Bracebridge Main Street Shopping and My Fondest Memories

THE STRANGE MAGIC WE FOUND, HANGING AROUND IN MY ERA'S DOWNTOWN BRACEBRIDGE - I JUST CAN'T EXPLAIN WHAT MADE IT THIS WAY!

IT WAS A HAPPENING, FUN, COMMUNITY GATHERING, WELCOMING PLACE THAT WAS INCLUSIVE NOT EXCLUSIVE

     When you're as hopelessly, historically inclined, and indebted to it, as me, you live in a precariously strange time warp, as a sort of daily routine, more so than choice, for recreational sentimentality. I don't try to thwart these feelings, of being in all times of history, all at once. And honestly, it really does appear from out of the clutter of my mind, like an abstract painting adorns a gallery wall; but without the paint. Like looking at such a painting, there are those who can immediately identify what it reminds them of, or what clear images they see, emerging from the apparent chaos, of paint and shapes colliding. I suffer, but pleasantly, from the same affliction. What should be a jumble of memories, and images, that have no precise place or order, amidst abstraction, are all very comforting to me; as if I can claim to have figured out a way to keep it all relevant, in the contemporary sense, without needing a book or photograph, to remind me of that place in time. It's just a way of life I've enjoyed for most of my days, thus far, and the only real time it gives me trouble, (this living in the past thing), is when, for purposes of a column like this, I have to make what is abstract, take a broader, more defined shape. Even then, I'm not always sure I've made a clear enough presentation, that it will make sense to my readers.
     When I reflect on my younger days, relating to the adult world of main street commerce, for example, I am so quickly consumed by those days, without even having to raise the white flag of surrender. As for sensory perception, gads, I can smell the chocolate at Bill Elliott's shop, the budgies in the cages in the north corner, just up from the toy section, the hair tonics at Bill Anderson's barber shop, and his oil paints for his landscapes, and smell chelsea bun from far down the road, permeating in a sweet spiral of heavenly air, coming from Waites Bakery; famous for decades, because of their amazing chelsea buns. I get it all. The fond remembrance of faces, of those who worked in these shops, and those who hovered over the counters, drooling for the treats under glass, and in the bakery, cooling on the metal racks. I see the colors, the motion of vehicular traffic, pedestrians of all shapes, sizes and speeds, and it's not hard to place myself in the midst, to enjoy all the daily fare, that made my youth a constant sensation of discovery and adventure. My ghost, from childhood, still kicks around that downtown area, but if you should see it, by chance, please don't be fearful. It is just re-tracing the steps of once, from shop to shop, where I was once welcomed as "Teddy," or even as that "Currie kid." I had a surprising amount of money. I was a small business operator, you see. I hunted for pop bottles and in a week, I could make ten to fifteen dollars, returning the empties for the deposits. So I commanded a little bit of respect back then, and even today, I like nothing more than shopping-about, and acquiring neat stuff, whether I need it or not.  
     Every summer, our family attends the annual Midnight Madness Sale, hosted along the traditional strand of main street, I have always referred to, as downtown; even though part of it was on a hillside, up to Memorial Park. Whether or not it includes the whole street or not, all I know, is what has been imbedded in my psyche for all these years. The fact that I once lived in Dr. McGibbon's magnificent brick house, on Manitoba Street, opposite the park, bolstered that chilhood opinion that downtown was really uptown as well. Going to Midnight Madness goes back to my late teens, truth be known, and when I became editor of The Herald-Gazette, I'd attend the event even if I wasn't on photo-detail. I've always liked the way this section of Manitoba Street looked, all lit-up, and sometimes even bathed by the summer moonlight. To have the electricity of a late night shopping event, music and the smell of hotdogs and onions, was just the change of pace I needed. But I can't really tell you why I needed it, because it sure wasn't because of the shopping I wanted to do, or visiting even half the participating shops. I just liked the spectacle of the evening, then and now, which has become huge in the past decade.
