MORNING SPENT ON A COLLECTOR'S BLISSFUL ADVENTURE - THANK YOU GRAVENHURST LIONS AND GRAVENHURST UNITED CHURCH
THERE ARE ADVANTAGES AND CORRESPONDING DISADVANTAGES OF LIVING AND WORKING IN A SMALL TOWN. IF YOU HAVE LIVED IN A CITY FOR A PERIOD OF YOUR LIFE, YOU MAY HAVE FOUND, INITIALLY, THAT THERE ARE PROFOUND DISADVANTAGES OF LIVING IN THE HINTERLAND; ESPECIALLY IF YOU LIKE TO ATTEND MAJOR ATTRACTIONS, AND DON'T CARE FOR DRIVING HOURS TO GET THERE. THERE ARE OTHER URBAN REFUGEES, WHO FIND THERE ARE MANY MORE ADVANTAGES TO HAVING A SIMPLER, LESS STRESSFUL WAY OF LIFE. THERE ARE THOSE WHO WILL LIKE THE FACT THAT FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS CALL OUT THEIR NAME AT EVENTS, IN KINDLY WELCOME, AND SOME OTHERS WILL HATE THE FACT, THEY CAN'T AVOID CONTACT WITH PEOPLE WHO HAPPEN TO LIKE THEIR COMPANY. THAT SAID, AFTER ALL MY YEARS OF LIVING IN MUSKOKA, I FIND IT ENDEARING, TO HAVE THE COMFORTS OF CLOSE FRIENDSHIPS, AND I SOMETIMES FORGET WHAT IT WAS LIKE LIVING IN THE CITY, AND BEING A FACE IN A CROWD, ON A BUS, ON A STREET-CAR, SUBWAY COACH, OR HUDDLED TOGETHER ON A STREET CORNER. I THINK THE MOST I HAVE EVER FELT ALONE AND ISOLATED, WAS WHEN I LIVED IN A CITY WITH MILLIONS OF OTHER RESIDENTS. WHICH BRINGS ME TO THE POINT OF THIS OPENING EDITORIAL ABOUT SMALL TOWN COMFORTS. WE ATTENDED TWO FUNDRAISING YARD SALES TODAY, AND WE SPENT MORE TIME IN CONVERSATION WITH FRIENDS, NEIGHBORS AND BUSINESS ASSOCIATES, THAN ACTUALLY LOOKING AROUND FOR THINGS TO BUY. I SUPPOSE FOR A COUPLE OF MOMENTS, I WANTED TO DISASSOCIATE MYSELF OF INTRUSIVE FRIENDSHIPS, SO THAT I COULD HUSTLE UP SOME TREASURES, CONSIDERING THIS WAS ONE OF THE REASONS FOR ATTENDING. BUT DARN IT ALL, THERE WAS NO WAY AROUND IT, AND I FINALLY SURRENDERED, AS I ALWAYS DO, TO THE FACT I ADORE THESE SIGNS OF CARING, AND KINSHIP THAT PREVAIL IN PLACES JUST LIKE THIS; IF YOU'RE NOT TOO BUSY TO ENJOY THE AMBIENCE. AS INTRUSIVE AS IT IS, BY GOLLY, THE MEANING OF LIFE IS WRAPPED UP IN IT SOMEHOW. IT DOESN'T REQUIRE OVER ANALYZING. IT JUST REQUIRES THAT YOU ENJOY WHAT THE FOLKS OF THIS COMMUNITY BRING TO THE TABLE. AND IT'S HUGE BOUNTY!
TO START TODAY'S BLOG, I WANTED TO ACKNOWLEDGE AND THANK, THE FINE FOLKS, AND DEFINITELY HARD WORKING MEMBERS, AND FAMILIES, OF THE GRAVENHURST LIONS CLUB, WHO PUT ON ANOTHER FABULOUS FUNDRAISING YARD SALE, IN THE PAVILION AT SAGAMO PARK, LAKE MUSKOKA. IT'S ALWAYS A GREAT COMMUNITY EVENT, WITH A LOT OF LAUGHTER AND CAJOLING, MIXED WITH THE SOUNDS OF GENERAL COMMERCE; INTERESTING MERCHANDISE, CHANGING HANDS FROM EAGER SELLERS TO EXCITED BUYERS, AS A FUNDRAISER FOR LIONS CLUB INITIATIVES. OF ALL THE SALES WE ATTEND, EACH YARD SALE SEASON, WE LIKE THE LIONS CLUB FOR WHAT IT DOESN'T HAVE. THE ATMOSPHERE DOWN BY THE LAKE IS PERFECT, THE STRESS LEVEL, EVEN FOR THE HELPERS, IS NON-EXISTENT, AND THE FOOD THEY SERVE UP IS A NICE MORNING TREAT. ANDREW, SUZANNE AND I, ALMOST FILLED THE VAN WITH GREAT FINDS, AND WE DROVE AWAY, ONCE AGAIN, FEELING THAT THE LOCAL LIONS CERTAINLY KNOW HOW TO CREATE A NEAT, AND CREATIVE, YARD SALE ENVIRONMENT. OUR COMMUNITY IS FORTUNATE TO HAVE THE LIONS CLUB BECAUSE THEY DO A LOT FOR THE TOWN WITHOUT A LOT OF RECOGNITION. WHEN WE GO TO ONE OF THEIR SALE EVENTS, AS TRADITION FOR OUR FAMILY, WE ALWAYS HAVE A COFFEE TOAST TO SUZANNE'S FATHER, AND ANDREW'S GRANDFATHER, LION NORM STRIPP, FORMERLY OF THE WINDERMERE AND DISTRICT LIONS CLUB. WE KNOW FIRST HAND HOW HARD THE LIONS WORK ON OUR BEHALF, TO IMPROVE SERVICES FOR THOSE IN NEED, AND LION NORM USED TO BE ON-SITE AT THE ANNUAL WINDERMERE FLEA MARKET EVERY AUGUST; HIS WAS THE BROOM SELLING DETAIL. WE LOVED BEING PART OF THAT EVENT AS WELL. SO THANKS AGAIN GRAVENHURST LIONS, FOR TAKING THE TIME OUT OF THEIR BUSY LIVES AND DAYS, TO PUT ON SUCH AN INTERESTING COMMUNITY EVENT, TO BENEFIT SO MANY!
