COLLECTORS AND HOARDERS AT THE GRASS ROOT LEVEL - WHAT MAKES US FEEL LIKE WE NEED STUFF?
A SOCIETAL SITUATION? OR ARE WE JUST CRAZY PEOPLE?
THERE WAS A STORY-LINE THAT PLAYED-OUT, ON THE FORMER SITUATION COMEDY, "WINGS," THAT SUZANNE AND I ALWAYS THOUGHT VALIDATED OUR INTEREST IN COLLECTING. THE CHARACTER, KNOWN AS "HELEN," LOSES HER HOUSE TO FIRE. SHE GETS A SUBSTANTIAL INSURANCE PAY-OUT, AND HAS THE OPPORTUNITY TO BUY BACK MANY OF HER POSSESSIONS. IT BECOMES A SOMEWHAT FRANTIC SITUATION, AS SHE TRIES TO BUDGET MONEY TO GET BACK "HER STUFF." SHE EXPLAINED TO HER BOYFRIEND-PILOT "JOE," HOW NAKED SHE FELT WITHOUT THIS "STUFF." AS SHE EXPLAINED, THEY WEREN'T JUST POSSESSIONS, BUT "HER" POSSESSIONS....ALL OF IT IDENTIFYING HER LIKES, WANTS AND NEEDS. IT WAS AS IF PART OF HER CHARACTER HAD BEEN DIMINISHED BY THE FIRE. WE WOULD HAVE FELT THE SAME, AS OUR POSSESSIONS HAVE ALSO BEEN HAND-PICKED, THOUGHTFULLY, TO MEET OUR DECORATING, AND HOME ENVIRONMENT NEEDS. WE WOULD MOST DEFINITELY FEEL NAKED WITHOUT THEM. I KNOW IT WAS JUST A TELEVISION SHOW, BUT IT REMINDED US OF OUR OWN BURIED OBSESSION WITH HAVING "STUFF."
WHEN SUZANNE AND I DISCUSS BUSINESS, AND UPCOMING ACQUISITIONS, WITH A LITTLE RETROSPECTIVE THROWN IN FOR GOOD MEASURE, IT ENEVITABLY RESOLVES TODAY, WITH ONE JOINTLY AGREED-UPON POLICY STATEMENT. WE DON'T MAKE MISTAKES WHEN IT COMES TO INVESTMENTS IN ANTIQUES. WE WORK AS A DUO AND JUDGE EACH PURCHASE, OF MAJOR CONSEQUENCE, ON ALL ITS MERITS. SO WE HAVE MITIGATED FRIVOLOUS PURCHASES ALMOST ENTIRELY. WE EACH HAVE OUR BUDGET FOR PERSONAL PURCHASES, THAT WE DON'T NEED TO JUSTIFY, BUT EVEN THEN, WE STILL CONSIDER THEM INVESTMENTS. SUZANNE'S WEAKNESS IS SEWING COLLECTABLES (AND RARE SEWING MACHINES), AND MINE IS ART THROUGH AND THROUGH.
WE WILL NEVER BUY ANY MAJOR ANTIQUE OR COLLECTABLE PIECE, THAT WE DON'T LIKE. OUR GOLDEN RULE, IS THAT, SHOULD A PIECE WE PURCHASE, NOT SELL FOR THE PRICE WE ARE ASKING, THERE SHALL BE NO REGRETS. WE CAN LIVE WITH IT, AS PART OF OUR HOUSEHOLD CONTENTS?
THIS WOULD SEEM STRANGE TO SOME RETAILERS, WHO FIND IT NECESSARY TO BEND THEIR INTERESTS, AND GOOD JUDGEMENT, IN ORDER TO MEET PUBLIC DEMAND. WHILE WE CERTAINLY CARE ABOUT THE INTERESTS OF OUR CUSTOMERS, BECAUSE IT DOES KEEP OUR DOORS OPEN, WE REALIZE THAT NO MATTER HOW MUCH MONEY WE SPEND, OR HOW HARD WE TRY TO PLEASE EVERYONE, IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. I'VE LISTENED TO CUSTOMERS AT THE EXIT TO MAJOR ANTIQUE MALLS, COMPLAINING ABOUT THE LACK OF INVENTORY. YET LOOKING DOWN THROUGH THE JAMMED-UP AISLES, I COULD NEVER OFFER THAT PARTICULAR CRITIQUE. I MIGHT HAVE GENERALIZATIONS, ABOUT INVENTORY BEING OVER-PRICED, BUT NEVER THAT I'VE BEEN SHORT-CHANGED THINGS TO LOOK AT. QUITE THE OPPOSITE.
WHEN I BUY A PAINTING OR SCULPTURE, IT'S BECAUSE I LIKE IT, AND THAT IT HAS A VALUE GREATER THAN WHAT I PAID FOR IT. RETAIL "101!" BUT IT WILL ALSO BE A PAINTING THAT I WOULD HANG IN OUR HOUSE, (SUZANNE AND I AGREE, OF COURSE), AND FEEL WAS AN IMPROVEMENT OVER WHAT HAD HUNG THERE PREVIOUSLY. SUZANNE AND I BEGAN PRACTICING THIS MORE-SO, ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO, WHEN WE STARTED GOING THROUGH A LOT OF BOXES KEPT IN STORAGE, FINDING OUT THAT WE HAD ACUMMULATED INVENTORY WE DIDN'T REALLY LIKE. AND GETTING STUCK WITH IT, WAS SOMETHING TO AVOID AT ALL COSTS. WE HAD A LOT OF MONEY SITTING THERE IN BOXES, THAT WE HAD NO EARTHLY INTEREST IN KEEPING. I OWNED AT LEAST A HUNDRED PAINTINGS I DIDN'T CARE FOR, AND ABOUT TWO THOUSAND BOOKS, I FELT WERE WELL BELOW MY OWN STANDARDS FOR A BIBLIOPHILE / DEALER TO OWN. SO WE SET ABOUT A PLAN, TO DOWNSIZE BY TWO THIRDS OF THESE MATERIALS, AND EMPLOYING YARD SALES AND ONLINE MARKETING, WE ACHIEVED OUR OBJECTIVE. WE FOUND A HOUSE ACTUALLY DID EXIST, BEYOND THE WALLS OF OLD INVENTORY, ONCE ALL THESE BOXES, BOOKS AND PAINTINGS WERE SOLD-OFF, AT VERY AFFORDABLE PRICES, I MIGHT ADD.
