I want you to picture a very specific scene for
a second. Okay, set the stage. Imagine you're
walking through a vast, quiet, just completely
rural farm field in Manitoba. Just waist -high
grass and wind. Exactly. The grass is waist -high.
The wind is sweeping across the plains, and you're
out there on a very distinct mission. You're
hunting for classic cars. Like old farm trucks
or coupes. Right. Specifically, you're hoping
to find the resting chassis of an old Studebaker.
So you're scanning the tree lines, peering into
dilapidated barns, just looking for that distinctive
automotive silhouette. But instead of a classic
1950s coupe, you stumble upon something completely
surreal. Sitting right there, sinking into the
earth in the middle of this isolated farm field
is a massive piece of forgotten urban infrastructure.
Which is just so out of place. It's an old electric
streetcar, just sitting in the grass, miles away
from any pavement, completely severed from the
power lines that once gave it life. It really
does sound like, you know, the opening tracking
shot of a film. Yeah, it really does. But that
is the precise, real -world inciting incident.
for the history we are exploring in our deep
dive today. We're looking at the archives of
the Manitoba Transit Heritage Association or
the MTHA. And their story is just wild. It is
because what begins as a bizarre kind of accidental
discovery in a farmer's field evolves into a
massive decades -long preservation effort. This
isn't just about old buses. It's a story about
the mechanics of volunteerism. It's a look at
how a dedicated group of people decided to capture
the physical veins of a city's daily life, literally
dragging these massive multi -ton machines out
of the weeds before they just, well, oxidized
into nothing. Okay, let's unpack this because
the origin story relies on such an unlikely string
of events. Oh, entirely. It was the summer of
1987. Two retired Winnipeg Transit employees,
Ron Alexander and John Kapusta, were the ones
out in rural Manitoba looking for those Studebakers.
And they weren't they weren't preservationists
at the time. No, not at all. They had no grand
visions of starting a historical society or a
museum. They were just hobbyists looking for
a weekend project. Just out for a drive, basically.
Yeah. And then they find that streetcar. What's
fascinating here is the psychological shift that
occurs in that specific moment. The light bulb
moment. Exactly. Finding that streetcar triggered
a profound realization for them. These were men
who had spent their entire professional lives
working within the transit system. They lived
and breathed it. They understood better than
anyone how these vehicles serve as the absolute
heartbeat of a municipality. Seeing one of those
machines. A machine that probably carried thousands
of commuters, workers, families just discarded
and rotting in a field. It shifted their perspective.
Because it's like seeing a piece of your own
life just thrown away. Right. They realized that
if someone didn't actively step in, the entire
physical record of public transportation in their
region was going to be lost to scrapyards and
farm fields. So they mobilized. They didn't just
take a neat photo for the scrapbook and drive
home. They got to work. By July 21st, 1989, Alexander
Capusta and a group of other current and retired
transit employees officially formed the Manitoba
Transit Heritage Association. And they made it
official right away. They did. They established
themselves as a nonprofit tax charitable organization.
And looking at their official charter, they laid
out a very specific roadmap for what they wanted
to achieve. The charter is crucial. because it
dictates the philosophy behind their entire operation
for the next 30 plus years. It wasn't just about
hoarding. No, the goal was never to just hoard
old buses in a massive garage and throw a tarp
over them. The core mission was historic display
and active community integration. They wanted
people to actually interact with them. They wanted
to create a proper transit museum, yes, but they
also mandated the practical, real -world use
of these vehicles. Which is such a massive undertaking.
It is. The charter specifically outlines their
intention to transport senior citizens, disabled
persons, and school— children for tours and outings.
That's amazing. And they also mandated participation
in public parades. They fundamentally believed
these vehicles needed to live and breathe in
the community again, rather than just serving
as static monuments behind velvet ropes. Putting
a vintage bus back to work is a great philosophy,
but the logistics of actually executing that
are staggering. Oh, a total nightmare logistically.