WE ALSO HAD A BALL AT THE ANNUAL YARD SALE, HOSTED BY THE GRAVENHURST UNITED CHURCH, THIS MORNING, AND WHAT ROOM WAS LEFT IN THE VAN, WAS QUICKLY FILLED WITH SOME OTHER GREAT PURCHASES, INCLUDING, FOR GOSH SAKES, A VINTAGE (AND I MEAN VINTAGE-VINTAGE) ELECTRIC IRONING DEVICE, FOR LINENS, THAT WAS USED AT THE CHURCH FOR DECADES, TO PRESS LARGE TABLE CLOTHS. SUZANNE USES ANTIQUATED PIECES LIKE THIS, AS DEMONSTRATION ANTIQUES, TO SHOW OUR CUSTOMERS HOW THEY WERE USED, (WITH MODERN DAY APPLICATION) ALONG WITH HER OLD BUT RELIABLE SINGER SEWING MACHINES, WHICH SHE USES EVERY DAY NOW, TO MAKE APRONS FROM VINTAGE TABLE CLOTHS, AND NICELY AGED FABRIC. SHE HAS JUST RECENTLY PURCHASED A PORTABLE SINGER, THAT WAS KNOWN AS A WORKHORSE OUTFIT, FOR NEAR-INDUSTRIAL QUALITY SEWING. THIS GOES WITH HER THREE FEATHER-LIGHT SINGERS, SHE ALSO USES FOR DEMONSTRATION, AND DAY TO DAY CREATIVE PROJECTS, AT OUR ANTIQUE SHOP ON MUSKOKA ROAD. TODAY WE FOUND A LOT OF SEWING COLLECTABLES, AND A NUMBER OF GREAT LITTLE COOKBOOKS, FOR HER COLLECTION, ALSO ON DISPLAY, AND FOR SALE, IN THE STORE. ANDREW PICKED UP A NICE TURN-TABLE FOR HIS RECORDS, AND A WHOLE FOLD UP BOX, WITH A HALF MADE WOODEN AIRPLANE INSIDE, WITH ALL THE WOODWORKING TOOLS INCLUDED. AH, THE THINGS YOU FIND AT THESE SUMMER SEASON SALES. THIS, I THINK, IS THE FIRST TIME IN THE PAST THREE YEARS, THAT THE CHURCH VOLUNTEERS HAVE BEEN ABLE TO RUN THE SALE OUTDOORS. THE WEATHER FOR THEIR PAST SALES HAS FORCED THEM INDOORS, WHICH IS NICE, IN THE WINTER. IN THE SUMMER SEASON, YOU JUST HAVE TO BE OUTSIDE, AND SALES ARE ALWAYS BETTER WITH THE ADDED VISIBILITY TO PASSING TRAFFIC OF COURSE. WE LIKE SUPPORTING OUR LOCAL CHURCHES AND SERVICE CLUBS, AND WELL, SO DO YOU. I THINK BOTH THE GRAVENHURST LIONS, AND THE GRAVENHURST UNITED CHURCH, WILL HAVE ENJOYED A PROFITABLE SATURDAY OF YARD SALE SELLING; AND THAT'S SUPER.
WE HAD A HALF HOUR LEFT AFTER GETTING BACK TO THE SHOP, BEFORE OPENING, JUST ENOUGH TIME FOR A COFFEE AND A MUFFIN; FEELING WE HAD A FINE START TO THE DAY. HOPE YOUR DAY STARTED GOOD AS WELL. ISN'T IT MAGNIFICENT OUT THERE? MUSKOKA. WHERE ELSE WOULD YOU RATHER BE?