I WOULD SAY THIS WAS ONE OF THE BIGGEST IMPROVEMENTS WE'VE MADE IN THE ANTIQUE PROFESSION, AND THE REASON WE CAN CONTROL OUR COSTS, AND IMPROVE SALES AT PRESENT. IT DOESN'T MEAN WE NO LONGER SELL ODDBALL ITEMS, LIKE PORTABLE EMBALMING MACHINES. JUST THAT WE HAVE A PERSONAL INTEREST, IN EVERYTHING WE PURCHASE TODAY....AND FEELING PRETTY GOOD, ABOUT OWNING THESE ITEMS OUTRIGHT. THERE WON'T BE ANY DISADVANTAGE TO US, IF WE EVER CLOSED THE SHOP, AND HAD TO BRING SOME OF THESE OLD CUPBOARDS AND DRESSERS HOME....AND WHAT A PLEASURE TO HAVE THESE ART PIECES SURROUNDING US AT HOME. IT HAS ALSO BROUGHT A NEW AWARENESS TO US, ABOUT THE DANGERS OF HOARDING; A SITUATION WE FOUND OURSELVES IN, BUT BLAMED IT ROUTINELY ON THE COLLATERAL DAMAGE OF BEING ANTIQUE DEALERS, WITHOUT A MAIN STREET SHOP. "MAYBE WE'LL NEED THESE THINGS LATER," WE'D ARGUE, IN A WEIRD SELF-SUPPORT SCENARIO, BYPASSING THE CRITICAL ISSUE OF HOARDING, AND HOW IT WAS AFFECTING OUR DAILY LIVES. WHILE IT'S TRUE, THAT WHAT WE HAD HOARDED, DID PAY OFF FOR US IN THE END, I CAN'T TELL YOU HOW FRUSTRATING IT WAS, TIME AND AGAIN, TO HAVE HAD OUR ACCESS BLOCKED, BY A HUNDRED BOXES PILED IN THE WAY. SO THE BOTTOM LINE, IS THAT WE DON'T BUY IN EXCESS ANY MORE, AND WHAT WE DO PURCHASE, IS WHAT WE WANT; NOT JUST WHAT WE THINK PEOPLE WILL BUY. WE KNOW IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO PLEASE EVERYONE, BUT WE APPRECIATE FAR MORE, TODAY, HOW IMPORTANT IT IS TO PLEASE OURSELVES....AND THIS IS SPINNING OFF SURPRISINGLY WELL IN BUSINESS. AS WE HAVE A BROAD RANGE OF INTERESTS, AS GENERALIST DEALERS, WE SEEM TO BE MAKING THE GRADE, WHEN IT COMES TO INVENTORY ACCEPTANCE. THAT'S ABOUT ALL YOU CAN DO. EVERY RETAILER GETS STUCK WITH INVENTORY, EXPLAINING THE REGULAR SALES THEY ARE FORCED TO HOLD. WE HAVE VERY FEW SPECIAL SALES, FOR ONE GOOD REASON. OUR INVENTORY IS MADE UP OF INVESTMENT PIECES, BECAUSE WE BUY MUCH DIFFERENTLY THAN IN THE PAST. WE OFTEN HAVE CUSTOMERS ASK US WHEN WE'RE HAVING OUR NEXT SALE, AND WE HAVE TO INFORM THEM, THAT WITH THE EXCEPTION OF SOME SALE PRICES ON PIECES WE WANT TO MOVE OUT QUICKLY, WE DON'T SUBSCRIBE TO THE NORMAL PROTOCOL OF SPECIAL SALES EVENTS. WE MADE OUR MAJOR PURCHASES AS INVESTMENTS, AND UNLESS WE HAVE AN URGENT NEED TO RAISE THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS FAST (I JUST NOW, KNOCKED ON WOOD, TO PREVENT SUCH A NEED FROM ARISING), WE SIMPLY WON'T ABANDON VALUATIONS WE BELIEVE ARE FAIR...AND GOOD FOR US IN THE LONG HAUL. YEARS AGO, HOWEVER, AS STRUGGLING DEALERS, WE WOULD HAVE JUMPED AT LOW-BALL OFFERS, SO WE COULD BUY GAS TO GET US HOME EACH NIGHT. TIMES WERE TOUGH, AND ADMITTEDLY, WE NEEDED MORE EXPERIENCE IN THIS PRECARIOUS BUY / SELL OF "OLD THINGS" ENTERPRISE. SO IF WE DECLINE A LOW OFFER, IT MEANS WE'RE DOING FINE. IF WE ACCEPT ONE, IT MEANS WE JUST GOT OUR PLUMBING BILL. BUT IT IS A RARE OCCASION THESE DAYS, THAT WE FEEL THIS NEED TO COMPROMISE. BUT, THIS HINGES, ON US PRICING FAIRLY TO BEGIN WITH, AND OF THIS, WE ARE OUTSPOKEN ON THE MATTER.
DID IT START IN CHILDHOOD.....PICKING UP FOUND OBJECTS I DIDN'T REALLY NEED OR WANT?
