mickey, Donald and Goofy — watch out for the joyful Eega Beeva, strangest of friends. Dennis the Menace — each story might end with a fierce fatherly slap of a slipper to the bum, but Dennis was back to fight anew next issue. Dan Dare, Pilot of the Future (a kind of early Jean-Luc Picard), almost as heroic to English lads as our Dennis.
And the little white bear in his bright red jumper. Always up for a bold quest, Rupert Bear and his chums, Bill Badger, Podgy Pig, Algy Pug and Edward Trunk, invited us to follow them. There were a couple summers I spent hours with my face pressed against train compartment windows watching for the “Nutwood Station” sign. We never stopped there.
Age 7, I was taken to see Walt Disney’s Peter Pan, which intensified my love of fantastic adventure tales. We kids lived out that movie on the playgrounds for months after. Another favourite was Hans Christian Andersen with Danny Kaye. I could sing the songs from both films. Also have a vivid memory of the jousting scene from Ivanhoe.
On Guy Fawkes Night every November, families from the row house would gather around a big bonfire in the yard to roast potatoes, throw a helpless Guy dummy on the hot crackling flames and set off a great display of fireworks. Big booming bursts of sparkling colours, the smell of black powder and Patriotic cheers: “Remember, remember, the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot…”
While in England, I experienced the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth. It was a bright colourful celebration in a time that needed it. And an event that made me a confirmed Royalist.
Barbara’s parents had a newfangled television set and we watched the Coronation live. Just weeks later our school went to the theatre where we watched it big-screen and in colour. I cheered when our scarlet-coated Mounties appeared on their black horses. Elizabeth seemed so young. She was beautiful.
I wasn’t aware then just how hard times were in England. I’d heard the word “rationing” mentioned now and then, in dark dejected tones. Didn’t know what rationing was and that it was still happening. Then Dad was talking about moving. He wanted to go to New Zealand. But a normally quiet Brian remembered our Canada. And made it clear that if we didn’t return to that forevergreen land of my young memories, they’d have a bloody rebellion on their hands.
“Brian, we’re going back to Canada!” Through Liverpool’s Lime Street Train Station with its vast Victorian Era iron and glass roof and the rows of ancient huffing locomotives — and onto the awesome ocean liner Empress of Australia for our week-long voyage.
The entire ship smelling of fresh paint, the Empress was a glorious adventure of exploration (we kids launched constant expeditions from the highest deck topside and into every “No Passengers, Please” corner below decks and back up the grand staircase into the main dining room). Great food (waking up to a voice outside our stateroom door, “First call for breakfast!”). Music (four years earlier, going to England, the band was always playing the Third Man Theme; coming back, it was Once I Had A Secret Love). Laughing until the tears rolled the night of a fierce Atlantic storm when, watching the movie It Grows On Trees, a woman slid in her chair across the tipping floor in front of the big screen saying, in a most proper Upper Class voice, “Oh my, Oh my, DO something!” We applauded.
Brian Alan Burhoe: My Home and Native Land…
The first thing I noticed when Uncle Isaac drove us from the trans-Atlantic passenger terminal was the number of cars. It seemed that the streets of Saint John were swarming with automobiles. They were everywhere. The roads of post-War Yorkshire had been relatively empty. Although, as we drove to the house in Coldbrook we were to rent, I wondered where are all the big red Double Decker buses? And adults on bicycles?
Settled back in the Dominion of Canada, I grew up in harness racing country northeast of Saint John. Lots of horses, stables, fields and forests. You could earn a quarter by walking a horse after a race at Exhibition Park Raceway. Early next morning after a race night, we kids used to crawl under the grandstand seats, searching for lost coins among the torn betting slips, candy wrappers and foil potato chip bags. Trickle-Down in action.
Along with newspaper route money and the two cents each you could get for collecting pop bottles along the roads, I made my own allowance.
Well, once I lost my Evening Times-Globe tally book in a heavy thunderstorm. Word must have gotten around and grownups would look me in the eye and say, “Brian, I paid you for our papers last Saturday.” I knew they hadn’t. No answer to my knock last week when I’d put their Weekend newspaper between their doors. But, Bless ’em, they were teaching a ten-year old boy a necessary lesson in life. Value the handful of true friends you’ll meet in life.
With pals: playing softball, climbing big hardwood trees to the top (getting back down was the challenge — remember?), prowling the Northwoods trails (mostly abandoned logging roads) and watching Westerns were our passions. Sure loved “them old Westerns.”