AS A BRIEF FOOTNOTE, SUZANNE HAS SET ME UP AS A MODERN ERA (OLD FART) STAMP COLLECTOR. LAST NIGHT, AT A RESTAURANT IN ORILLIA, I WAS GIVEN A SENIOR'S DISCOUNT. WE WERE ALREADY HALF WAY HOME WHEN SUZANNE LOOKED AT THE RECEIPT. THAT'S THREE TIMES THIS MONTH, AND CONSIDERING I'M YOUNGER THAN SUZANNE, AT 58, GOSH, DO I REALLY LOOK BEYOND MY ACTUAL AGE? "MUST BE THE GRAY BEARD," SHE SAID, "MORE THAN THE WRINKLES." I FEEL SO MUCH BETTER. BACK TO THE STAMPS, SUZANNE FEELS THAT BEYOND WATCHING TELEVISION AND WRITING BLOGS, AND ANTIQUE HUNTING, I NEED TO FILL MY WINTER NIGHTS SO I WON'T BOTHER HER. IF I'M NOT FULLY OCCUPIED, YOU SEE, I BEG FOR THINGS, EVERY TIME SHE GETS UP AND GOES TO THE KITCHEN. SHE HAS THIS IDEA, THAT IF SHE SMOTHERS ME WITH PHILATELIC MATERIAL, I WON'T BE SO ANNOYINGLY IN HER WAY. SO SHE BOUGHT ME A MODERN ERA, HOW-TO BOOK, ABOUT THE GOOD GRACES OF THIS STAMP-THING. WHEN ROBERT AND ANDREW WERE WEE LADS, SUZANNE AND I BOUGHT THEM BAGS OF CANCELLED STAMPS, AND BOOKS TO DISPLAY THEM, AND AS A HOBBY IT LASTED ABOUT A HALF HOUR IN TOTAL. SO I WAS GOING THROUGH MY ARCHIVES, A COUPLE OF MONTHS AGO, AND FOUND ALL THE OLD STAMPS, SOME STILL IN THE ORIGINAL BAGS FROM THE EARLY 1990'S, THAT WE BOUGHT AT THE LOCAL BOOK SHOP, AND A FEW OF THE BOOKS WE HAD STARTED FOR THEM. WHEN I'M OUT AT SALES, I HABITUALLY BUY SMALL COLLECTIONS OF STAMPS WHEN AVAILABLE, AND ANY PARTIALLY COMPLETED BOOKS. RECENTLY, I'VE BEEN FORTUNATE TO FIND SEVERAL SMALL BUT INTERESTING PACKETS OF STAMPS, ENOUGH TO GIVE ME A WINTER'S WORTH OF BUSY EVENINGS. I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO PURSUE STAMPS, AND I SUPPOSE IT'S WHY I TRIED TO GET THE BOYS INTERESTED BACK THEN. I PARTICULARLY LIKE COVERS, AND I HAVE A SMALL BINDER HALF FULL ALREADY. LAST NIGHT I WAS ABLE TO GET A COUPLE OF PARTIALLY FILLED STAMP BOOKS TO ADD TO MY INVENTORY. I'M NOT DOING THIS WITH THE PURPOSE OF MAKING MY MILLION DOLLAR RETIREMENT FUND. I CAN ONLY WRITE FOR SO MANY HOURS OF THE DAY, AND UNLESS SUZANNE EMPLOYS ONE OF THE FISH WHACKERS, ON MY NOGGIN, TO RENDER ME NON-ANNOYING, STAMPS MAY ACTUALLY WORK FOR ME IN MY ELDER YEARS; WHICH APPARENTLY, SOME IN THE RESTAURANT BUSINESS, THINK I'M ALREADY OF QUALIFYING AGE. JUST SO YOU KNOW, IN CASE YOU'RE A STAMP COLLECTOR YOURSELF, I AM A VERY OLD ROOKIE, SEEING AS MOST COLLECTORS START AT A MUCH YOUNGER AGE. AND I CAN'T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE JUST YET. BUT I DO LIKE THE REALITY, THAT THESE CANCELLED STAMPS HAVE TRAVELLED ALL OVER THE WORLD, IN ALL KINDS OF CONTRAPTIONS, THROUGH THE GOOD TIMES AND BAD, OF THE ELAPSE OF DECADES. INSTEAD OF COLLECTING HARVEST TABLES AND FLAT-TO-THE-WALL CABINETS, JAM CUPBOARDS AND PIE SAFES, IT'S A LOT MORE SPACE EFFICIENT TO COLLECT STAMPS. UNLESS, LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, I START HOARDING AND BUYING MAJOR COLLECTIONS. I DON'T SEE THIS IN MY FUTURE, BUT THAT'S HOW ALL MY OTHER OBSESSIONS STARTED OFF, BY THE HAPPENSTANCE OF DISCOVERY.
SO WHAT WAS GO-CART RACING LIKE BACK IN THE WILD DAYS OF OUR YOUTH? PARENTS HAD TO GUARD THEIR LAWN MOWER WHEELS!
HERE'S AN EXAMPLE OF HOW WE YOUNG FOLK, ADAPTED TO A TOWN FULL OF HILLS
The hills of Bracebridge gave us Hunt's Hill lads a glorious idea for adventure. I really don't know where the inspiration came from, just that it did; although I suspect, like the evolution of the wheel itself, thought about casually, as we were riding our bikes at break-neck speeds, down the steep decline of Flynn's Hill. It was named out of respect for Mrs. Flynn, who owned several rental properties in town, including the former Nunnery, on the top of Richard Street. Yes, we had a Nunnery and a Monastery in Bracebridge, and there was a well trodden path between the two; the Society of St. John The Evangelist mission house, was located on upper Woodward Street, pretty much a straight line to Richard Street as the crow flies. Mrs. Flynn came to own the Nunnery, the attractive white building at the top of the hill, and the incline was steep enough to keep us lads interested, but not really scary enough, to make us retreat to a hill of lesser decline. So I suppose, we discussed the idea of a four wheel creation, to make life more interesting; concocting plans while sitting at the bottom of the hill, next to our favorite tree that provided the greenest apples on earth. None of us kids, ever suffered from constipation during green apple season. We did have a lot of stomach aches however, but we couldn't confess this to our mothers, because they had already told us not to complain, if we kept eating them with reckless abandon.