I had the "picker's eye" even as a kid. I was a dirty-faced, snotty nosed scrounger. There wasn't a trash bin, or home demolition site, that I wasn't familiar with, growing up in Burlington, Ontario. When neighbors put out their garbage, on pick-up day, I was out early to inspect the quality of the refuse. My mother was horrified to find me sorting through the apartment trash.
I could never understand her chagrin, because it was "refuse" afterall. I was just way ahead of the environmental curve, when I started my scavenging back in the early 1960's. "You'll bring shame on the family," she used to scold, after pulling me from the middle of some large trash bin, full of interesting relics. "You could cut yourself and get lock-jaw," she'd warn. In fact, she even went on to warn her grandsons of the same peril, if they start poking around in her trash. Robert wouldn't but Andrew might, if he spotted even one interesting piece, that he could find a use.
I spent a lot of time in the ravine of Ramble Creek, right to the Lakeshore bridge, on one side, and the intersection near Lions Club Park, on the other. A lot of stuff wound up being dumped in that ravine, and if I came upon it first, well, "the finders-keepers" rule came into play. Even neighboring residents, would cast off interesting relics into the ravine, and if I could scale the high bank, I'd haul the refuse down to the hollow, to get a better look. Of course, Merle wasn't about to let me have a beat-up old lawnchair in my room, or portions of a long-retired bicycle. Here's the thing. A hoarder is created thusly. I felt it was necessary to claim these big finds (at least to me), so my chums wouldn't get them instead. It used to happen this way at the Burlington Arena all the time. It didn't matter how small the hockey stick remainder, that was tossed over the boards, during games and practices; we took ownership of everything....even the small rolls of friction tape, left on the players' benches, after the ice time was over. It must have been quite a sight, seeing us lads, with arms overflowing, coming out of the arena at the end of the afternoon. If a shaft had broken, leaving the blade and about a foot of stick left, it was a keeper. If the blade had shattered, leaving what we call "a sliver stick," it was also a keeper. If it was a totally destroyed stick, that had been used by one of our favorite junior players, it would be part of our hall of fame collection. So if you were a parent, with rink rat kids, you got used to culling the collectables, coming home from the arena in arm-loads. I recall Merle removing a single ripped hockey sock out of my room, that I'd found outside the players' dressing room.....as if it was radioactive. "Oh, it smells; Teddy, why in the world did you bring this into our clean house?" Hell, I didn't have an answer. When Suzanne used to ask me why I brought boxes of smelly books into the house, my answer was the same. "I don't know...but I want them!"
To emphasize this, was the time my mother Merle, conducted a shake-down at the door of the apartment, making me drop some of the hockey nostalgia, I had tucked in my coat, and down my snow-pants. As my mate, Ray Green, and I, had wrestled over these stick portions at the arena, imagine my horror, when she unceremoniously tossed the bits and pieces onto the snowy ground, at the front door of the apartment....and Ray, sensing an opportunity, raced back from across the road, and started scooping up the goods. So I did what any bloke would do under the circumstances. I jumped the little red haired bugger, and wrestled some of my possessions back. Merle was trying to pull me off, and Ray's mother, seeing the donnybrook, came over to assist breaking it up. I don't think it worked out too well for either of us, that day, most of the relics being disposed of by our respective parents. But it was an example of what my early days, out on the hustings, were all about. It's what made life so much more interesting. Making big finds. Thinking that we had just made a fortune, by hauling these broken sticks home, to play with in our rooms; or if a game of road hockey broke out. If it wasn't broken hockey sticks, and damaged pucks, retrieved from the stands, it would have been a tire rim found in the ravine, or some broken pieces of old china, found in one of the deep pools, further along Ramble Creek. There was really no limit, as to what turned our cranks, back then. I would even get on a "neat rock kick," as Merle used to call it, when I'd try to fill my room with stones, that had been naturally polished, by the wash of the tiny creek. If I remember correctly, we all fell prey to the "fool's gold" rush, because of something we had read in public school nature studies. What sparkles must be valuable. Right? I was like a raccoon in this regard, because if it was shiny, it had to be a winner. Well sir, my mother, who made it a mission to curb my picker's enthusiasm, would even throw the gathered stones back into the ravine, when I'd gone off to school. She referred to my childhood as "a challenge." Suzanne also calls me a challenge, but I know what she means.
I remember one night, we had a lengthy inquisition with son Andrew, who had arrived home from school that day, with a number of items we thought shouldn't be in his possession. We didn't believe he had stolen them, but because he wouldn't give us an answer, we felt it necessary to keep up the questioning. He finally admitted to dumpster-diving, in his class, and pulling these broken items out, to re-use on some project, he was working on in his bedroom. So what can dad say at this point, when he actually wrote the book on garbage recycling, before it was an environmental issue? Suzanne had never known just how bad I'd been as a kid, for hauling home someone else's refuse. The best place to look for decent reusable cast-offs, was in the classroom, where my classmates used to dump a lot of great junk, especially art paper, that I could use for my own scribbling at home. In art class, the teacher would chuck the empty cans of watercolor powder, and if you were lucky, there would be residue in the bottom of the canister, to color my own home work. Teachers didn't seem to mind me poking through the pails, and the janitors appreciated that my "picking" was saving them work. I hated to waste a good pencil, just because a student thought it was too short to sharpen any longer. Some of those kids came from fairly wealthy families, and could afford to throw things out, when half used; like bottles of glue and erasers. The problem became, as it does for all hoarders eventually, is that it would take seven lifetimes to use all the resources you've acummulated. How many erasers does an average person need, to get the job done. I didn't see it that way of course, and neither did my mother.