In the darkening summer evenings, when the cows were in the Queen family barn, we got together — boys and girls — to play softball in the lower pasture. Somebody always brought a bat, grass-stained ball and catcher’s mitt. A few other gloves appeared, cracked but shiny with saddle soap. The rest of us played bare-handed, whooping, teasing and laughing. Dried cow patties made excellent bases — usually. Sometimes those patties weren’t completely “cured.”
In haying season, we used to help out by pitchforking hay up onto a horse-drawn wagon, and riding the piled hay back to the barn. No pay — we did it just for the joy of doing it.
Back then I thought that things were never gonna change…
I was reminiscing with my brother, Ray, the other day about boyhood days on the Golden Grove Road, and I said, “Most Saturdays, I used to take the bus into Saint John — or walk if I didn’t have enough money — and meet friends in King’s Square. We were all just getting televisions back then and going to the movies was still the big event in our lives.
“For 25 cents each, we could see the Afternoon Matinee at the Paramount or the Strand Odeon Theatre — sometimes a Disney or more often Westerns, old and new. Gene Autry. Gabby Hayes. Roy and Trigger. We all liked John Wayne. If you’ve never seen Rio Bravo, catch it. There were those stupendous Ray Harryhausen fantasies. And Gordon Scott was Tarzan then. Stuff like that.
“Favourite movie from that time? That would be Disney’s White Wilderness, I guess. The Nature doc filmed in the Canadian Arctic.
“It was always an event when a Disney film came to town. And the excitement over this one was in the air — as real as the smell of fresh buttered popcorn. Even the big colourful movie posters were part of the adventure.
“Hundreds of us lined up to get in, from the bright glass doors under the big marquee of the Famous Players Paramount Theatre, around the corner of the old Dominion Stores and down Sydney Street.
“Loved that movie! I went again the next Saturday. Extra early to get in first, so I could get a plush seat right in the front row. Always watched it later when it was shown on our little black and white TV. Didn’t know at the time that the rumour was that those live lemmings were being tossed over the cliff by film crew members. The human hands were edited out of the shot. Makes that scene doubly disturbing.
“I was nine when we moved into that little two-bedroom house on Golden Grove Road that would be your first home. There was a wonderful freshwater spring across the road, pouring into a big wooden barrel set in the ground. I’ve never tasted water so pure. In summer, it was surrounded by luscious green watercress. One of my chores, as well as cutting kindling and piling firewood by the cookstove every evening, was to carry that water home in a galvanized bucket and top off two big dairy milk cans in the back sun porch. It took a few trips.
“Eventually Dad dug a well in the cellar and installed a cast iron hand-pump over Mum’s kitchen sink. I really liked that ol’ pump — I felt like we were living in a Western movie. When I worked the handle I used to call Mum ‘Ma,’ which drove her crazy. There was a greying outhouse in the back yard.
“You may recall old John Thomas and his sidekick Red. Remember, John bought, sold, traded and stabled horses in the barn next door? An old horse trader in every sense of the word.
“Some of those horses were gentle as cream-fed kittens. Some were wild and surly — they’d crowd or kick you if you weren’t firm with them. Occasionally, one would break through John’s barbed wire fences — usually a big work horse — and get into our vegetable garden.
“There was that night when two stallions got into a fight in the upper pasture. We found one next morning under a crabapple tree with its throat torn open.
“John and Red were sometimes so drunk or hung over that Donnie Queen and I volunteered to clean out the stalls, fork down fresh hay from the loft and tend the horses.
“Most of those horses welcomed us because we talked to them, curry-combed them properly and dipped into the oat bin a few more times than old John wanted.
“We loved doing it. Hung around there anyway. And, yes, John had a beautiful pony — which I guess was our payment.
“Donnie was amazing with horses. His dream was to spend his life working with ’em. He did.
“No, I never learned Red’s last name. Short and wiry, wasn’t he? He lived in the small bunk house next to the barn, where he kept a worn Western saddle and a bull whip. Red seemed like a character out of the Old West.
“The ghost? Yes, I saw it twice. The first time I woke up to see it leaning over your crib. Found it interesting. No sense of danger, just curiosity. Though I’m sure that on occasional nights something else dark and vicious came up out of the marshy corner of the pasture outside our bedroom window. Saw that too. Donnie told me that we had rented that little house much longer than other families; stories were being told of hauntings. Maybe I’ll revisit all that someday in fiction.