When we hatched this scheme to build competitive go-carts, between members of the Hunt's Hill gang, there was only one place to harvest materials. We would, without making it too obvious, raid the Toronto Street homestead, of chums, Rick and Al Hillman, sons of Downtown Garage owner, Seth Hillman. Seth's business partner was Art Crockford, a huggable fellow, who looked even more kindly with grease on the end of his nose. Both Seth and Art were gentle souls, who let all us gad-about kids, explore the garage, when there was no repair project going on; at least in the service bays, at the time. When they weren't spinning stories, with guests who dropped in regularly, they did repair work on smaller parts at the huge shop counter, stretching north and south in the Thomas Street building. What Seth didn't always appreciate, is that what we didn't borrow from the garage, to build our go-carts, we'd swipe from his garage at home instead; including a belt here and there, of his famous dandelion wine, stored downstairs in the cool room. Geez that was good stuff.
Seth, you see, kept a pretty good inventory of parts. It was an habitual thing for a mechanic I suppose, who could fix small engines as well; meaning there were always retired lawnmowers being saved for parts, to swap with other working machines. Once we got the idea for go-cart construction, Seth began noticing a shortage of lawnmower wheels in his storage area. They weren't ideal for go-cart construction, but without options, and money, we took what was in supply at that moment. We'd scrap just about anything, Seth owned, yet I never once remember him coming home from work, and getting mad because we either left a mess, in his garage, or stole wheels he was saving for another restoration job.
We also swiped his "U" nails, from a box of thousands, because they were perfect for attaching axle rods, onto the two by four steering crosser, attached to the centre two by four, which met the same connection at the rear. The back crosser of course didn't pivot. Well, sometimes it did by accident, of not being attached firmly enough. That made for a bad, bad trip down the hillside. The idea, was that for steering, the front axle support, had to pivot, so that we could navigate corners. Except, we never had to corner or carts on the stretch of Flynn's Hill. Occasionally, we found a cast-off baby buggy or stroller, on garbage day (which was always a delight for us early morning pickers), but it was understood, by the brave-hearts in the group, that better wheels made for faster carts, and less travelling time to get from the top of the hill, to the bottom. Which meant the risk factor was really high; understanding that it was pretty much the case, the driver was going to die after flipping, at a faster speed; which was probably ten times greater than with those tiny lawnmower wheels.
We used the "u" nails to fasten onto a rope steering-mechanism, which was just yellow ski rope that refused to knot-up, and a little bit of slack. Some of the daredevil drivers, preferred, like a luge, to steer with the shift of their body weight and their feet, on the two by four holding the front axle. We never had an actual steering wheel. Feet or hands. It was better to use rope steering, so that you could use your feet for braking. Quality workmanship was a concern. If we made a miscalculation, and that could be as simple as not anchoring the steering rope securely, the driver could soon be licking the asphalt, halfway down the hill. Sometimes the whole axle would fall off, plus one or two of the wheels. We had a spoked buggy wheel go wobbly, on one down hill flight, and boy oh boy did that hurt the navigator big time; but it wasn't me thank God.
If we had buggy wheels, the carts would fly down the hill, at a speed that was almost too fast. These were far more reliable than the much smaller lawnmower wheels, which certainly weren't meant for go-cart racing, or even best suited to our respective weights. The smaller wheels could break from the stresses of too much weight, and the driver might have to abort as quickly and safely as possible, if any wobbling occurred, especially with the front wheels. We could stand a bumpy ride, if one or both of the rear wheels fell off, mid-race, because we could at least steer from the front.
While travelling on a go-cart was fast, especially on Flynn's Hill, anyone doing the same downhill race on an average bike, would have been almost twice as fast. The point was, we were building these contraptions ourselves, believing that we were making Indy style racers. Maybe dragster racing was a better parallel. The danger level was much higher on these carts, because generally, we were slack-ass when it came to quality control. Bikes were manufactured by people who knew how to attach partner pieces together. We just drove nails in, sometimes in a cluster, and we didn't take into account, that Al Hillman and Don Clement weighed more than Rick Hillman and myself. And Al, the only one of us who had mechanical aptitude, always made an outstanding go-cart, in large part, because he knew where his dad kept the best wheels.
In case you have never had the privilege of flying downhill on a go-cart, made of this and that, from leftovers in the garage, let me tell you, it was exhilarating. So to give you some sensory perception, what it was all about, let's start by sitting in one of our simple design carts, with a rope for steering, and four lawnmower wheels. Two larger ones from an industrial mower, are placed on the back axle. The smaller ones are attached to the front. This gives the appearance of a dragster, just not as well put together. The cart you are racing beside, is of similar construction, but it has wheels from a baby stroller, and steering is by having a foot on either side of the front axle-bracing. By any other name, it was a two by four length of wood, about four feet long depending on the size of the axle. The wider it was, the harder it was to navigate.