Right. Before you can drive a 1940s transit bus
in a parade, you have to physically locate one,
acquire it, transport it, and rebuild it. And
pay for it. Exactly. That brings us to their
acquisition records, which read like bizarre
treasure hunts. Looking at the MTHA's very first
restoration project, it was a 1941 Twin Coach.
30 GS. A beautiful machine. Yeah. And they found
it abandoned in a farmyard in Grand Marais, Manitoba.
But the detail that jumps out from the archive
is the acquisition cost. This is my favorite
part. They purchased this massive, historic 1941
commercial transit vehicle for exactly $1. A
single dollar. A loonie. It's a detail that tells
you everything you need to know about the perceived
value of these machines at the time. To the person
who owned that farmyard in Grand Marais, a 1941
twin coach. wasn't a precious piece of urban
history. It was trash. It was a giant, cumbersome
piece of scrap metal taking up valuable acreage.
In rural areas during the mid -20th century,
it was often too expensive to tow heavy machinery
to a proper scrapyard. So they just sat there.
Exactly. Old buses just became de facto storage
sheds or chicken coops. Getting a dollar for
it was essentially just a symbolic legal handshake
to transfer the title. Right. The real cost for
the MTHA was the. And the turnaround time on
this specific bus was incredible. They got it
from the welding yard in October 1990 and actually
unveiled the fully restored vehicle to the public
on November 2nd, 1991. Taking a vehicle from
a dormant shell in a welding yard to a fully
restored operational state in just about 12 months
is a monumental achievement. It's unheard of.
Especially when you consider this is a completely
volunteer run organization operating on a shoestring
budget. But looking closely at the broader archives,
that rapid success story with the 37 twin coach
was definitely the exception, not the rule. Oh,
for sure. The deeper you go into their fleet
roster, the more you see the incredibly harsh,
demanding realities of volunteer historical restoration.
Here's where it gets really interesting, because
the contrast between that first quick win and
their long -term projects is staggering. Let's
look at the timeline for their 1946 Ford Transit
69B. What's fascinating here is the sheer endurance
involved. This is the Fisher Branch discovery,
right? That's the one. They located this 1946
Ford Transit bus out in Fisher Branch, Manitoba.
The group started restoring it in 1990, the exact
same year they bought the bus from the welding
yard. Okay. According to the internal records,
the work on this Ford was deemed substantially
complete by 1992. Substantially complete? Right.
But it wasn't actually fully operational and
ready for the public until 2018. Wow. If we connect
this to the bigger picture, a 28 -year timeline.
is the most honest representation of non -profit,
volunteer -driven preservation. It's the reality
of the work. Think about the mechanics of what
they are actually trying to do. You cannot just
run down to a modern auto parts store and purchase
a replacement carburetor or a custom pneumatic
door valve for a 1946 Ford Transit bus. No, the
guy behind the counter would just laugh at you.
Exactly. Those parts haven't existed for over
half a century. These volunteers are either hunting
down incredibly rare salvage parts from across
the continent, or they are having to reverse
engineer and fabricate them entirely from scratch
in a machine shop. Which takes so much time.
And they are doing all of this on their weekends,
balancing it against their actual careers, their
families, and the organization's constantly fluctuating
funding. A 28 -year restoration period means
you could have started turning wrenches on that
Ford chassis in 1990 when you were 30 years old,
and you wouldn't see it drive under its own power
until you were nearly 60. That is a literal lifetime
of dedication to a single machine. It really
is. The archival source explicitly mentions the
Ford project was delayed due to other projects.
Which says a lot. It paints this chaotic picture
of a dedicated crew juggling multiple massive
rusting buses all at once, constantly having
to triage which vehicle gets their limited time,
money and garage space on any given Saturday.
And that constant exhausting juggling act is
what ultimately produced a fleet with some serious
historical pedigree. Yeah, their lineup is amazing.
When you review the finalized fleet roster in
the MTHA records, you really graph the sheer
scale of the timeline. they've managed to preserve.
