3/4/2017 Loving memories live on for long-gone Cassiar: Former residents of the northern B.C. asbestos mining town are planning a reunion with the help of modern tech… All databases Change databases Canadian Newsstream Basic Search Advanced Search Publications Browse About 1Back to results More like this + Loving memories live on for long-gone Cassiar: Former residents of the northern B.C. asbestos mining town are planning a reunion with the help of modern technology.: [Final Edition] Bramham, Daphne. The Vancouver Sun; Vancouver, B.C. [Vancouver, B.C] 08 Mar 2001: A5. Full text Abstract Abstract/Details Translate Hide highlighting Cassiar was that amorphous thing called a community. Community is a word that's been devalued of late as every lobby group adds it to its name. But Cassiar was a community in the old sense of fellowship and sharing. For better or worse, everybody knew everybody else. Everybody pitched in when needed. Everybody had a place and a sense of belonging. [Laurie Bremner] recalls gossip, liquor flowing freely to teens, a nasty union fight and being sick every spring from allergies to dust and bee pollen. Yet she also recalls her heartache when she left Cassiar . " Cassiar was not my family or my home, it was my existence." [Herb Daum] created the virtual community of Cassiar after his town was bulldozed and he hopes it might lead to some tangible things, like preparing kids growing up in resource towns for the possibility their towns will disappear. But he'd also like the provincial government to mark the place where his hometown once stood with a cairn or monument. Full Text Translate To an outsider, there wasn't much to recommend Cassiar, B.C. Sure, it was in the rugged northern wilderness, which appeals to those who don't mind having just one road in and out of town, long, dark and cold winters and summers when the sun scarcely sets before it rises. But the town itself was uninspiring and, for visitors like me, the upwind pile of tailings from the underground asbestos mine was troubling. Cassiar was not much more than two churches, a school, a post office, a curling rink, a small grocery and few other amenities. People lived according to their status. The managers lived in ranch- style houses with large lawns. Unionized employees lived in bungalows they rented for $30 a month. And if you'd just blown into town for one of the $70,000-a-year jobs in the mine, there were co- ed bunkhouses at the far edge of the town. In July, 1992, Sun photographer Denise Howard and I spent a week there --the last week before the power was shut off, the houses relocated or bulldozed and the entire site emptied but for the slag heap (which has since been landscaped). Security guards were posted at the entrance to deter looters. There were only about 150 people left -- mostly women packing up. Most men had already moved on to new jobs in other mining towns or to search for work. The week was one long potluck supper in the community centre, where everyone gathered between bouts of packing. Women cooked turkeys they'd been saving in the freezer for a special event and defrosted sausage rolls. There were angel food cakes and tears. One of the mementos I have is the Cassiar Country Cookbook, published in 1983 when the town still had a future and a population of 1,200. The cookbook was published so residents could buy more equipment for the new Jade Mountain Gymnastics Club. The multicultural mix of recipes reflected the community's mix -- Grandma's borscht, Cumberland pie, Belgian cabbage stew, holopchi (cabbage rolls) and curry. The recipes are also a tribute to the creativity of cooks who dealt with the limitations of non- perishables and the realities of local produce. There are recipes for barbecued moose, sauteed grouse and French-Canadian stew that calls for 3 lbs. of beef, moose, caribou, pork or pheasant. At the back, there's a buying guide for community dinners. Turkey dinner for 250? Start with seven turkeys, 75 lbs of squash, 10 bunches of celery and 44 pies. Cassiar was that amorphous thing called a community. Community is a word that's been devalued of late as every lobby group adds it to its name. But Cassiar was a community in the old sense of fellowship and sharing. For better or worse, everybody knew everybody else. Everybody pitched in when needed. Everybody had a place and a sense of belonging. It was that loss of community that Cassiarites (as they call themselves) mourned that week and still mourn. After the townsite was bulldozed, Cassiar continued to exist in the hearts of those who lived there as an idea of what a community should be. So strong was this pull of community that for a while even I was briefly kept in the circle of displaced. For three or four years, I occasionally heard from a couple of the people as they continued to drift in search of a new community to replace the one they'd lost. Whether they found it, I've never heard. But technology has allowed Cassiar to become a virtual community. It exists as www.armourtech.com/~cassiar, where people exchange addresses, thoughts, memories and photographs. http://search.proquest.com.proxy.library.carleton.ca/canadiannews/docview/242598237/559457F5180E4FB6PQ/2?accountid=9894 1/2 3/4/2017 Loving memories live on for long-gone Cassiar: Former residents of the northern B.C. asbestos mining town are planning a reunion with the help of modern tech… Not surprisingly, most of the postings are nostalgia-tinted snapshots of the good times. But small towns, all towns, have both good and bad. In her clear-eyed posting on the Web site, Laurie Bremner remembers being told she couldn't play with some of the kids because her Dad wasn't a manager. She remembers learning early "don't eat the green snow". Green snow came from the asbestos dust in the air. She remembers hating spring because when it came, the snow melted and the layers of asbestos dust remained behind, slimy and slick. Bremner recalls gossip, liquor flowing freely to teens, a nasty union fight and being sick every spring from allergies to dust and bee pollen. Yet she also recalls her heartache when she left Cassiar. "Cassiar was not my family or my home, it was my existence." On the Web site, I ran into Patrick Ryan again. He was just 18 when I met him in 1992. With the town closing, Ryan was taking advantage of his dual citizenship and was on his way to U.S. Coast Guard boot camp. Late last year, Ryan posted a message saying he's working at the coast guard station in Lake Tahoe, Nev., while his wife, Shelley, is still waiting to get her green card. Ryan also says he's looking forward to a Cassiar reunion this summer. Webmaster Herb Daum says he wouldn't be surprised if as many as 1,000 people turn up to celebrate the town's 40 years. It's a chance for the virtual community to once again be real, if only for a few days. Because there's little left at the Cassiar site other than a small magnesium mine that had a fire at the mill on Christmas Day, the reunion is being held at Silver Star Mountain near Vernon July 20-22. Daum created the virtual community of Cassiar after his town was bulldozed and he hopes it might lead to some tangible things, like preparing kids growing up in resource towns for the possibility their towns will disappear. But he'd also like the provincial government to mark the place where his hometown once stood with a cairn or monument. Daum, who was the first boy born in Cassiar -- in 1954 -- doesn't exactly know why people care so much about the town that's disappeared. Maybe, he says, it was because it was small and isolated. Maybe it was because in the early years there was no entertainment, except what people made for themselves. Maybe it was because with no telephones or TV, people had to talk to each other. Maybe it's also that people were nicer to each other because they had to get along. Maybe it was safer because people knew their neighbours and there was no reason to lock the doors. Daum doesn't think it's just nostalgia that colours their memories. All that he knows is that he can never show his daughter the house that he was born in, the school he went to or the places where he played. "That's what hurts like you wouldn't believe." If you want to register for the reunion, go to the Cassiar Web site or call Herb Daum in Powell River at (604) 485-5504. dbramham@pacpress.southam.ca Illustration Photo: Denise Howard, Vancouver Sun / Bruce Green emerges from Cassiar's asbestos mine at the end of his shift on Jan. 20, 1992, days before the town shut down forever. Former residents are planning a reunion in July. ; Word count: 1177 (Copyright Vancouver Sun 2001) More like this n  Search this database...  Cite ; 9 Email P Save Add to Selected items Related items Ebook Central e-books 1. Encyclopedia of American Indian History   http://search.proquest.com.proxy.library.carleton.ca/canadiannews/docview/242598237/559457F5180E4FB6PQ/2?accountid=9894 2/2