So here you and I are sitting, in respective death-draps, at the top of Flynn's Hill, which we often called the "Widow Maker," although none of us were married, and had to worry about leaving a wife and kids. We had hockey helmets on some of the time, and swimming goggles that had already fogged up, before our wheels began to turn. Our mates had our backs....I mean that, and while some times we had a pushing stick, to lodge into the frame of the cart, most of the time, they just shoved on our shoulders to get the race underway. You could feel it inching forward, and then, when they got aggressive from behind, the speed picked up dramatically, and son of bitch, the next thing you knew, the cart was smoking down the hillside and the grim reaper was keeping close tabs. The vibration is so incredible, because there are no springs to soften the ride, and the fear of crashing so intense, that inevitably the driver pisses his drawers, sometime in the first twenty yards, of about a seventy yard course. When you are side by side a competing go-cart, you can't lose your concentration on the finish line, because if you do, it will upset your sense of balance. Just turning your head a little bit, could actually cause a responsive shift in weight, and when this has to be corrected, it's often way more than is needed. This can start the tell-tale wobble of a potential collision, or loss of control. There is only one place to look, and that's the chap holding the flag, at the bottom of the hill.
There are bugs in your teeth, your hands are numb from the vibration in the rope, and your knees feel like they're buckling, if that's how you are steering the luge on wheels. The sensation of being that low to the asphalt, is ever-threatening, and the fact you had a hand in building the vehicle, may or may not inspire extra worry. Will the axle be strong enough, and will the "U" nails hold until the end of the race. You try to test the brakes, which may only be the bottoms of your running shoes. If steering with your feet, a braking stick was likely added to the body of the cart, for your right or left hand, to leverage down against the roadway, to decrease the speed. Both methods usually failed miserably, so the best advice, was to never try to stop the cart by either means. When it ran out of momentum, that was considered the most effective braking system. If you got to the bottom of the hill, and took the checkered flag, you would accept the congratulations of the spectators, and then head back to the hillside, to help the wounded warrior back to his feet. I never participated in one of these downhill spectacles, in my youth, where both cars that set out, both made it to the finish line. Usually, a mishap at the halfway point, took out at least one of the carts. The best scenario, was if it flipped on the tarmac, because either side of the road offered some nasty obstructions. The left side coming down the hill, was a steep decline of rock and shrubs, that would definitely cause more serious injury. In all the years of Flynn's Hill crashes, we never suffered even one broken bone. Not an arm, a finger or a toe. We just removed a lot of skin. The scrapes from a crash, and slide along the tarmac, produced some ugly wounds, that looked like they were going to need stitches, but mostly just a medical ointment to stave off infection, and possibly a bandage. Did I mention a crying towel because we did a lot of that, while asking our pit crew how bad the wounds were, on the back of our arms, shoulder blades, and butt cheeks. "What's burning Al," I'd ask, trying to look back to see what was on fire. "It's just your ass Ted. It's still smoking." We had road rash from the beginning of the summer until the first day of school in September. That stretch of roadway, on Richard Street, had enough skin on it, that it could have been considered part human. In many ways, that's the way it acted too, seemingly capable of reaching up from its surface, to unfasten our wheels and axle, delighting in our tumbles along its abrasive length.
On the moment the driver of one of these carts, feels the wobble enough, that visually his hands and legs appear as double images, you prepare yourself for the best landing possible, once the woodwork begins to fail. There's always enough time, from the bad shakes, to the final collapse, to replay the times of your life. You know it's going to be a crash, and it might even take-out the cart racing beside, so you just begin crying in advance. You have enough time to whisper to God, "I'm going to die, right?" The initial contact with the tarmac is easy to take, because the adrenalin is at its peak. It takes about five seconds of sliding down the hill, without anything other than a thin layer of clothing, to actually start feeling the sting and heat of friction. With the exception of some honking big whacks with the cart itself, which might have rolled on top of you during the slide, the most pain of the event, would come, at least for us, in the next half hour, while sitting on the stoop of Black's Variety, on Toronto Street, sipping an ice cold Coke. Somehow, at those post race affairs, the wounds became badges of honor, especially if the local gals dropped by for some cent candy. We could impress them with our cuts, scrapes and bruises, but not so much, with our road-rashed butt cheeks, or with the wet spots on our pants, from fear-peeing. The carts were generally destroyed after a day's racing, and as typical, we'd dump the carcasses in Hillman's garage, and move on to the next most exciting thing to do on the summer holidays.
As kids in our respective neighborhoods, we all enjoyed the thrill of a fast, semi-dangerous run, down whatever hill presented. Some of us only climbed hills because of the death defying challenges coming back down. Even when we knew the consequences, from past misadventures, we were attracted to these hills like moths to a flame. Over the years, we understood the way our town was challenging our complacency. Even the most cautious of youngsters, would eventually come around, and be seen later on, racing just like us, to get to the bottom, and then all over again. But we did grow up with hills in our minds, and our ambitions. It's been that way since the beginning, when the acreage around the cataract of the north falls, was seen as good terrain to establish a village. The hills and valleys were part of the package. Today we might not think about it very much, and I don't know how much go-carting or downhill biking goes on, but no matter what the disconnect, at the heart of it, the hills and watershed of the old hometown, play a subtle role, in establishing a sensitivity about what it means to be a hometowner. We don't have a prairie to deal with, or a mountainous region in which to dwell. We have a different landscape, and it affects us in ways we may never fully understand. But, when it comes right down to it, we don't need to know everything about everything. I still have scars all over my body from those crash and burn events, so I do understand skate boarders and free style skiers, who also spend a fair amount of time at the local hospital.
Thanks so much for joining today's blog, about what I remember as the good old days of growing up in Bracebridge, and the thrills the landscape offered us, that social and recreation intercourse couldn't.