I even hoarded "smelt" when they were in season, running in Ramble Creek in the spring season, and I loved to hear my mother's reaction, when she came home from work, and found them in the bathtub. I had a net, a pail, and some reckless abandon to invest, and the rest is childhood history. I got caught trying to sneak-in a huge "sucker" I'd caught, but Merle sent me back to the creek to set it free. The same went for frogs and lizards. Tadpoles came home to a fish-bowl as did the minnows caught in the shallow pools, but no snakes were allowed. The only one I brought home, with the help of Ray Green, didn't get off to a good start with my father. He met us in the driveway, to make it clear that the snake would not be allowed through the apartment door, and that my life would be severely impacted, if I even tried. So he stuck his finger at the snake, in Ray's hand, and son of a gun, the serpent coiled a bit, and then launched at his finger-tip, sinking its fangs into his flesh. It wasn't a poisonous snake, but it was pissed-off. Ray set it free, after we pulled the snake's jaws apart. Some injured insects made it inside, as an act of mercy, and once when I brought an injured Robin into the apartment, Merle went bananas. "Now you've done it Teddy. Do you know what it means to bring a wild bird into the house?" Well, I didn't, so I waited for the explanation patiently. "Someone in this apartment will die," she said, as if it might even be the case, I may have killed one of my own family members, by trying to save this poor bird from being eaten by other animals. I should explain, that I grew up in a Christian household, (that also never went to church); and the only time "Jesus Christ" was yelled out, in our apartment, was when my dad lost television reception during a hockey game. Add to this the fact, my mother was ridiculously superstitious, and I knew all of them intimately; but the "wild bird" thing, was one I hadn't heard before.
Here are few more notes about how it all began for me....in a great little community, with endless opportunities to be me!
THE OLD COAL CHUTE AT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL -
WHAT WERE YOU LIKE IN THE SCHOOL YARD
IT WAS FOGGY THIS MORNING, OVER ON THE BOG, ACROSS FROM OUR HOME IN GRAVENHURST. AS I'M WRITING ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD, LIVING IN BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, IT WAS WEATHER-APPROPRIATE. I WENT TO SCHOOL ON MANY MORNINGS IN SUBSTANTIAL FOG, AND IT WAS PART OF YOUR DAY, TO HEAR A DISTANT FOG HORN, FROM SOME PASSING SHIP OUT ON THE LAKE. I THINK THE FOG MADE MY CHILDHOOD SEEM FAR MORE MYSTERIOUS THAN IT ACTUALLY WAS, BECAUSE WHEN I TALK OR WRITE ABOUT IT TODAY, THESE CONDITIONS ALWAYS SEEP INTO THE DESCRIPTION. I HAVE TO DIG DEEP, TO RECALL WHAT IT WAS LIKE, LIVING IN BURLINGTON, AS IT WAS QUITE A FEW DECADES AGO. I MEASURE IT ALL BY THE SEASONS HERE IN MUSKOKA, AND WHEN WE FIRST ARRIVED HERE, THE DIFFERENCES WERE BRUTAL. I DON'T REMEMBER MANY FORTY BELOW DAYS IN BURLINGTON. BUT IN RETROSPECT, IT'S NOT LIKE I HAD TO WEAR A BEACON, OR CARRY A PORTABLE FOG HORN. I ALWAYS RUN CONDITIONS TOGETHER, BECAUSE CLIMBING UP TORRANCE HILL, ON AN AUTUMN DAY, YOU WOULD GET THE STRANGEST CONFLUENCE OF MIST AND SMOKE FROM BURNING LEAVES. THE MIST SMELLED A TAD FISHY, AND THE YARD FIRES WERE ALLURING IN A NOSTALGIC WAY……YET I WAS ONLY A KID. HOW DID I KNOW ABOUT NOSTALGIA? MY MOTHER TOLD ME I HAD AN OLD SOUL, SO POSSIBLY IT WAS THE REMEMBRANCE FROM A PAST EXISTENCE. AS FOR SMOKE FROM BURNING LEAVES, AND COINCIDENTAL FOG, I'M STILL MADLY ATTRACTED TO BOTH.
I WAS SO AMAZED TO RECEIVE A PHOTOGRAPH, FROM MY NEW BURLINGTON CORRESPONDENT, TRACY MCKELVEY, THE OTHER DAY, THAT SHE HAD TAKEN OF THE CURRENT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL. THE SAME ONE I ATTENDED AS A STUDENT IN THE EARLY 1960'S. IT WAS QUITE OLD THEN. I MUST ADMIT FEELING, FOR THOSE FEW MOMENTS, A LITTLE WOBBLY KNEED ABOUT SEEING THE PLACE, ADMITTEDLY THAT ONCE SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME. FIRST, AS A GRADE ONE STUDENT. I WAS A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. I HAD TWO HORRIBLE WEEKS, TO START OFF WITH, THAT FIRST YEAR, AND WANTED TO COME HOME ALMOST AS SOON AS I GOT INTO THE CLASSROOM. I PROBABLY DID A "RUNNER" THREE OF FOUR TIMES, UNTIL EVENTUALLY, WELL, I FOUND GIRLS! NO KIDDING. RIGHT UNTIL THE END OF UNIVERSITY, THE GIRLS IN CLASS GOT ME THROUGH THE RIGORS OF EDUCATION. WHEN I FOUND A FRIENDLY FACE, A SMILE OF WELCOME, FROM THE GIRL IN THE DESK BESIDE, I'D HAVE STAYED AT SCHOOL RIGHT THROUGH THE WEEKEND, IF THAT HAD BEEN THE PROTOCOL. I DIDN'T ENJOY THE BUSINESS PART OF SCHOOL QUITE AS SUCH. I WANTED TO LEARN, JUST NOT INDOORS. SO HAVING INTEREST IN THE YOUNG LADIES OF THE CLASS, GAVE ME THE REASON TO SHOW UP PROMPTLY EVERYDAY, BRUSH MY TEETH TWO MINUTES LONGER, EACH MORNING, AND TO GROOM MYSELF ACCORDINGLY. MERLE COULDN'T BELIEVE THE CHANGE IN HER SON, FROM ONE WHO LOOKED LIKE HE HAD JUST COME IN FROM THE OUTBACK, TO A DAPPER YOUNG FELLOW, WHO ACTUALLY LOOKED FORWARD TO GETTING AN EDUCATION. SO IT SHOULD NOT BE OF ANY SURPRISE THAT THE GIRL I EVENTUALLY MARRIED, WAS A CLASSMATE IN HIGH SCHOOL, WHO BECAME A TEACHER. I'M STILL BRINGING THE TEACHER AN APPLE EVERY DAY. I'M IN HER CLASS. SHE FEELS COMPELLED TO TEACH ME WHAT I APPARENTLY MISSED IN REGULAR CLASSES…… AND INSISTS I SHOULD KNOW FOR POSTERITY. FOR A KID WHO STARTED OFF HIS EDUCATIONAL JAG, HATING SCHOOL, I KIND OF MARRIED IT IN THE END.
