“But I’m here! I’m an artist!” Bill was losing his temper. “Here I go again,” he thought, “just like in Toronto.”
Aldergrove
In 1968, Bill started feeling the pull of the open road again. His dream of building an art colony would not leave him and he wanted to see if he might make that dream come true. He and Margarete set out from Los Angeles; and, this time, headed north to find their place in the country. They did not break completely from their former life. Despite their traveling, they kept in touch with their students and returned every so often to hold classes in Los Angeles.
Traveling in the Northwest they lived in their “happy painter” van. Bill and Margarete ended up purchasing a house in Langley, a small town near Vancouver, British Columbia. It was a tiny house, but it only required a small down payment. It was a start, and the owner was willing to accept small monthly payments.
Bankers
Bill, though, still needed money to rennovate their new home, so he sought a loan from the local bank. Unfortunately, he knew no one and no one knew him. A young assistant manager, with whom he first talked, told him, “You have no record, Mr. Alexander. I’m sorry. We can’t loan you the money.”
“But I’m here! I’m an artist!” Bill was losing his temper. “Here I go again,” he thought, “just like in Toronto.”
The assistant manager refused to help. Bill returned home to Margarete. “I only need five-hundred bucks!,” he told her. “Usually, banks make a living on old guys like me. But since they don’t want me like I am, I’ll be a different kind of guy.”
Bill took a nice suit out of his closet, one that Mr. Packer, his friend from Montreal, had given to him. Mr. Packer was wealthy, and it was a well-cut, stylish suit. Margarete said Bill looked like a millionaire wearing it. Bill felt like a millionaire too.
“Bill,” he said to himself, “since you are a millionaire, don’t be dumb. Don’t ask for five hundred. Why not ask for two thousand?” And that’s exactly what he did.
Bill went back to the bank, dressed like a peacock. He would see no one but the bank manager.
“I’m a new guy here,” he told him. “I want to buy some land here and I need a few thousand dollars to put down on it until some of my commissions and options come in. I’ll pay it back as soon as I can.”
The bank manager was a nice man, and Mr. Packer’s “Million-dollar” suit worked like a charm. Bill walked out of the bank with a check for two thousand dollars. Now he and Margarete had what they needed to spruce up their new home.
Inspiration
One night, as Bill was relaxing on the porch, he had a flash of inspiration.
“Margarete,” he shouted, “I know where our road is going! To an artist’s colony! A happy little artist’s colony. We will build a place for people to come together to learn and create. Right here in the backyard of Mother Nature.”
As usual, Margarete offered the voice of reason. “We don’t have any money. We don’t have any colonists. And we don’t have any land. But if that’s what you want to do, Bill, let’s do it.”
They found almost six acres of land twenty miles further out in the country near Aldergrove in the Frazer Valley. They sold their house in Langley to fulfill Bill’s dream. It would be a lot of work. Now, though, was time to build, and they both rolled up their sleeves and fired in.
First they built a small house that they kept expanding as they thought of more facilities they might need. They added a second kitchen for the students, sank septic tanks, and built a beautiful pond to enhance the house and grounds. Margarete and Bill poured cement until late every night. When they weren’t pouring cement, they were clearing the land or constructing more rooms. Whenever Bill earned an extra dollar or two, he bought some wood, or cement, or nails. Over the next couple of months they finished their work. Aldergrove was now ready to be a wonderful community in which artists could gather.
The house sat on a little rise near a forest of cedar and fir, and a dirt road went off into the distance. Beyond the trees were the mountains, tall, clear, with patches of snow and green. The ocean was nearby, and streams nourished the land. One always felt the water everywhere around them, and their pond was a man made echo of Mother Nature. Decorating the front of their home were wooden carvings of the animals that dwelled in the forest.
Students
Students began arriving from everywhere. Some came in campers from up and down the coast. Many of them showed up from the nearby cities and countryside. Mr. Gower was one of the locals. He had seen Bill painting in a mall and heard him talking about that almighty power and almighty brush. Bill didn’t realize Mr. Gower was watching him and taking it all in. One afternoon Mr. Gower arrived at Aldergrove. He said to Bill, “Bill, you’re always talking about the almighty power. Well, take a look at Gower Power! I’m here to paint and learn.” And that was his name from then on, “Gower Power”.
George Davison was another of Bill’s students. He was a retired, dapper Englishman with a big, booming voice. Bill first met George one summer while Bill was painting in a department store. Painting near the escalator, Bill had displayed his artwork elsewhere in the store to attract viewers. Bill, as always, painted with passion and the crowd surrounding him watched with interest. Without warning a booming voice resounded down the escalator.
“Where is he? Where is this painting gentleman? There he is!” George left no doubt that he was an outgoing fellow. He fit right in with the other members of the artist’s colony. George, in fact, would go on to become a teacher himself.