A CHILLY ONE FROM MY BRACEBRIDGE ARCHIVES
CHRISTMAS IN BRACEBRIDGE -
ON THE ROAD WITH DAD - AN AWAY GAME - THE HOT STOVE LEAGUE - IT BURNED - WE CAME, WE PLAYED, WE CRIED
I WAS A FIEND FOR HOCKEY. I LOOKED FORWARD TO WHATEVER HOCKEY WAS ON THE SCHEDULE, POSTED AT THE BRACEBRIDGE ARENA, AND WHAT THE LOCAL LADS WERE PLANNING FOR ROAD HOCKEY THAT HOLIDAY WEEK. WHEN WE WEREN'T PLAYING HOCKEY, ON THE ROAD, ON AN ICE PAD, OR ON AN OUTDOOR RINK, WE WERE PLAYING TABLE-TOP HOCKEY. THESE WERE THE FINAL DAYS OF THE ORIGINAL SIX NATIONAL HOCKEY LEAGUE. AND FOR CHRISTMAS, YOU BET……A MAPLE LEAF JERSEY UNDER THE TREE. NOT MONTREAL. I WOULD NOT HAVE WORN IT IN BRACEBRIDGE THAT'S FOR SURE. THIS WAS MAPLE LEAF COUNTRY. IT WAS HOWEVER, ACCEPTABLE THEN TO WEAR A DETROIT RED WING SWEATER, AS ROGER CROZIER WAS THEIR ALL STAR NETMINDER…..AND HE WAS A HOMETOWNER WHO MADE IT TO THE BIG LEAGUES. WE WANTED TO FOLLOW HIM ALL THE WAY TO THE STANLEY CUP FINALS…..NOT JUST AS FANS, BUT AS TEAM-MATES. OR AT LEAST WE THOUGHT WE COULD MAKE THE CUT. SO WE TRIED REAL HARD TO IMPRESS OUR COACHES, AND ANY SCOUTS LURKING IN THE STANDS.
CHRISTMAS WEEK HOCKEY GAMES. BETWEEN CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEARS WE GOT TO TRAVEL TO SOME OF THE MORE INTERESTING ICE PALACES IN MUSKOKA, AS OUR FESTIVE HOCKEY SEASON WAS A LITERAL WINTER-JAM OF FOUR OR FIVE GAMES, INSIDE THE COLDEST PLACES ON EARTH. I MEAN THAT. MY TOES FEEL FROZEN JUST THINKING ABOUT THOSE VENUES. WE WERE SPOILED IN BRACEBRIDGE BECAUSE WE HAD ARTIFICIAL ICE. IT'S TRUE WHAT THEY SAY. THE NUMBER OF SOCKS DOESN'T MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE, OTHER THAN IT TAKES LONGER TO TAKE THEM OFF TO GET WARMTH ONTO WHITE FROSTY TOES, FROM AN OLD STOVE PIPE. I LEARNED THIS THE HARD WAY.
THE AWAY GAMES? WE COULDN'T BELIEVE OUR CRAPPY FORTUNE. REALLY! IT STARTED LIKE THIS. SNOWMAGEDON! MOST MINOR HOCKEYISTS AND DOTING PARENTS HAVEN'T SEEN SNOW THE WAY WE DID, BACK IN MY VINTAGE. NOW, I'M ONLY 56, AT LEAST THAT'S WHAT SUZANNE TELLS ME……BUT I'M FEELING SO DARN OLD. MAYBE IT'S WRITING RECOLLECTIONS LIKE THIS, MAKING ME FEEL I'VE GOT ONE FOOT ON THE PROVERBIAL BANANA PEEL. WHEN A FRIEND RECENTLY ASKED HOW OLD I WAS, SUZANNE BUTTED-IN AND SUGGESTED I SHOW HER MY TEETH…….AS IF I WAS A HORSE. I'M JUST PLEASED TO STILL BE ABLE TO REMEMBER SOME OF THESE WINTRY TALES……AFTER ALL THESE YEARS OF MARRIAGE. (SUZANNE IS LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER AS I WRITE THIS, AND MAKING GRUNTING NOISES OF DISAPPROVAL).
BUT HERE'S A STORY ABOUT PERSISTENCE, COLD ARENAS, A FATHER'S COMMITMENT TO A SON, (HE THOUGHT WAS NHL BOUND) AND THE TEARS OF PLEASURE. I WROTE A LITTLE ABOUT THIS, SHORTLY AFTER MY FATHER DIED SEVERAL YEARS AGO. YOU SEE I FELT GUILTY, THAT I'D NEVER REALLY THANKED HIM FOR ALL THE TIMES HE GOT OFF WORK, AND THEN HAD TO DRIVE FOUR OR FIVE KIDS TO OUR AWAY GAMES IN PORT CARLING, MACTIER, BALA, BAYSVILLE AND GRAVENHURST. SOME OF THE SNOWSTORMS WE DROVE THROUGH WERE SPECTACULAR. TODAY IT WOULDN'T BE DONE, BUT THEN, IT WAS JUST CANADIAN WINTER DOING ITS THING. THERE WAS NO MONEY IN THE TEAM BUDGET FOR A BUS. THERE WAS NO GAS MONEY EITHER, SO ED WAS ALWAYS OUT OF POCKET IN THOSE DAYS.