     In some ways, I see the mid-summer event, as a dreamscape of the nostalgic. I see myself as a teenager, amongst the throng of young people, and I imagine, that at any moment, my old chums will pop out of the crowd, and I would get to relive the 1970's all over again. What I would give to see that old gang of ours, who, like me, found a strange fascination in the town the way it was, as modestly appointed as it was, at least in comparison to this new age midnight festival. I will insist, of Suzanne, for the first few moments, after arrival, at the sale, to sit on a bench in Memorial Park, just to sight-see, and people watch. I allow myself the privilege of drinking it in, what nostalgia is free for the taking. I can immerse myself so deeply, that I'm open to the possibility that old mate, Randy Carswell, will once again, sneak up behind me, and knock my hat off-kilter, immediately reminding me about the day's baseball scores, or latest off-season trades for the Maple Leafs. I can still hear his high-pitched voice, and round freckled face, with an ear to ear smile, going from sports talk to the current weather forecast. Randy Carswell, if you didn't know him, well sir, you would have liked him, because there wasn't anything to dislike. He was, for decades, Bracebridge's unofficial greeter, and it didn't matter who you were, whether you were old or young or in between. He took an interest in you immediately, because he loved to talk, and talk and talk. We were school chums back then, in the sixties and early seventies, and he was the one person who could make me laugh until it hurt, and in class, it got me into a lot of trouble. He was a comedian, and in his own way, he lightened up the lives of a lot of Bracebridge folks, who possibly, some more than others, needed to be cheered up; but just didn't know it. When Randy died, at a young age, from complications of diabetes, I wrote a story about him, that was even quoted by the minister conducting the funeral. But nothing at all was embellished, of what I knew of Randy, who loved his home town, and its residents, unconditionally. I will never be able to clear my mind of his cherubic face, with sparkling eyes, who really did love life, and shared that warmth and optimism perpetually, no matter what his circumstance. He had been sick for a long time, but he soldiered on!
     As we meander, dart and weave through the huge crowd, attending Midnight Madness, even before nine o'clock, I can't help feeling a little heartsick, when we walk past the former Uptown Garage, where, on a night like this, from my era, the local lads loyal to owner Ted Smith, would be sitting on the window ledges, shooting the breeze, analyzing the day's events about everything, and anything, worth the effort of question and answer in the first place. Ted Smith, my school mate, Ross Smith's father, ran the Uptown Service Centre, now better known as the Old Station Restaurant. It's where Ross used to tend the gas pumps, and paint landscapes, at his desk, to the right, just inside the station door.    The same thing used to happen at the Downtown Garage, on Thomas Street, minus the landscape painter on staff. The station building, still there, was on a curve of Thomas street that morphed into Toronto Street, where owners Seth Hillman and Art Crockford, used to sit with their cronies, by the roadside gas pumps, staring across at the former Muskoka Trading Company, or over toward the Bracebridge Train Station, and the Albion Hotel, because there was always something interesting coming from that direction. Once downtown, mingling with the thousands, I would think about Ross Smith, wandering down the Queen's Hill, on similarly hot Friday nights, from the gas station, to purchase his weekly comics from Bill Elliotts, Five Cents to a Dollar Store; the same one I haunted for more than a decade, hunting for Dinky Toys and Corgi trucks instead.
     If I listen carefully, I can still hear the sound of the creaking rack, and Ross chatting with the store clerks he knew on a first name basis. I used to call him "Hoss," after my favorite Bonanza character, Hoss Cartwright. Ross was bigger than me, so I felt the name was appropriate, and it's what I still call him, when we meet up once in a while, in a local restaurant, or shop. Ross and I went right through school together, including our years at York University, where he fed me for three terms, when my money would run out; usually by Christmas. He's a dear friend, and I still have the painting he did for me, at university, of a waterfront cabin, on a Muskoka waterway, like the one I always wanted to own.
     I guess I hope to see former friends like Linda Henry, her brother Steve, Scott Rintoul, Ron Boyer, Rod Baldwin, Nancy Crump, Judy Gray, Linda Dawson, Rick and Al Hillman, Jim Niven, Don Clement, and a dozen other teenage associates, from our very own "70's Show," I remember from those halcyon days, when youth was an open portal to the universe. I hobble along the street, with a wonky knee and hip, and feel my age, that's for sure. By the time I hit the true downtown core, I realize the truth of my aches and pains, and that nothing nostalgic will change present realities. But still, it's a nice feeling, to re-connect with the strand of main street, where we often met up, and travelled in packs, to enjoy its modest fare; of which we couldn't or wouldn't complain. It was our home town, and all that mattered, was that we enjoyed precious moments which would, one day, suffice only as distant, haunting memories. I loved those times, and no matter what changes occur, and what enhancements are employed, in the future, to make this strip look contemporary, I will always be able to break away the facades, and find remnants of those hearts and souls, left in the thin vapor of atmospheric heritage, that will always hover as an endearing invisible fog; for me, over and around the nooks and crannies, where we invested our free time, and restless ambitions. Looking up at the illuminated dials of the old clock tower, in the former federal building, I remind myself I am in the present. I hate to admit feeling a little pang of sadness, because I'm with my present family, and it would be unkind to admit, that I have purposely trapped myself in recollections of a different gang, and endearing, yet wilted sentiments, of once, long ago. I mean them no disrespect. I trust for them, that we are making more of our own memories, to look back upon with contentment. Family times. It's all one big, throbbing mosaic, and yet I welcome more to the mix.