“I was thirteen when we moved from there. We moved around so much in those years, seems like I was always making and saying goodbye to friends.
“Last time we were back in New Brunswick and visited the Golden Grove Road, it was all gone. All those pastures filled with playful horses, those green fields, red barns, patches of sacred woodland — devastated by grinding machines and replaced by rows and rows of cold smooth streets and lifeless lookalike dwellings. A big apartment building squats now where we used to live. I wonder if they’ve seen the ghost.
“Glen Falls schoolhouse? At least they tore that old brown building down long ago, didn’t they? Or maybe it just collapsed in a cloud of choking dust from dry rot. Funny thing is,” I concluded, “I never think of those dear old golden rule days, although I’m sure that I went to school once in a while. Yes, I must have, because I came home enough times with hands sore and swollen from another strapping…” [4]
School days, school days…
Well, my time served in that institution wasn’t a complete loss. It was in our elementary readers and school library that I discovered the wild animal stories of Charles G D Roberts, my first literary hero.
Sir Charles took me into the very same New Brunswick forests that lived right outside those dull classrooms and told me stirring stories of wolves and bears and ravens and eagles and lynx and moose. His books had naturalistic animal illustrations, mostly by Charles Livingston Bull.
Other literary heroes found me over the next few years: Grey Owl, Jack London, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Hal Foster, Ernest Thompson Seton, E Pauline Johnson, Robert W Service, George Marsh, Zane Grey, Tom West, Jules Verne, Otis Adelbert Kline, Andre Norton, Leigh Brackett, Farley Mowat and Pierre Berton.
But you’ll be free, and just like me…
Dad worked then for the Provincial Department of Highways.
Sometimes, on hot summer days, I used to go over to the Highways yard in Coldbrook to hang out. The yard smelled of new lumber, creosoted timbers and old oil. The guys had lots of yarns to tell an eager kid. Men like Harry Norris and Art McQuade and Henry Bouchard and Burpee Saunders.
Most of the Provincial workers back then were war veterans. Dad had been involved in the Liberation of Holland, and — after being picked off by a German sniper in the bloody battle of Hochwald Forest [5] — he was in Stalag 11B, northern Germany. Other guys had been in Holland. At least two more had fought in Normandy. Other men in Italy and Korea. They were the nicest bunch of guys I ever knew. Honest and true and kind as only combat veterans can be. [6]
And then we moved to Suburbia, which is no place for a country boy…
The Works of Brian Alan Burhoe
My first published work was a Science Fiction short story, “Ornithanthropus,” way back in ’71 – IF Magazine, Dec, 1971, illustrated by the immortal Jack Gaughan and edited by Ejler Jakobsson. [7]
It was reprinted in a couple World’s Best Science Fiction stories of the Year anthologies (edited by Brian Aldiss/Harry Harrison and Lester del Rey). It’s since been translated and published in German and Russian.
Strange thing is, I continue to get emails from people who vividly remember that story, many saying how it inspired them to write their own Winged Man yarns. And to draw scenes from the story (like Scott E, who wrote, “I must have drawn hundreds of them all over Jr. High School papers and notes.”)
And I’ve had an email from the Rights Center saying they had a client interested in the movie-TV rights.
You can see more about my first story, as well as read the complete story for FREE, at ORNITHANTHROPUS — the Winged Human in Dream, Myth, Religion & Literature
If you’re a fan of imaginative literature, and want to read my online tale “Someday There Will be Centaurs,” Click Here!
I sold other stories through the 70′s, including a yarn in Fantastic Stories that got me in trouble with Robert E. Howard (Conan the Barbarian) fans: “His Last and First Women“ in FANTASTIC STORIES/Science Fiction & Fantasy, March, 1974, illustrated by John T Swanson II, edited by Ted White.
“His Last and First Women” introduced the Fantasy World of Witagg. More Witagg yarns were accepted by publications like SPECTRUM: The Tri-Annual Review, from the Virginia Commonwealth University (“Greenfriars and White Cats” — retitled “Tundra Quest”) and have later appeared online.