When it comes to writing a biography, it helps a lot if you can, at times, lighten up a bit, from the sentimental stuff that mists-up the old eyes. If you're are interested in writing a personal history, yourself, at some point, today's reminiscence of school days at Lakeshore Public, will undoubtedly bring back memories for you. Not because you attended the same school, or sat in front of me (did I pull your hair, and if I did, I'm sorry), but from the characterizations of situations, discipline and classmates. At the end of this chapter of biography, I think you will probably wish to re-visit your old school, and reacquaint with chums, that made the experience so interesting, challenging, and in the end, quite rewarding. Even though I had later school years. that were bully-full, and I've got lots of recollections of getting clobbered at recesses, I had too many positive moments, with great pals, to ever let the negatives outweigh the truly wonderful experiences of being a school kid, in a neat, responsive, historic school, like Lakeshore Public. So as you're reading along here, let yourself slip back in time, and for every kid I introduce to you, I'm willing to bet, there will be a parallel student and circumstance that you can relate. So if you get a few laughs at poor George's expense, well that's history for you. It's all there. The good, bad and the ugly. In George's case, I represent two out of the three. In his personal biography, the bully got it in the end. If you're feeling really inspired, start writing your own memories down. Your family will thank you, one day, for capturing something special, they had never known of you……..maybe the reality, they can't imagine you were ever…….ever, a charter member, of the order of "the rapscallion." A scalawag, a rascal, a trouble-maker. Even if some called you a "goody two shoes," only you know, how wrong they were, to deny your more mischievous side. So here's my recollection of the school yard prank, that got us all busted down to private.
Ray Green and I were like mafia "wise guys." We knew our ranking in the school yard, and which tough customers to avoid, and who was king of the mountain on any particular day. This was important. We seemed to be able to navigate sensibly, through the quagmire of bullies, and their belching hubris, to always appear supportive of the very next Tony Soprano. It was a survival skill I learned at Lakeshore Public School, in Burlington, in my early years of education. While it was important to make the grade in the classroom, it was of vital importance to survive recess. How tough were these kids? Well, during my years there, I heard a number of instances, where some youngster, who had experienced the misadventure of getting hurt in an accident, away from the school, got beaten-up when they finally returned to class. Apparently because of "Elmer The Safety Elephant," and all that it represented to a truly safe school. I've explained this in previous blogs, but the Ontario education, policing initiative, was to foster safety at home and school. Each school got points for every day the "Elmer the Safety Elephant Flag," flew in the breeze from a front lawn pole, next to one with the Canadian flag. When a school kid was injured in a home or play accident (not sports), or unfortunately hit by a car, the school would have to take good old Elmer down. Previous to this, there would be the credit bestowed upon the entire school, that Elmer had been flying "300 days without an accident," or some increasing number that was supposed to, by this accomplishment, make us operationally safer out in the community. It presumed, you see, that kids were hit by cars or trucks because of their error in judgement. Heaven forbid a motorist made the mistake, broke a traffic rule, and hit a kid crossing at a stop sign.
We used to hear announcements about this all the time. How great it was that Elmer was still flying after almost a year of "safe" home and school days. So when the principle had to report that Elmer was on its way to the ground, because a kid had been hit by a car, the night before, well sir, it was as if someone had spit a huge gob at the school letters. Although I didn't see it, when the lad came back to school, after recovering from his injuries, it was like a mob-hit had been ordered. The safety freaks did catch him, at one point, and I heard they beat him bad, before a teacher could pull him free. I always wondered if that would have constituted the flag having to be dropped once again. I never liked Elmer after this. But I didn't go out and purposely get hit by a car, either, just to get even with the Board of Education that thought a safety goon-squad was a good idea…….because from what I knew then, getting hit by a car was short and sweet. The school yard bullies could hold a grudge for a whole school year.
I don't know what George's name was, but he was a nice kid. He wore thick glasses, and just enjoyed hanging around with a few kids in the school yard. He didn't have a lot of friends, and that put him at our disposal somewhat, because for the trace amount of "numbskull characteristic," we inherently possessed, George made a great third stooge. And you know what happens to three stooges, who are clumsy risk takers? The fact the principal ordered us to stay away from the coal chute, at the side of the school, was for rebels without a cause, reason enough to give it a whirl anyway. George wasn't a trouble maker, and I dare say, if a precise definition was required, he would be an "A" level pacifist. A lad headed for a Nobel Peace Prize one day. Until we got a hold of him. We screwed it all up for the poor kid. Somehow, we convinced George, that he could get into the school through the coal chute. That was our heating fuel back in those days. As it was winter, and Lakeshore Public was a substantial building, we probably went through a lot of coal. So there was still a pile at the opening of the chute. As I recall, the covering of the chute was missing. Opportunity presented. So who would want to go down a black hole, where there was not bottom visible, and no light at the end of the tunnel? Not us. But by golly, George would go where no other kid had dared to travel. I'm not saying if my footprint was on his head or not. He hung onto the sides, and we couldn't dislodge him, once he got into position to slide down. He backed down, but we were still gung-ho.