     At moments in the stroll, bumping and tripping, through hundreds of fun-seekers, reveling in the electric open air, the carnival atmosphere of the historic main street corridor, I will imagine seeing the silhouette of my mother Merle, with our boys, hand in hand, heading to the door of the former Elliott's store, which she did hundreds of times, when Andrew and Robert were in her care as pre-schoolers, on yet another toy shopping adventure. I might suddenly think I saw my father Ed, walking into the former barbershop, run by Danny Culos, across the road from the former Top Hat Restaurant, where he'd go after a haircut, to buy me a hamburger and fries, and my mother a piece of freshly made apple pie. But as ghosts go, the most visualized entity, is my own image, criss-crossing the street as I used to, trying to extend my presence to every shop on the main drag; because I was a curious kid to the exponent of ten. I might be at BB Auto, owned by Lorne Shier, on minute, then helping my mother shop at Lorne's Marketeria, a few stores north, several minutes later. I used to like to see the old iron-gated, open elevator in use at Ecclestone's Hardware, and I'd often go there with my dad, on Friday nights, more I think, to chat with some of his contractor friends, from the lumber business, still loyal to the old companies of town; especially when it came to gatherings, to talk about the latest news, and construction projects. My dad could not build or fix anything, so visiting Ecclestones was just a stop on our travels, for a little traditional visit, or possibly, an opportunity for my mother, to buy a new kettle or baking pan. I would visit the Thomas Company to buy a cup and saucer, as a birthday or Christmas gift, for Merle, and Thatcher's Studio, if we had film to develop, or enlargements to order. I remember buying ceramic busts of Mozart, and Beethoven, from Thatcher's gift shop, to sit on the new stereo cabinet, my mother had just, that week, purchased off Don Banks, at Banks TV and Audio, located beside the Muskoka Restaurant, now the Royal Bank. I still think of Precision Music, in terms of all the thick toast and ice cold cola I consumed at Irma's Restaurant, and how much money I dumped down the juke box coin slot. Even when I go into the music shop, I will instinctively walk to the exact spot I used to sit, on those father-son Sunday mornings, my dad took me "for a treat," as he used to say; which was in his mind, a pop in the morning, and a chance to hear him, and friend Harry Rutherford, talking about the Leafs latest win or loss.
     I suppose that I'm not the perfect person to invite to Midnight Madness. I spend at least half of the time, wandering that nostalgic downtown, lost in sentimental yearnings, that serve only to make me ponder where all the time has gone. Yet I must thank organizers of this hugely popular event, for hosting something that creates memories for all the participants, of this ere, now rightfully their halcyon time of life; and I trust, as it did for me, it will create a sort of humble praise for the often hidden vibrancy of this home town, still vibrant and pulling people together, from all walks, to celebrate summer in Muskoka. It's what we did, and accomplished with our young energies, and what now ping-pongs in my heart, as having been so intimate and precious. Before I leave the event, having no doubt made a few purchases, paralleled by Suzanne's acquisitions burdening her hands, and watching sons Andrew and Robert coming out of Precision Music with bundles in plastic, and possibly a guitar or two slung over their respective shoulders, I will have incorporated all the sensory perceptions, historic, nostalgic and contemporary, and felt some resolve that it is all good, to have these kind and vibrant memories, of the place I spent a lot of my life, in daydreams and otherwise. Those eyes of the clock tower have seen it all; all the moods of the travellers, dawdlers, lost and the found, and oh what stories it could relate, for our mutual benefit; when, you see, at times, we wonder if the main street will survive the stresses of economic competition from other sources. I'm inclined to believe history will always serve this uptown-downtown stretch well, if given its rightful place, and not just in passing recollection. This is a history that needs to be celebrated. It's a living, breathing kind of history, iconic, a tradition, if only in the hearts and souls of those who carry on, in this modern time, to enjoy its familiar, comforting commonplace; the kind I grew up with, and benefitted for all my days, up to, and including this point of reflection, on what made a place to live and work, a true home town.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