They are maintaining vehicles that operated in
both public and private service spanning an era
from 1937 all the way up to 2019. It's essentially
a rolling timeline of 20th and 21st century urban
mobility. It is. And the geographic journey of
some of these machines is just as expansive as
the timeline. Take the 1954 GMC TDH 4801. Ah,
yes. It's what transit historians refer to as
an old look type bus. If you're picturing that
classic post -war rounded body transit bus with
the small windows that you always see in movies
set in the 1950s, that's the old look aesthetic.
It's iconic. the agencies this specific bus operated
for before landing with the MTHA, and it reads
like a cross -continent raid trip. The operational
history on that specific GMC is remarkable. It
started its life operating for the Los Angeles
Metropolitan Transit Authority. In California.
Yep. From there, it went north to the Sacramento
Regional Transit District. Then it crossed the
border into Canada to operate for BC Transit.
That's a huge move. After that, it moved east
to Regina Transit before finally operating for
the Metropolitan Corporation of Greater Winnipeg.
It wasn't officially donated to the MTHA until
2016. Think about the mechanical endurance of
that single vehicle. It has navigated the daily
stop -and -go commutes of sunny 1950s Los Angeles
all the way to the punishing, freezing winter
streets of modern Winnipeg. It's seen a lot of
pavement. It has likely carried hundreds of thousands,
if not millions, of different people over its
operational lifetime. And because it perfectly
represents the old look, buses that previously
operated in Winnipeg. Preserving it helps physically
anchor the story of what the city streets used
to look and feel like during that post -war boom.
Because they managed to preserve that exact old
look aesthetic so perfectly, these vehicles actually
have a very glamorous second life. Right, they're
a side hustle. Exactly. They aren't just sitting
in a garage, they are active movie props. The
MTHA vehicles have appeared in several television
shows and movies filmed in the Manitoba area.
That makes perfect sense. The archives specifically
name the television series Less Than Kind and
the feature film The Don Cherry Story. Whenever
a production needs authentic period set dressing,
there is a very good chance the vintage bus rolling
through the background of the shot is one of
these meticulously maintained MTHA machines.
Which is an incredibly smart strategic asset
for a historical society. For sure. Renting vehicles
out for film and television productions raises
awareness, provides a unique revenue stream for
their ongoing mission, and keeps the vehicles
mechanically active. You have to keep them running.
But beyond the novelty of Hollywood's green time,
the MTHA fleet also holds some very specific,
highly significant historical milestones. The
collection includes a 1950 CCF Brill T -48A,
fleet number 1768. Right. And the date associated
with that specific Brill T -48A is what makes
it so vital. Yes. This specific vehicle was the
very last electric trolley coach to ever operate
in revenue service in Winnipeg. Its final official
run was on October 30, 1970. October 30, 1970.
That is a massive turning point for a city's
infrastructure. It is the physical punctuation
mark at the end of a major chapter in urban development.
When that specific trolley finished its route
and powered down that day, it marked the absolute
end of electric transit in the city at that time.
It was the end of an era. It represented a massive
shift in urban planning, too. Cities were ripping
out overhead electric wire networks and transitioning
entirely to fossil fuel -powered diesel and gas
buses. And they saved the exact one. By preserving
that exact vehicle, the MTHA has saved the physical
artifact of that transition. You can walk up
and touch the exact machine that closed out the
entire electric trolley era in Manitoba. But
the MTHA archives reveal that they aren't just
focused on the giant multi -ton machines either.
They are equally dedicated to the tiny, tactile
details of the daily commute. The smaller stuff.
Yeah. Their historic collection features a massive
array of transit industry memorabilia. We're
talking about the driver badges, the varied uniforms
through the decades, passes and tickets. Oh,
the ephemera. They have the mechanical transfer
punches, the vintage fare boxes. the branding
decals, and the original operating manuals. If
we connect this to the bigger picture, this raises
an important question about how we interact with
history. While a bus is the massive vessel that
moves the city, the actual human interaction,
the daily ritual of the commute, happens through
those smaller artifacts. Right. The vehicles
are the macro history, but the memorabilia is
the micro history. It's the physical sensory
exchange of getting to work. Precisely. It's
the distinct feeling of the thick paper transfer
ticket. It's the highly specific mechanical sound
of the driver using a metal transfer punch to
validate your ride. Click, click. Exactly. It's
the visual authority of the driver's uniform
and the heavy metal badge. Those tactile sensory
elements. are what truly bridge the gap between
a museum display and lived memory. That makes
a lot of sense. When a senior citizen boards
one of these restored buses, it's often seeing
the turning mechanism of that specific vintage
fare box that triggers a flood of memories from
their youth. It transforms a piece of industrial
machinery into a deeply personal touchstone.