To see a selected narrative set in the Wonder-filled World of Witagg, go to WITCH CHILD Part 1: A Girl Named Feef…
I’ve also had a passion since childhood for Northwestern lore, history and fiction: Mounties, huskies, wolves, and the Great Northwoods. Be sure to read my popular online short story WOLFBLOOD, a Northwestern yarn in the Jack London Tradition ==> WOLFBLOOD: A Wild Wolf, A Half-Wild Husky & A Wily Old Trapper.
“THE BOY WHO WAS RAISED BY BEARS! A NATIVE NORTH AMERICAN STORY RETOLD & FREE TO READ…” To See My Complete Folktale, Go To ==>>
Muinej The Bear’s Cub – A Mi’kmaq Bear Story Retold
My exploration of the common motifs of dreams, mythology and fantasy fiction came out of a long conversation with writer/editor Lin Carter at Detroit Tri-Con in August, 1972. That fascination with imaginative literature has led to a lifelong interest (and articles) on dream study, Christian mysticism, and modern mysteries. [8]
My wife, Mary Lee, delivers the rural mail down back country roads for Canada Post; she’s been doing it for over thirty years now. She’s a proud member of CUPW (Canadian Union of Postal Workers) and has served as president of her Local. The Struggle Continues!
When Mary Lee finds the time, she works on her popular RAGGED ISLAND STUDIO Website – Maritime Folk Art, Teddy Bears, Knit Fashions & Miniature Knitting, which includes her acrylic paintings of Lighthouses, Seascapes and Animals.
Latest News! Mary Lee was invited to display some of her Folk Art at the 2024 Folk Art Festival in Lunenburg. I’ve always loved her colourful paintings, whimsical images of place and memory. She showed all-new artwork…
NOVA SCOTIA FOLK ART FESTIVAL Memories: Outsider Art & Seascapes by Mary Lee Burhoe
Her recipes published in Canadian Living still bring positive feedback.
Mary Lee’s the true love of my life and my happiest days have been with her, including…
Our kids, Gregory and Jennifer, get home when they can — “don’t forget to call your mother.”
Jennifer has built a popular following with her Cat Art and is expanding her subject matter.
See portfolios of some of her early artwork on Pinterest: LESS THAN PURRFECT ILLUSTRATIONS – Cat Art & Others and at Haiku Art Shop – Original Whimsical Art.
Jen is currently working on commissioned art for clients and you can see her LATEST ART at ETSY – Kota & Khloe – Art, Collectibles & Gifts.
Greg is finding time for his creative writing, first publishing his SciFi novel SECTOR STORM. Then ELVES OF THE WHITE OAKS.
“In another time, America is still young…” His latest published book is VENDETTA RIDE: The True Story Of Wyatt Earp. Artwork by the Author. CLICK HERE NOW To Read VENDETTA RIDE: The True Story of Wyatt Earp!
See Greg’s latest work and Coming Attractions in progress CLICK HERE NOW To See All of Greg’s AMAZON Appearances, Including in the popular BARDS & SAGES QUARTERLY Magazine (July 2022 issue).
They’ve grown up, of course, but like a doting father — or just doting — I treasure earlier times of not that long ago…
UPDATE (December, 2021): Recently, we decided to sell our beloved secluded country home…
Jennifer’s been trying for years to get us to retire and move down to an apartment near her in the City. It’s been a hard decision. We’ll miss delivering Her Majesty’s Mail down those long country roads. We’ll miss our restored farmhouse that’s been our retreat for these many years. And miss our beautiful forested land and all the wildlife that visits us here.
But the idea of spending full-time at our creative endeavours is looking darned attractive. The time has come.
You’ve gotta read Mary Lee’s Memories of a Rural Mail Driver: From Kitchen Post Offices & Steam Trains to Personal Data Terminals
“I made up for my dog-less boyhood by bringing home kittens. Always the lonely, leftover little kitten that nobody else wanted. Like Hunter, a gentle and loving (with me) stub-tailed grey Manx cat, who liked to bring me mice from the horse barn next door.” See my Farley Mowat Tribute for details.
Once I was a grownup and married, I finally got to add dogs to my life….
Now an owner of dogs like huskies and German shepherds, I’ve written numerous articles on canine history, training and feeding — we prepare our shepherd’s meals from scratch.
This interest led to my writing articles on Huskies and other dogs used by our historic North-West Mounted Police. Which led to my published studies of our Canadian Mounties in History, Literature and Hollywood.
My study of the Great Writers of Mountie Fiction and Northwestern Literature has drawn a lot of feedback and links from University and Research sites, including Wikipedia.