MY ADVENTURES GOT ME IN A LOT OF TROUBLE - BUT IT WAS WORTH IT

I WATCHED THE HISTORY OF A SMALL TOWN COME AND GO!

ALL MY TEACHERS, ALL THE NEIGHBORS ON ALICE STREET, MY HOCKEY AND BASEBALL BUDDIES, AND MEMBERS OF THE HUNT'S HILL GANG, WOULD HAVE, AND MAY HAVE LAUGHED IN MY MOTHER'S FACE, IF SHE HAD SAID, IN MY DEFENSE REGARDING SOME MISDEMEANOR, "OH, TEDDY IS SUCH A SHY, GENTLE CHILD." THEY KNEW BETTER. I MIGHT HAVE GIVEN THAT IMPRESSION AT HOME, BUT ONCE POUNDING THE BEAT, I WAS ANYTHING BUT SHY OR GENTLE ABOUT ANYTHING. I JUST WAS A LITTLE FASTER, SLIGHTLY LESS VISIBLE, AND MORE STRATEGIC WHEN IT CAME TO MESSING-ABOUT. WHEN I WANTED SOMETHING, I WAS PARTICULARLY PERSUASIVE, AND I'D KEEP NATTERING ABOUT IT, AND LOOKING FOR LOOPHOLES, TO REACH A PARTICULAR OBJECTIVE. IF I SWIPED A PIE COOLING ON A WINDOW LEDGE, I COULD HAVE IT CONSUMED AND ENJOYED BEFORE MY PARTNERS HAD LEFT THE CRIME SCENE. THEY ALWAYS GOT CAUGHT. MY MOTHER MIGHT HAVE QUESTIONED THE BLUEBERRY STAIN ON MY SHIRT, BUT I COULD FOB THAT OFF BY SUGGESTING IT WAS A ROGUE BLACKBALL THAT FELL OUT OF MY MOUTH…..HITTING MY SHIRT, AND ROLLING ALL THE WAY DOWN TO MY WHITE RUNNING SHOES…..WHERE A BLUEBERRY CHUNK HAD ALSO HIT. I USED TO GRAB RIPE TOMATOES OFF THE VINE BUT NOT TO EAT. LET'S JUST SAY SOMEONE I DIDN'T LIKE, GOT A BIG WET SURPRISE IN THE MIDDLE OF THEIR BACK. I WAS A BAD BUGGER AND A MILLION MILES FROM BEING SHY ABOUT ANYTHING.