While all the other boys (girls had recess on the other side of the building) were sliding on a length of ice they'd created with their boots, Ray, George and I, moved to get a closer look at the backdoor entrance to the school. I think we told George that at the bottom of the chute, was where teachers kept all the neat stuff they confiscated from kids, and that his retrieval of these items, like balls and yo-yos, would make him a school hero. I think he half believed us. So as we kept nudging him closer, and closer to the opening, the more evidence we were creating, (without knowing it) that would eventually incriminate us in the principal's office. Well, we couldn't get George through the chute, as we had hoped, but close enough you see, to have contaminated every part of our exterior apparel. Just as it was getting interesting, and George was bent over looking down the chute, the bell sounded the end of recess. We had only a few moments to get over to the line-up headed indoors. In this clever plan, we had forgotten to complete our due diligence. It would have been clear, on cursory investigation, coal dust is a beggar to clean off, without heavy duty scrubbing. When we arrived up the stairs, on the main floor, we had to run a gauntlet of teachers, watching for situations like this, and they must have got quite a laugh, when these three stooges showed up, as if they'd just been in a comedic explosion……all having black-faces. Every time we stepped on a layer of coal dust, it had puffed up like a spray, and it attached to our clothes and all exposed skin. We looked like three Al Jolsons, at post recess attendance. It was kind of redundant then, to ask where we were playing in the schoolyard. Geez, I don't know. It was my first time getting busted for insubordination, and trespassing. I thought about pinning it on my buddies. They were faster than me, because that's exactly what they tried to do.
Poor George had it worse, because he had this fuzzy orange coat, with a hood, and it picked up every molecule of dust, and turned almost jet black by time we'd beat a hasty retreat from the chute area. As we were forbidden to be anywhere near that chute, we had violated school policy. While they didn't yank old Elmer down off the masthead, we were all hauled into the principal's office, and read the equivalent of the school "riot act." I had heard rumors of a leather strap, they employed for these kind of circumstances, so we all did what was appropriate at the time. We started crying before the desk drawer opened. We must have been quite a sight, because there was a lot of laughing going on, at our expense. I think we beat this rap, because we looked so funny, with tear tracks through the soot on our mugs, and looking very much like out of place coal miners. As we had reasonable track records, of being good students, overall, we got off pretty lightly. We were ordered, under a teacher's direction, to head to the washrooms, with rag and soap, to restore our student dignities. I think it took about an hour. A custodian took George's fake fur jacket, and could be seen outdoors, hitting it with an old hanger, to loosen the black from the orange. We felt pretty good by the end of the day. But I can't imagine what would have been the dire consequence, if George had actually made it down the chute. I think we just might have discovered, up close and personal, what leather smells like, after repeatedly hitting a fleshy hand.
I wasn't really a bully. I came to be a victim, many times in later years. But at Lakeshore Public, I was happiest being a "wise guy" in reserve. I'd kind of go with the flow, and if a bully needed me to offer a little praise, I was good to go. I remained an unlikely pacifist. It seemed I was good at public relations, and talking my way out of scraps. I was a mouth beggar, at times, and sometimes the guy I was calling "stupid head" could run faster than me. Now here was the affliction that made me defensive, as a kid. My problem, like Elmer the Safety Elephant, was that I had his ears. For years I was known as having Elmer or better still, "Dumbo," ears. My mother Merle, used to tell me, it was because I'd slept with them folded over, as a baby, and they had simply grown outward, instead of close to the skull. "Pretty windy out Teddy; are you going to fly away," they'd direct my way, at recess, or "Can you fly with those suckers?" Up until High School, when they finally became a little less outward bound, I had to live with "Hey, big ears….., fly over here," and "Geez, where did you buy those wings." So one Saturday, when George and I were chumming around, and happened to have taken a visit to the school yard, I finally let loose without warning. I don't remember how he worded it, but he suggested that getting our ball off the roof, shouldn't be any problem for a guy like me…..with huge, floppy, Bluenose, wind-catching ears. So without warning, or any time to protect himself, I drove the kid hard, with a fist to the stomach. I think it was something I'd learned from Alan Ladd, in his portrayal of "Shane" in the movie…..although, I soon found myself feeling anything but "Shane-like," as my friend doubled over in pain. I know this was the first time I had ever hit anyone, with a serious intent. It was probably circa Grade Three. I felt like crap, immediately after hitting George. And no matter how much I begged him to forgive me, and how sorry I was to have hit him with that kind of ill-intent, my friendship with George had ended. We never hung-out together after this nasty incident, and even Ray, the moderator, couldn't bring us back together. A perpetual good sport, and kind kid, my action had ruined a perfectly good friendship. As I watched him heading out of the school yard, still partly doubled over, I pondered you know, if God had been watching…..as my mother always warned. If he was, I quite expected the lightning bolt from heaven, and frankly, I wouldn't have been all that surprised. Maybe a little relieved. I knew you see, I would pay for this act of violence for the rest of my life. The fact that I'm writing this today, attests to the fact I was pretty much right on that count. I'm still apologizing to George, in my mind, almost a half century after the crime. I feel better confessing this, as you might appreciate.
Generally, I was a gentle guy before, and after this, I became a hardcore pacifist. I even took blows from other bullies without retaliating. I think my resignation toward bullies in the future, was more in the spirit of Shane, because it was only after a pretty severe beating, that I would finally employ the fist, I had once used to double-up poor George. I should note, that I was never seriously bullied at either Lakeshore Public School, or during my several years at Mountain Gardens Public School, also in Burlington. Moving to Bracebridge was tough for a lot of reasons. Small town schools were tougher, in those days, and a number of city friends warned my parents about the urban to rural adjustments, "Teddy" would have to make. Let's just say, there were a lot fewer "Georges," and a lot more fist-wielding country kids, who were very territorial, and very suspicious of the new kids on the block.
