Patricia Leone (Lister) Ellis

All of my grandparents were from different places around the world: Denmark, Virginia USA, Ireland and Scotland. My grandfather, Frederick Ellis, was from Virginia, married an immigrant from Denmark, Anna Petersen, and spent many years following the building of the railways across the USA, sometimes living in a covered wagon. My dad, George Ellis, was born in North Dakota and when opportunity came to own farm land in Manitoba, the family headed north. Grandfather stayed in Winnipeg working as a Yard Master for the CNR. Grandmother and their large family lived in a log house on their farm in Hilbre, Manitoba. After WW I, they moved to Winnipeg. My dad was hired on the CNR.

Mom’s family came originally from Ireland; her father was Joshua Ritchie. The family settled near Neepawa, Manitoba. Klondike Joshua, was a somewhat colourful character, who, when he heard of the Klondike Gold Strike, headed north in 1898, first depositing his wife, Elizabeth, and five children on her brother’s farm. He is known to have worked on the Chilkoot Pass as a Guide for the NWMP. There was also a short-lived Klondike Hotel built by him in Neepawa. My mother, Winnie, the youngest, was born later in 1907.

Mom was attracted to the bright lights of Winnipeg and found a job at Eaton’s, during the roaring 20s. The economy was good and styles were changing with short skirts and bobbed hair—known as the Flapper Era. Things looked pretty good. Dad was considered a catch, handsome in his black suit with brass buttons and CNR hat. They were married in 1928; she was only 21.

Suddenly, in 1929, the stock market crashed, and most Canadians were thrown into poverty. Dad was laid off for almost 10 years, working only on summer harvest freight trains, the rest of the time getting by on a meager government relief handout. It was a depression both spiritually and economically.

Luckily Dad had a pass and during the summer we could take the train to Lake Winnipeg Beach. For cheap entertainment we had a trip to the department stores downtown that competed to design enchanting art shows in their display windows. Eaton’s had a full-time staff of artists and their magic Santa Parades have never been duplicated. I found art was what I wanted to do in life. During school I was chosen to attend Saturday morning art class at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, set up across Canada by Arthur Lismer of the Group of Seven. Splashing in paint on large brown paper sheets was heaven.

In 1939, the Second World War turned the economy around magically. Dad was busy again on the railroad that ran troop trains and freight constantly. With the war bonanza, a house was bought in a better neighborhood.

I found art was what I wanted to do in life. Commercial Art was a great field. All the mail order catalogues were hand drawn; photos were tinted by artists. It is now just a computer job. When I was 17, I enrolled in the Winnipeg School of Fine Arts three-year Course. Then I met Al Lister, a spirited fellow who drove a motorcycle. Speeding about recklessly one day he was chased by the police and got into a jam. His mother, who had cousins who owned General Enterprises in the Yukon, thought it would be wise to send him there. Whitehorse, the new capital, was a blue-collar land of youthful opportunity compared to Winnipeg, and he thought I should come up and work for the summer as wages were twice as high. My dad got me a pass to Dawson Creek and I took the CPA plane north.

Let me paint a picture of what I saw as I rode down the potholed and puddled Two Mile Hill. After the Americans left from their frantic Alaska Highway & Canol Project days, the town was littered with untold amounts of leftover US Army barracks, garages, quonsets and war surplus equipment. A scrounger’s paradise. Taking a trip to Macrae with a crowbar and pickup, was a favorite outing. Few building lots were available, and all without services.  Squatter areas circled the town. One third of the population downtown were labeled as squatters, merrily building shacks on Crown or White Pass land with a US Army oil-drum water barrel and honey-bucket (US grease pail) biffy attached.

I rented a room from Tennessee Morrison who owned the Puckett House on Wood Street, an historic elegant house. She was wonderfully eccentric, red flaming hair and who always wore high heels with rolled down nylons, and liked a nip of gin on Saturday night. The graveyard across the street was to be kept in mind should we want to drink the well water, instead of out of the jugs of “bought” water. For entertainment we would watch the arrivals going into the Officer’s Mess on a Saturday night, complete with dress uniforms, tux or gowns. Another excitement was to drive up to Camp Takhini, or Hillcrest, and gaze with envy at new Canadian military houses going up with real plumbing. Homesick, I was glad to return to civilization in the fall and art studies.