As well as Western writers like James Reasoner and a Nashville producer…
“Hi. This is Mel Shaw from Nashville. Is Brian home?”
With the RCMP Veteran’s Association, I became part (Cultural Historian) of the Creative Team fashioning “SCARLET GLORY: Honouring the Heritage of Canada’s Mounted Police” — a multi-media project created and produced by Mel Shaw. Mel started out as the manager/producer of the Western rock band, THE STAMPEDERS. He was the Founding President of the Canadian Academy of Recording Arts & Sciences and the Juno Awards. With his wife Fran, Mel went on to run Mel Shaw Music Platforms (MSMP), based in Nashville.
SCARLET GLORY was a natural continuation of Mel’s previous DREAMS OF GOLD: THE KLONDIKE Project. Mel’s original multi-media production had been the successful AMERICA’S COAL MINERS, with Johnny Cash.
To get a taste of what I’ve done for the SCARLET GLORY Tribute, see The GREATEST AUTHORS OF NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE FICTION
I’ve been asked to write a Mounted Police novel. If I can find time away from my Civilized Bears yarns, eh?
So there’s something of myself.
Looking back, I see common threads and themes.
I’ve made a living as an honest workingman (Working Family and proud of it!). Including Highways labourer, Dairy farm worker, Fish plant night cleaner, Down-home cook and Rural Mail contractor. And a constant writer.
I’ve always wanted to be close to the living forest. There’s joy in those cool clean woodlands, even spirituality. I am born of a people who lived along the Northern Coastlands: the wild seas to one side, and the Eternal Forest to the other. It’s in my blood, ancient, timeless.
And written Stories — about wildlife and wilderness adventures and spiritual questers and goodhearted gadabouts. Assorted Articles. And, yes, even this Patchwork Memoir. [9]
For a look at the most influential and important writers in my early life, see:
MY HEROES HAVE ALWAYS BEEN WRITERS – Brian Alan Burhoe
NOTE ON IMAGES: Coloured pencil drawing City of York 1944 by Edna Burhoe. Rupert Bear panel drawing by Alfred Bestall, 1952 Annual, compliments of RupertAnnuals.com. Old posters from my rediscovered friend Rick Steeves. Photos on this page are from our family albums — wedding picture by Cliff Bangham, Little Harbour, Nova Scotia. “SCARLET GLORY” graphic by Mel Shaw Music Platforms (MSMP), Nashville, Tennessee.
JOTTINGS: Footnotes, Afterthoughts, Ramblin’ Rants & Explications…
“When writing the story of your life, don’t let anyone else hold the pen.” – Drake
[1] “…member of the Canadian Culinary Federation, Canada’s largest federally chartered professional chefs’ organization” sounds a bit over the top, eh? I was just a Down-home cook who took pride in putting out a good plate. Always looking for a smile.
“Do you often cook at home, Brian?” Not like I used to. I spend more time at the keyboard now than the stove. But I’ve still got my fave recipes, and turn on the stove to prepare ’em once in a while. What are my favourites? Where did I learn to cook them? SEE: My Fave Atlantic Seafood Recipes: Lobster chowder – Atlantic Scallops au Gratin – Baked Stuffed Haddock.
Now my Mary Lee, she’s a natural country cook and baker. To See Our Most Popular Recipes, Go To SUGAR & SPOUSE: Mary Lee and Brian’s Favourite Home & Restaurant Recipes.
Forced to retire from commercial cooking when I was diagnosed with RADS (Reactive Airways Dysfunction Syndrome) occurring at my workplace, I had some hard lessons to learn. My ensuing long battles with Nova Scotia Worthless Comp and the insurance company defalcators — or is the word defecaters? — is a common enough story, I guess. Lord have mercy on the Working Man.
I renewed my private contract with Canada Post. And had the great joy of going with my Mary Lee, delivering the rural mail down those wild gravel roads. Country healing.
And I became a writer full time.
Back then, if you wanted to make an income from writing online articles, stories and content at a journalistic level, you looked for a Writers’ Marketing service that paid up front. For me, it was Demand Studio, who placed my articles on such sites as Ask.com, eHow and Livestrong. Worked for me when I needed it!
WRITERS UPDATE: In 2024, it looks like Content Marketplaces have just withered away. And been totally replaced by Self-Publishing (i.e. Kindle and Blogging). Nowadays it’s all about Quality and Originality. Originality gets found. Good Writing Gets Found!