The teachers I remember from those days, included Mrs. Stilwell, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Bielby, and Principal Schantz. Outside of scanning through the old student lists to find my name, they would only have remembered me as the "black face kid," or, that odd looking boy with the "Dumbo Ears."
One incident that did impact me quite profoundly, occurred during the lunch break, or so I believe. I didn't see the accident myself. I think Elmer the Safety Elephant did. The flag pole was close by, and he was likely flapping in the wind…..yea, like my ears. The school yard, at this time, didn't have much in the way of resources. I don't remember if we had swings, but compared to playgrounds today, it was a tad spartan. So in the winter, the older kids found a way, of creating an ice-strip by packing down an area of snow, and creating a sort of runway in front. They would work over many recesses, attempting to initially, slide on the hard-packed snow. Eventually, they would be able to slide over it enough, to create a fairly long length of black ice. It would have been about thirty feet long, by only several feet across. So the big thrill, was to get it to this level of perfected natural ice, and take a run at it, for a memorable and dangerous slide. You might find twenty or thirty kids lined up for the cheap thrill. It was generally in the same place, each winter, and the teachers on patrol passively tolerated our innocent fun. The problem, as it is for bored kids today, the sliding gig got stale quickly. As the slide was precariously close to a maple tree, or oak in that part of the yard (closest to the front of the school), a few kids got the idea, to jump while in the middle of the slide, and grasp an over-hanging tree limb, to swing from. I remember watching it, and thinking it was pretty neat, to be traveling ten to fifteen feet, at a break-neck speed, and then leaping to grab this overhanging branch. The kids got pretty good at it, but I was still too short to manage it, even with an exceptional leap in the air. (I know, I know, you're thinking about the ears, right). Well, one day at lunch, after I'd come back to school, there was a lot of activity in this zone, and I'd seen an ambulance leaving the driveway. What I heard had happened, was that a kid had been whipping down that black length of ice, jumped for the branch, missed, fell flat on his back, and hit his head so hard on the ice, that his eye popped out of its socket. No kidding. It was just dangling there. Gross. What makes a kid go and stare at the sawdust layered on the blood, still laying on the ice. I had that stupid image in my mind for decades. It made me sick that day, like the twenty or thirty kids that had to go home ill, after the incident. The kid lived. He got his eye back in the socket. Elmer? Do you know, I can't remember what happened to the flag, on this occasion. I think it was already down because of the other kid's accident…..so maybe this kid got off easy…..other than the eye-popping incident.
As for academics, cripes I sucked. I had attention deficit disorder before they knew what the hell it was. All I wanted was to be outdoors. Mucking along the banks of Ramble Creek, sending our hand crafted battleships off toward the lake. I had a million outdoor projects that were being delayed by school studies. The lesson I detested the most, was when the teacher, Mrs. Bielby, if memory serves, used to give us these crazy assignments to cut and paste. You had to cut from one page, to glue onto the other, matching up words with drawings. It's not that I didn't know the differences, between a cow and a freaking rabbit. I would just get all excited because everyone else would be half done, before I made my first cut-out. I had a way of getting glue all over myself, as I still do with fix-it projects here at home. Well, when you're working with paper cut-outs, it's definitely a disadvantage to have glued-up fingers. I'd get so angry, with pieces of paper attached to three to five fingers, that inevitably, I'd attach a cow where the rabbit was supposed to go. As the glue got a little gummy, when it was exposed to the air for more than a couple of minutes, there were no "do-overs" once the adhesive met paper. I can still recall the horror, of trying to get the paper square off the wrong category of beast, and looking at the clock to see, that once again, I was in an out of control spin of "stupid." How could you not feel like an idiot, covered in cut-out paper, even glue to my new sweater, and some on my pants. Every time the teacher gave me this assignment, the second verse was the same as the first. "How does this happen Teddy," she'd ask, with a look of shock on her face, that any student of hers could be such a klutz. Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. If I found myself having to do the same exercise today, and she had survived to see me get to this age, let me tell you, history would most certainly repeat. I'd just be older to watch myself crash and burn. The funny side of this, is that I did become fairly proficient in the art of cutting and pasting in the newspaper business, when I worked as an editor with Muskoka Publications. I just had the advantage of having lay-out artists and my beck and call. And no marks given.
Of other memorable events, at Lakeshore Public School, included the time-honored, kid-adored "Field Days," where even the most athletically challenged kid, could win a ribbon as a participant. I got a lot of "Participant" ribbons back then. I wasn't a bad athlete, and I did get a lot better as time went by, but you see, they didn't have events I might have excelled in……like Ramble Creek jumping, and soaker-getting. I was an accomplished smelt fisherman, and I could catch Suckers with my bare hands. I could climb the trees in the ravine like a monkey, and when someone was chasing me, I could run like an Olympic sprinter. I could catch the "Goody Man's" truck when he turned up on Harris Crescent, even if I was at the lake-end of the creek. If they had conducted races like this, where there was a popsicle treat involved, I would have changed those participation ribbons, to ones of first place gold. But I enjoyed getting out of the school, and the only heartbreak, was when it started to rain before we got outside. If it started raining while we were outside, unless there was a thunderstorm brewing, we usually carried on with the event. So I became very hateful of nature for raining on my parade. I liked my education outdoors. This was a trait through my entire school career.