The next year, 1954, feeling nostalgic for the land of opportunity, I returned for the summer and hit the jackpot; I found a job at Taylor and Drury, helping pioneer Isaac Taylor, who at 90 still bustled about checking off invoices in the men’s department. An opening in the ladies’ wear became available, and I was my own best customer. The store was doing a roaring business as the only competitor was the NC Co. T&D did wonderfully during the war and transformed itself into a sophisticated store.

One of the girls in the office and I looked for a cabin to rent, and through Charlie Taylor, who had a warehouse in Whiskey Flats, we knew that his watchman had a small cabin to rent. People kept moving from old barrack buildings into any available space, and we were amused to see one stuck on the road one night and people still living in it. I was eager to return to art school in the fall. Plans abruptly changed when a letter from Mom informed me that Dad had broken his leg stepping down from a moving train while signaling. As his wages were cut back, she thought I had better stay at my job, and so my Art School days were over. 

At 19 in 1954, Al Lister and I tied the knot, and lived in the cabin in Whiskey Flats. Then we bid on a surplus building and moved it and squatted in Porter Creek, that at the time had about a dozen houses. No electricity this time!  One winter was enough. In 1958, White Pass started selling off some of their land, and we bought two unserviced lots on Baxter Street and bought a new 42-foot trailer. Jeff, Lindsay and Diane were born.

Al Lister, a talented mechanic, put up a new building with a shop for his motor repair business with an apartment above. Then after 14 years, we untied the knot. Another adventure.

 For a summer I worked for Bob Erlam, in the Whitehorse Star print shop in an old army building tacked on to the front office on Main Street. The place was crowded with cigarette smoking staff and cans of varsol; paper littered the floor. Wages were low, but on Fridays the staff was treated with beer. Erlam was a colourful character, a self-made man, and without competition made his fortune in a few short years.

Then luck came along with a three-year contract to manage the Yukon Indian Craft Shop, which at that time was under the Department of Indian Affairs. This was in the era of the popularity of handicrafts: parkas and mukluks, slippers and mitts. Beautiful wearable art. Highlight was meeting wonderfully industrious First Nations traditional craft artists. Business was brisk and the profit margin about 10%, only enough to cover the rent. The business moved from the old Black house on Front, to the Star and then to the Burns Building. Materials sold at cost. I designed standard patterns for jackets and vests, and put on fashion shows. An unforgettable job.

During that period, I bought a little fixer-upper under the escarpment for $7,500 cash, lot and all. The government contract came to an end and the craft shop was sold to Lorraine Joe by the board of trustees and privatized.

I moved back to the Whitehorse Star to manage the stationary store for 11 years. This was an interesting job, lots of freedom. The only fault was the Star did not have a pension plan. I put the girls to work after school and Jeff helped his dad and learned mechanics.

Then in 1974 we heard over the radio that 80 houses on legal lots along the escarpment were to be expropriated; it was understood to be a three-year project and the area was to be turned into a nature trail. This decision was made after a boy died after an avalanche on Black Street and mud slides near the Pioneer Cemetery. I accepted the payout and bought a better home on Cook Street. Somehow two of the escarpment houses remained; the owners refused to move: 609 Drury Street and 7220 7th Ave.

When I was 50, with the kids on their own, I sold Cook Street, stuffed $$ in a soaring interest account and enjoyed traveling a bit, working part-time and house sitting for several years. I decided to own a house again and once again dumb luck held. Faro closed and people left the territory. Houses were still at the same level for five years and I bought 30 Teslin Road and felt secure to pursue my interests.

Free at last to do art and writing! I took a short course on how to write a newspaper article from Darrell Hookey, an experienced editor. I wrote many articles for the Star as well as short historical books, painted murals with the Yukon Art Society and one at the City Hall.

In 2011, interest was being taken by the City Council to develop our old lots against the escarpment. A few of us who were bought out protested and we came to the conclusion that much history was lost over the years during the city’s growing pains.

Many of us were now in our 70s and decided to put together a book on The Squatters of Downtown Whitehorse, which included the expropriation history. A small grant was obtained, and advertisements looking for stories were put in the papers. This proved to be an enormous amount of work to dig out this lost but important history. The results were printed in a popular book in 2015. Marketing is difficult, so I allowed the MacBride Museum to reprint the book.

The escarpment saga continues. Hopefully I will live long enough to see the last two holdout homes be demolished so that the town may have the nature trail completed that will run from Baxter Street to Drury Street. An exciting finale to our long battle!