I COULD BE TOLD A THOUSAND TIMES, NOT TO THROW LITTLE GREEN APPLES AT THE HOUSES IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD. I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT WAS ABOUT THOSE APPLES. YOU COULDN'T EAT ALL YOU PICKED, BECAUSE THE STOMACH ACHE WOULD DOUBLE-YOU-UP IN PAIN. THEN THERE WERE THE MAD DASHES FOR THE WASHROOMS, WITH CLENCHED BUTT CHEEKS. SOMETIMES YOU JUST DISEMBARKED THE BIKES IN FLIGHT, THE PAIN AND URGENCY CAME ON SO FAST.

SO INSTEAD OF WASTING THE REMAINDER, OF THE LITTLE GREEN APPLES (WORMS WERE A BONUS) WELL SIR, THOSE TIN ROOVES ON SOME OF THE OLDER NEIGHBORHOOD HOUSES, RATTLED BEAUTIFULLY WITH A BARRAGE OF APPLES FROM THREE OR FOUR ASSAILANTS. THE FOLKS WOULD COME RUNNING OUT OF THEIR HOUSES THINKING IT WAS A METEOR SHOWER HITTING EARTH. GREEN APPLES MADE US CRAZY. I DON'T KNOW HOW MANY TIMES WE GOT CAUGHT UP SOMEONE'S TREES, SCOFFING THE FRUIT OFF THE VINE. ONE OLD GIRL HAD A LONG POLE SHE USED TO KNOCK THE APPLES DOWN, TO MAKE JELLY, AND THAT WORKED ON KIDS AS WELL. I CAME AROUND THE CORNER, ON RICHARD STREET ONE MORNING, AND SAW HER STANDING THERE WHACKING THE TREE, OVER AND OVER AGAIN, WITH THE LONG STICK. THESE APPLES HOWEVER, WERE YELLING "HELP." SHE HAD FOUND ONE OF MY CHUMS UP THE TREE AND WAS BEATING HIS BEHIND AS HE DARTED FROM BRANCH TO BRANCH. I WAS ABLE TO DISTRACT HER LONG ENOUGH SO HE COULD JUMP DOWN, AND MAKE A RUN FOR IT. CRIPES SHE CHASED HIM FOR ABOUT A BLOCK. I HAD MY BIKE SO I SPED OFF. SHE WAS PRETTY TICKED OFF. WE ONLY VISITED HER TREE AFTER THAT, DURING AFTER SUNSET, AS HER VISION WASN'T ALL THAT GOOD. SHE'D JUST THINK IT WAS RACOONS OR SOMETHING, AND CURSE OUT THE WINDOW WHEN SHE HEARD THE LEAVES RUSTLING. WE JUST MADE RACOON SOUNDS TO KEEP HER HAPPY.

THE POINT IS, AT THIS TIME OF MY LIFE, THAT I DO LOVE TO RECALL, I WAS NEVER SHY ABOUT OPPORTUNITY. I WANTED TO EXPERIENCE THINGS, GO PLACES, UNDERSTAND WHAT WAS GOING ON AROUND ME. I WANTED TO LEARN BY IMMERSION, AND YOU KNOW, IT MOST CERTAINLY WAS WHAT LED TO MY FASCINATION TODAY, WITH THE EVER-DYNAMIC REALM OF "THE NOSTALGIC." IT WAS MY WORLD. I PLAYED WITH THIS STUFF, LIVED AMONGST IT, PAID ATTENTION TO ITS INTEGRITY THEN, AND KNEW THAT ONE DAY, IT WAS GOING TO BE RETIRED AND REMOVED FROM MY DAY TO DAY ADVENTURES. LIKE THE VINTAGE GAS PUMPS AT ALL THE LOCAL SERVICE CENTRES IN THE TOWN OF BRACEBRIDGE. THEY WERE NOSTALGIA IN THE 1960'S, BECAUSE THEY WERE PROBABLY TWENTY OR MORE YEARS OLD AT THE TIME. AS MY PARENTS TRAVELLED ALOT, I STUDIED THE PUMPS AT GAS STATIONS ALL THE WAY TO AND FROM FLORIDA, NUMEROUS TIMES, AND I KNEW WHAT WAS BEING USED AT HOME WAS LONG PAST PRIME FOR THE MODERN-ERA GAS STATIONS. WELL, THEY WEREN'T MODERN BUILDINGS AND THE PUMPS SUITED THE BUILDINGS PERFECTLY.