I STARTED PLAYING HOCKEY IN MUSKOKA IN THE FALL OF 1966. I'D COME FROM BURLINGTON, AND PLAYED MY HOCKEY GAMES THEN, AT 2 A.M. TO POSSIBLY 4 A.M., AND THAT MIGHT INCLUDE PLAYING ON AN OUTDOOR KIWANIS RINK…..IN THE SNOW. AS DEMAND ON THE CITY'S ICE SURFACES WAS EXTREME, THE TOWN LEAGUE KIDS WEREN'T THE PRIORITY ICE USERS. WHEN MOVED TO BRACEBRIDGE, OUR ICE TIME BEGAN AT 7 A.M. ON AN AVERAGE SATURDAY MORNING, AND WENT TO ABOUT NOON. PRIME TIME AS FAR AS I WAS CONCERNED.
WHEN I JOINED THE ALLSTAR TEAMS, WE HAD TO TRAVEL THROUGHOUT THE REGION. THE BRACEBRIDGE AND HUNTSVILLE RINKS WERE PRETTY GOOD AT THE TIME, AND GRAVENHURST WAS A LITTLE ROUGH AROUND THE EDGES, AND COLD, THE OTHERS WERE ESSENTIALLY OUTDOOR RINKS WITH TIN ROOVES. WHEN YOU LET A SLAP SHOT GO AGAINST THE BOARDS, THE WHOLE PLACE RATTLED, AS IF FROZEN AS ONE LARGE CHUNK OF MUSKOKA ICE. TALK ABOUT ECHO. THAT WAS SCARY COLD.
FIRST OF ALL, TO GET THERE!!! OUR FAMILY CAR WAS, BY ANY STANDARD, BETTER LOOKING THAN THE CLAMPETT'S TRUCK, BUT NOT AS GOOD AS ANY OTHER VEHICLE ON THE ROAD. IT WAS ALL WE COULD AFFORD. IT WAS A JALOPY. THE HEATER WORKED OCCASIONALLY. VERY OCCASIONALLY, AND THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS NEVER DID A GREAT JOB, ESPECIALLY IN A HEAVY STORM. WE'D PILE INTO OUR CAR AT THE ARENA, AND MY FATHER, ED, WOULD CLEAN OFF THE WINDSHIELD BY HAND….IF THE WIPERS WEREN'T DOING IT WELL ENOUGH, AND THEN CHECK TO SEE IF WE WERE ALL SAFELY PLACED IN THE SMALL CAR. THE TRUNK WOULD JUST CLICK SHUT WITHOUT AN INCH OF BREATHING ROOM. I WAS A GOALIE, SO MUCH OF THE EQUIPMENT WAS MINE. ED ALWAYS KEPT THE WINDOW OPEN A CRACK, SO THAT WHOEVER WAS UNLUCKY TO HAVE TO SIT BEHIND HIM, GOT A FACE FULL OF SNOW FROM BRACEBRIDGE TO OUR DESTINATION. ED COULD ALSO SHOVE HIS ARM OUT OF THE WINDOW, TO CLEAN THE REAR VIEW MIRROR, AND PULL ICE FROM THE WINDSHIELD WITHOUT STOPPING THE CAR. I THINK THERE WERE TIMES HE HAD TO LOOK OUT THE OPEN WINDOW TO SEE THE EDGE OF THE ROAD. IN RETROSPECT, AND COMMON SENSE, I WOULDN'T HAVE LET MY KIDS TRAVEL IN THAT CAR, ON THE NIGHTS WE DID.
WE WERE HALF FROZEN BY TIME WE GOT TO THE RINK. OUR FEET WERE NUMB OR AT LEAST TINGLING, AND IT WASN'T UNTIL WE HIT THE ARENA PARKING LOT, THAT THE HEATER ACTUALLY KICKED IN. EVEN PARKED RIGHT IN FRONT, YOU COULD, ON MANY OCCASIONS, JUST MAKE OUT THE ROOF LINE OF THE OLD BUILDINGS WE HAD TO PLAY IN. NOW, I MUST NOTE HERE, THAT MY DAD WAS AN EXCELLENT DRIVER, AND AS A FORMER TORONTO CABBIE, HE WAS NO STRANGER TO ADVERSE CIRCUMSTANCES ON THE ROAD. HE HAD ALSO DRIVEN A LAUNDRY TRUCK AND A HEARSE IN HIS YOUTH. THE POOR GUY WAS EXHAUSTED AFTER A LONG DAY AT WORK, AND FACING THIS KIND OF DRIVE BEFORE DINNER, WASN'T TOO MUCH FUN FOR HIM. NEVER HAD AN ACCIDENT, AND TO MY KNOWLEDGE, NEVER LEFT THE ROADWAY FOR MORE THAN A COUPLE OF MILES. THE PASSENGER RIDING SHOT-GUN HAD TO OCCASIONALLY PUT HIS HEAD OUT THE WINDOW TO CHECK FOR OTHER LANDMARKS, SO WE'D KNOW HOW CLOSE OR FAR AWAY, WE STILL WERE FROM THE ARENA. YOU COULD GET A NASTY CASE OF FROZEN FACE THIS WAY.
The real problem of those old arenas, was that the wicked cold inside, meant your already frozen feet were going to stay frozen. In fact, it was always argued, that these natural ice palaces were about ten degrees colder inside than out, and as I've mentioned in previous blogs on this subject, I watched pucks shatter hitting the boards. So you got cold in the car, and stayed cold until you got back home. There was a hiatus, of course, in the subject arena's dressing room. I can't remember if it was Port Carling, or Bala, but the dressing room was on the second floor of the lobby portion, and there was a stove-pipe that came through the centre of the room. By time we got there, it was almost red hot, and it was close to the wood benches. So in a small room, with at least one goalie, …..sometimes two, and twelve or more players trying to get dressed, trying to avoid that stove pipe was almost impossible. Then it was like a pinball game. You'd touch your arm or back to the pipe, and jump forward, hitting someone else, and like dominoes, there were a lot of distressed hockey players on the floor. And it's true, our skin left on the stove pipe did smell like roast chicken.