Merle was a very defensive parent. She hated when any of my teachers would reference that "Teddy is very shy, and doesn't participate in classroom discussions." "Teddy is always looking out the window, and doesn't seem interested in what is going on in the class." I knew by the look on her face, while she was folding up the report card, that my teacher was going to get a surprise visit. I was never wrong about this either. I went with her once, for a parent-teacher meeting, and all my instructor could do was answer, "But, well, but, but, okay but, well, maybe but, yes Mrs. Currie." I was proud of her for standing up for me, because I was habitually shy. Still am. But Merle felt it was wrong for teachers to feel it was their incumbent duty, to break what I had been born with. "There are many successful people in this world, who have overcome shyness, in time, and never suffered any long lasting disadvantage, because of it." It was written onto an accompanying note, attached to the report card that I had to return to the school. Merle had actually run out of room, on the report card, where it allowed for parental response, and had to use extra note paper. She also chastised the teacher, about the comment she had made about my looking out the window, and not paying attention to the the lesson being taught. 'Well, maybe Teddy is telling you something about the way you're teaching the lessons……because he's interested in a lot of things, if he's presented them with enthusiasm." Merle, in the fog of war, as she saw it, had defended my honor, and privilege of being the kid I was. I have always been a dreamer; a shy kid who saw more potential in the field, with nature my instructor, than jammed into a classroom watching the clock define my day. As a writer, I still seek liberation from the same old, same old. So Merle was both timely and quite perceptive. And as I've also written a biography, of one of Ontario's well known Outdoor Educators, David Brown, of Hamilton, one of my closest friends, my destiny was to learn from paddling a canoe, and being immersed in the wilds……as I so dearly loved in the Ravine of old Ramble Creek. Dave Brown was a teacher, but his classroom was outdoors. This I could enjoy.
My few years at Lakeshore Public School, were quite memorable, and once I stopped trying to escape, actually became quite enjoyable. There was a basement area, where they'd take us for art classes, and I can always remember the aroma of the watercolor powders, in big cans, and the must of a cool basement. I liked art because there were a lot fewer rules to follow. I was an expressionist painter right off the bat, and despite having to wear a smock, I painted myself handsomely, as well anyone who happened to be sitting beside. I was better than Jackson Pollock. I could paint a Campbell's Soup Can as well as any man, including Andy Warhol. Damn thing, I always got a crappy grade. It may have had something to do with the fact, the exercise wasn't supposed to promote abstraction, and there was never an option to paint a soup can. I always had such a vivid imagination, you see, that I just painted what seemed appropriate, including Ray Green's red hair, "blue." Looked good.
The favorite part of my early school years' experience, without a doubt, were the "hunt and gather" walks to and from Lakeshore Public. I most often went the back-way, running past Dooley the Irish Setter (it was a good day when I didn't get nipped) through a laneway at the end of our cul-de-sac, which abutted a hydro right of way, with massive towers that I fantasized about climbing…….but only ever touched them, just to say I had! When I walked home along the busy Lakeshore, it was most often at the time when Chestnuts were falling. The first part of the Torrance hillside, heading up to Harris Crescent, had about four to six chestnut trees, and it was what all the neighborhood kids stuffed into their pockets, even with the thorny green husks. The real joy was cracking the brown (toe-like) nuts out of the thick covering, and a lot of my chums took them home, where their mothers helped them drill holes, and make them into long strands on string. You used to see them hanging over hydro lines, all up and down the Lakeshore. I really never understood this part of the chestnut-thing, but what I did appreciate is how bad they smelled, when I'd forget about them in a corner of my room, and they'd begin to grow into something other than a tree.
But whether I was coming or going, my intent was to enjoy the walk, find interesting things to get-up-to along the way, and pocket what ever I found that seemed too good to throw away. Garbage day was my favorite. As I've written about many times before, I got my start in the antique trade, on these walks to and from Lakeshore Public School. Anne Nagy and my mother, always scanned me thoroughly, before I got to the apartment sidewalk, for undesirable items I might be concealing in my jacket, or trouser pockets. I could see no good reason to let a big iron hinge get thrown out, in someone's garbage, just because it was a little rusty. I knew what Alec Nagy did with spare parts, and how he used them to fix his lawn mower and other groundskeeping equipment. I looked for things to add to my bicycle, and a hinge might have looked neat. By time I'd round the corner off Torrance, they could tell by the droop of my pants, approximately what weight of garbage-picking treasures, I had on my person. I was pretty good at concealing even big pieces, like old hockey sticks I'd find, if I swung by the arena first. I was a junior hoarder. What I did sneak into the apartment….with some minor livestock (crickets and a couple of injured birds; maybe even a squirrel), Merle would begin tossing out, the moment I left for school the next day. If Anne Nagy wasn't careful to disguise the garbage, as only kitchen refuse, I'd have my head stuck in those metal pails every time. "Teddy's in the garbage again, Alec." Anne would yell from the front door. "Get out of there," someone would yell, and I'd be off in a flash. I used to find my own treasures Merle had chucked, so I'd haul them in a second and third time. It was all neat stuff, that would have been wasted at the dump…..when I had a use for it all. Or I thought I did, (the hoarder's credo) at the moment, rescuing some neat article, even clothing, from the wet coffee grounds, and grease covered newspapers. Someone was throwing out an Easy-Bake oven, complete with one cake mix. Geez, how neat was this. So I told Merle that I traded a kid a rusty metal hinge for the oven and cake mix. She actually seemed good with this, though she wasn't sure how Ed was going to react to his son having, what he would have called, "A toy for a little girl." I couldn't have argued about this, because that's how it was marketed on television and in the catalogues of department stores. So we just didn't dwell on the subject, and Merle helped me make the last cake. The light bulb didn't cut it, so I was disappointed. Merle took the still-wet mix, and stuck into her kitchen range, and within minutes, it was done. We both had slices. It tasted like it smelled, when I first took it out of the box for a peak. Well, if "musty" can actually translate into "a taste," then this would explain the most horrible cake ever! "Where did you get this Teddy," she demanded. "You didn't pull this out of the garbage, did you?" she asked, still spitting-out musty cake into the sink. I may have. And then I ran out of the apartment before she could grab one of my big ears.
Thanks for joining today's blog, which is chapter two of a seven part series. My Burlington years. Please join me tomorrow night, for part three of seven.
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