“How do I get found?”
Today, it’s all about SHARING.
When I find a great story, a fascinating article, just downright uplifting writing, I SHARE it! With me, it’s on Facebook, LinkedIn, Pinterest and sometimes the OldBlueBird. Other folks also SHARE My stuff on Reddit, Tumblr, Blogger and even Xing.
I’ll SHARE You! You SHARE Me!
The GOOD News is — It’s All FREE!
[2] For a more complete List of my Articles by Publisher, see my Complete (Almost) Online Nonfiction of Brian Alan Burhoe.
LIFE OF (A) BRIAN…
[3] I learned years later that I was supposed to be named “John.” Family pressure was on.
The first-born male of each generation of Burhoes (such as me) was expected to be named in honour of the very first Burhoe: born on Guernsey Island in the English Channel, loyalist Jean Brehaut joined the British Army in 1776 at age 20 (his name being misspelled “John Burhoe” in the regimental records) and mustered out of the Royal Nova Scotia Volunteer Regiment in 1783 to settle locally, keeping his new name.
But Dad, being the rascal of the family, settled on “Brian” instead. In a letter to Mum, my Manx Gran apparently had written it was a “good Celtic name,” going back to Brian Boru, King of Ireland, and the Druids before that. Dad went with it. When I got to England, Gran told me that, on her side, we were descended from Druids and told me old tales, some I’ve never come across since. I was meant to be a Brian.
(To all of you other Brians out there, I raise a cold can of Moosehead beer and salute you! We made it, eh?)
You’ll find my Alan namesake elsewhere on this site.
For more, see “BURHOE FAMILY HISTORY: the First Burhoe Lived a Long Long Life — A Look at the Burhoe Family Tree from One Green Branch.” BURHOE FAMILY HISTORY: the First Burhoe Lived a Long Long Life
School’s out Forever…
[4] “Back in Canada, I came home enough times from school with hands sore and swollen from another strapping…”
Not that I was a young criminal. I was too Conservative and honest in upbringing and spirit to be that. Dad was an old soldier and older Hard Shell Baptist and taught me those values.
No, at that time being caught using a ballpoint pen was a strapping offence — we still had to use fountain pens. Being tardy? Strapping. Talking in class? Strapping. Asking questions? Oh yeah. Laughing out loud was a major offence.
But at least I knew my offences. In England, age 6, I had been taken to the headmaster’s office, bent over his desk and given a proper caning. And my form master (home room teacher) stood quietly in the corner with his arms crossed, watching. I never did understand my crime. (Something I said. Maybe talking like a Canadian, eh? Though I must have sounded summat like a real Yorkshire tyke by then — I certainly did two years later back in Canada. Or maybe they just wanted to look at my bonny bare bum). Although I began to comprehend why British schools were surrounded by high stone walls topped with barbarous wrought iron spearheads.
I’ve heard that moving from place to place in your formative years is supposed to be great at bringing out your inner Outsider, maybe even sparking creative urges.
Don’t know about that, but I learned early on that the new lone kid with the strange accent always draws the ignorant skulking gangs. The worst skulkers were teachers, the daft Wazzocks: “I can’t understand your stupid English accent, Brian,” proclaimed Mr McW. Classroom laughter.
But I never showed them my pain. The more the leather strap stung, the more the fire burned my palms, the more I knew that by the time I got home I wouldn’t be able to pick up anything, the more I stared them in the eye, You’ll never break me.
Our Sunday School, where all may sing…
Update: Since writing the above, I’ve been asked, “Didn’t you like ANY school?” Had some angry responses.
Well, yes. Sunday school. Friends took me to every Sunday school around, every denomination. They seemed to think I needed it.
When I first started school in Canada, kids would come up to me and ask, “Are you Catholic or Protestant?” I didn’t know that in Saint John, in the mid-Fifties, this was still an imperative question. Sides had been picked. Sometimes I said Protestant and sometimes I said Catholic. Which confused the kids. I asked Mum and she said Anglican, which confused me. Especially when Dad said Baptist.
I got to read the New Testament on my own in one Sunday school. An event that began my process of discovering the Story of Jesus on my own — and interpreting it my way. I was taught to cross myself in another religious class, which I still do on occasion (it may have been High Anglican).