And that personal, localized connection is woven
into the very fabric of how the organization
operates today. Even the modern face of the MTHA
has deep community roots. Oh, the logo. Yeah.
The archive notes that their current association
logo wasn't just bought off a corporate branding
website. It was designed locally. In 2010, a
Red River College student named Ron Zebiero designed
the logo while studying under his professor,
Al Guzzi. That's great detail. From the retired
mechanics restoring the engines to the local
students designing the branding, it is a comprehensive
community effort. That deep commitment to community
integration is perfectly encapsulated by how
they ultimately chose to solve the biggest logistical
problem any historical society faces. Getting
people in the door. Right. The primary friction
point of preserving history is getting foot traffic.
How do you get the public to actually view the
collection? The Rolling Museum. Exactly. In 1979,
an organization called the Vintage Railway Society
donated an OVI Orion I bus to the MTHA. But the
association didn't just restore it to park it
in a lineup of other buses. As of 2019, they
radically repurposed this specific Orion bus
to serve as a mobile transit museum. It's such
a brilliant solution. By turning that 1979 Orion
into a mobile space, they remove the barrier
to entry entirely. They don't have to spend limited
funds marketing a physical location, hoping people
will take time out of their weekend to travel
to a static building. They bring the building
to you. Instead, the MTHA literally drives the
history directly into the community. They can
pull up to a local school, a community center,
or a summer festival, and the museum is instantly
open for business. Just unroll the awning and
you're good. It is the perfect modern realization
of their original 1989 charter to actively display
history and integrate it directly into public
spaces. So what does this all mean for you? The
next time you're on your daily commute, whether
you take a bus, a light rail, a subway, or a
modern streetcar, Take a second to look around.
Pay attention to the details. The everyday, completely
mundane vehicle you are riding in today, the
one you probably ignore while you scroll on your
phone, is tomorrow's history. The archives of
the Manitoba Transit Heritage Association show
us that history isn't just something that gets
neatly curated by academics and textbooks. It's
visceral. Sometimes history is a rusty, forgotten
shell sinking into a farmer's field. incredibly
passionate, stubborn people decided to spend
28 years of their weekends hunting down 1940s
carburetors just to bring it back to life. What
stands out to you? Is it the $1 bus from Grammaray?
Or the 28 years it took to fix up the Ford? It
forces you to reevaluate the physical landscape
of the city around you. It really does. The MTHA
is a testament to the fact that our everyday
routines and the machines that facilitate them
are fundamentally worth preserving. But I want
to leave you with one final thought to mull over
straight from the MTHA's own records. When you
look closely at the modern fleet roster, amidst
all these beautifully restored, fully operational
pieces of history, there are two specific entries
that stand out. Which ones? There is a 1936 Dodge
Lorry, originally from the Winnipeg Electric
Company, fleet number 501. And there is a 1948
CCF Brill, fleet number 707. Next to both of
these vehicles in the notes column is a single,
heavily weighted word. They're still waiting.
It is a haunting, beautiful concept. Those unrestored
buses are still out there, sitting in the possession
of the MTHA. They're waiting for the necessary
funds, waiting for the impossibly rare parts
to be found, waiting for the hundreds of volunteer
hours required to strip away the rust. Just biding
their time. It makes you wonder what other ghosts
of our daily mundane routines are quietly sitting
out there in the weeds right now. What massive
pieces of our shared urban history are just waiting
for someone curious enough to stumble upon them
and patient enough to piece their story back
together?