Coming down that flight of stair with skates on, was something to behold, especially for a goalie. The starting goalie had to hit the ice first. It was a hockey convention. But when there was nothing in front of me, on that trip down, geez, I hit that ice on the tumble almost every time. No way to start a hockey game. Now if there were two goalies, I was going to be the back-up. Now the problem here, and I was okay with not getting the crap beat out of me…..as our team wasn't that great….was that my feet would already be half-frozen, because the skates had been nicely chilled on the way to the game. So by about the end of the first period, there wasn't a dry eye on the bench. My feet were frozen, the others were almost frozen. As there was no intermission between the first and second periods, it was like the wailers in a funeral procession, by time the bell went to end the period. Here were these tough hockey playing kids, crying their eyes out because their toes were stinging with frost. We might have been sweating on the upper level, from end to end play, but down below, by golly, it was like wearing wooden skates with popsicles stuck inside.
So we had about fifteen minutes to whip off the skates, and warm them by the stovepipe. Can you imagine a chorus of scorched cats. We went from crying somewhat, to crying while screaming, as the return of circulation then became the most painful part of the warming-up experience. By time I undid my goalie pads, to get my skates off, I got about two minutes of warmth before it was time to suit-up again. Now while we never let on how much frozen toes hurt, such that the opposition would sense our vulnerabilities, there was no way of preventing the hollering, when a slapshot would careen off my toe…..or any of our frozen toes adhered to leather, anchoring those silver blades. Getting through that third period was tough. When you looked down our bench, there was more bobbing and weaving than at a boxing reunion. Even the coach was dancing in pain. When I mentioned to a friend, Bruce Reville, who remembered some of those old rinks, that I always wanted to do a book about the old natural ice arenas, I also had to admit that I wouldn't be able to provide much in the way of architectural recollection…..because I was always so bloody cold, and whisked in and out, on and off the ice, that I really didn't get much of a chance to study where I was playing. Now it's also true, that all the games weren't played at minus 40, and there were some games that our feet weren't seriously frozen until the halfway mark of the third period. But I never paid as much attention to the interesting attributes of each facility, as I should have…..and would have relished, as memories today.
We'd take our skates off after the game, put our ice-block feet up to the fire or stove pipe, and there would only be a slight whimper by this point. They were numb and there was a real danger burning the skin because we couldn't feel the intensity of the heat. We would find out in a wee bit, just how the thawing process, on human flesh, titillates the senses. Now folks, if you've ever suffered the horrible sting of thawing skin, well, here's what happened in our car. As the heater would fail on the way to the game, it went on overdrive during the trip home. The car would become hot, and no matter what Ed did to control it, that little heater turned the car into an oven. And with that uncontrolled heat, even with the window down, our feet began to thaw. Fast. We bit hard into our gloves, said "Jesus," over and over, as if begging for relief. So we cried all the way home, and most vowed to never, ever play hockey again…….at least until the next game.
The old natural ice arenas served a great recreational purpose, and I loved them. I just didn't like the pain associated with the Muskoka winter, and a cold bench, in a really frigid tin arena. When I tell my boys about those away games, they can't imagine the conditions, and it shows with the smirks I get in return. Poor old Ed's feet were just as cold, but he was an old sailor after all, who had been on a frigate in the North Atlantic during the winter…..and he never cried. Just drove faster to get back home. Merle would already have a shot of brandy ready for him, one foot-fall inside the door.
There are times, even today, that sitting here and listening to the snow pellets hitting the window, that my toes will all of a sudden start to tingle, as if……well, history is repeating. I loved hockey in all its forms, but the frozen toes……not so much fun.
I remember telling this story to my father-in-law, Norman Stripp, one Christmas here at Birch Hollow, and he leaned back in the chair, looked at me as if I had never known a real game of Canadian hockey in my life. That's when he bent my ear, about the times the Windermere lads braved questionable ice, and merciless blizzards, to cross Lake Rosseau, against a booming sub-zero wind, just to play the Port Carling lads, in a Christmas season grudge match, on a windswept open rink…..carved into the snowscape of a frozen Muskoka Lake. No roof, no protection from the elements, no stove or stove-pipe. Possibly a wee flask of the good stuff, just to cut the edge. I didn't doubt him. His skin was as weathered as the old goalie pads, hung up in the recreation room for posterity. I've seen pictures of their open-air games, so there would be no refuting what may have seemed a tall-tall tale. I listened, felt that familiar tingle in my toes (from the experiences hockey had provided), and paid my respects to the legends of old time hockey.
When friends ask me why I hobble-about these days, one leg having a will of its own, I tell them about the days I used to cross the frozen lake, from Windermere to Port Carling, for those old Christmas grudge matches….and the cold and hard fought games, played havoc on my body. If they are suspicious of my age, and that I might have done something right out of the annals of Canadian hockey history, in only half a century, I tell them, "Hey, it's because of the good and Christian lifestyle I've lived!!!! I wink of course, and offer a silent apology to Norman, God rest his soul, for stealing his hockey story.
Merry Christmas.
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