And at another church, in the evening with folks of all ages, I think I was expected to sing and dance in the aisle. I’m not certain which church that was. It was on the south side of Saint John’s King’s Square, directly opposite my treasured Famous Players Paramount Movie Theatre.
I loved those Sunday school classes. Thing is, they weren’t taught by teachers who were just putting in time or on their own power trips, but by Mothers. And Mothers who seemed to have an interest in things Biblical. I was given little pamphlets with dramatic passages and illustrations: David, with his simple slingshot, facing the fierce Goliath — Jesus flinging over the tables of the greedy moneylenders and chasing them out of God’s House. And when I asked questions, I received smiles and encouragement.
St Bartholomew’s Anglican Church & Hall, Coldbrook, NB, 1957
Age 10 or so, our music teacher (a separate breed) decided that I was a boy soprano with an “angel’s voice.” With Mum’s agreement, she trained me and took me to a number of young musicians competitions, with recitals in Saint John and the finals in Fredericton. I didn’t mind singing, because I loved the music (“Maria gratia plena…”), but quickly discovered I didn’t like standing alone on big stages in bigger auditoriums. And the nighttime competitions always made me sleepy. While the women and men on the adjudication panels always said nice things, I was glad the next year when my voice began to change. Though I still get goosebumps when I hear Ave Maria and wish I could still sing it.
At age 11, I was given a Holy Bible by my Aunt Ada and Uncle Jim. Which I read. Have taken that Christmas gift with me wherever I’ve gone. It’s on my night table now.
And — after a free, gladsome few years working in the real world — I was accepted for the Holland College Culinary Course, training under Chef Leo LeClair, a genial and talented master cook. So I can truly say that I enjoyed my last year of school.
For more SEE: A gentle, soft-spoken and knowledgeable chef…
[5] The Battle for the Hochwald Gap is known as one of the “Greatest Tank Battles” — not a good place to be for infantry soldiers like the Algonquins.
As I said to my brother Ray, “Dad’s discharge paper, under Marks or Scars, says ‘two small scars back of neck.’ Actually they were a nickle-sized round scar on the front, over his collarbone, and a bigger jagged scar on his back, where the German sniper’s bullet exited with bits of bone.
“I can still remember him hitting his own left arm in growling frustration when it would ‘freeze’ on him while he was trying to work. Damage from his shattered collarbone and hasty first aid from a German on the battlefield. Must have been a bad feeling – coming to and looking up at a guy in a grey uniform and that distinctive coal scuttle helmet!”
To read more, see OUT OF MY FATHER’S SHAVING BOX: Dad’s War, Algonquin Regiment & Liberation of Holland
[6] I had the good fortune of working with most of these guys years later. My first grownup job was working for the New Brunswick Dept. of Highways, and I loved it. Hard work but easy duty.
To read more, see Working on the Highway – Blasting through the Bedrock.
Yes — Outdoors, hardhat, lots of heavy equipment and those guys. Still the same great crew I knew as a boy, filled with aches and pains and good humour.
Sometimes, when they had enough drink in, they gave you grim glimpses of War you’ll rarely read about and never see in the movies. Glimpses I’ve not ever forgotten. To a man, they had all been banged up one way or another by War. But not one, including Dad, received any pension.
Our Liberal Mackenzie King government had set up demob boards whose entire purpose was to deny benefits to as many returning soldiers as possible. Often, the veteran was given a cursory medical exam and “No complaints” was just written in his records without the vet’s knowledge. You’re just a Working Man, get back to work. No pension, disability benefits or VLA loans for you. Those were for men with leather briefcases and cozy connections.
Thus I also learned about a common Canadian character: the Forgotten Soldier.
Support Our Veterans! And their families! It’s never too late, eh?
[7] My ’70s works were mostly published as by “B Alan Burhoe.” My later fiction and non-fiction has been written and published as by Brian Alan Burhoe.
[8] To read more about that yarn with author/editor Lin Carter, and its influences on me, go to DETROIT TRI-CON 1972: The First Comic Con – & I Was There
[9] These Memoirs were originally published May 30, 2012. Updated through the years, the latest on August 12, 2024. Copyright © 2012 to 2024 by Brian Alan Burhoe & Mary Lee Burhoe for original material.
This is a hodgepodge of memories thrown together over 12 years. This is my skeleton. My blood, flesh and soul are out there in my fiction. Thanks! Live Free, Mon Ami!
– Brian Alan Burhoe CIVILIZED BEARS