My two best buddies, Al "Weasel" Hillman, and his brother Rick, used to take me into the murky, gas and oil scented inner sanctum of Bracebridge's Downtown Garage, across from Muskoka Trading. The garage was run by their father, Seth, and his partner Art Crockford, two of the most interesting chaps a young lad could chat with on a slow Saturday afternoon. We'd drop in and see them if we had a particular need for a go-cart axle or wheels, and honestly, we'd try to stay in there as long as possible….because it was a fabulous treat for the senses; even though it was in the late 1960's, the automotive repair shop was right out of the 1930's 40's. The long counter was covered with "geasy-fingered" service manuals, and the old oak cupboards behind, were loaded with thousands of tins and boxes, and off the top hooks, were fan belts and wiring and rubber seals and many odd chains. I loved standing on the edge of the grease pit, looking down into the place where the mechanics performed their delicate surgeries. The place was always dark, except for these trouble lights, three or four illuminated, hanging near the service area, with only several overhead lights switched on……which meant you had to spend some time in the dark to allow your eyes to adjust. We watched all kinds of repairs being made, but if it got busy Seth ushered us back out into the open air. You know, if someone told you that they found the scent of oil, grease and gas kind of alluring……almost a cologne they'd be attracted to, I'd know exactly what they were talking about. I'm the most non-mechanical person to ever write about loving the interior ambience, and permeating aroma of an old-time garage. It dates back to those brief forays into the Downtown Garage to see what Seth and Art were up to. We'd sometimes just stand at the counter and listen to them spin yards with other garage hangers-on, who had no particular place to be….or go, and the conversation was always hale and hardy, and the politics conservative. I found the garage fascinating, just as I felt about the people who worked there.

I can remember being out for a drive with my parents one night, and coming around the corner of Manitoba Street, onto what was then known as Thomas Street (corner of the Patterson Hotel), and seeing the local garage gang, sitting beside the gas pumps, with their chairs balanced on two legs, and their backs up against the wall. Now an oddity of this gas station, is that it was on an angle that put one corner of it precariously close to the road that wound down the hillside. The pump sat as close to the tarmac as you could get without actually being on the travelled portion of the roadway. When a car pulled off the road to get gas, it was still pretty much on the road. So the old-timers, as they had been doing for decades, would sit out front, in their tipped back chairs, waiting for end-of-the-day customers to pull off "part of the road" for a few gallons of gas. My dad said, "I bet they hate it when someone comes to get gas…..and disturbs them." He also added, "Another tough day for these guys," meaning that he assumed they did this pretty much the whole day…..which just wasn't true. I said that, and my mother was aghast. "I've told you to stay away from that place," she said. "You could get hurt in there…..God knows what they might have laying around you could cut yourself on." Geez, I could cut myself in our own apartment, and I did so many times. The Downtown Garage was an entirely safe place for a kid to watch and learn, and both Seth and Art were both sensible in a professional capacity, and fatherly to us stray kids, looking in wonder at what automobile mechanics was all about. They both had a lot of experience to share, and you know, I never remember them raising their voices once, to smarten us up, about something we were touching or a place in the shop we weren't supposed to be visiting. Sure there were sage warnings but they didn't chase us out of the shop with any exotic fear mongering, about the danger of putting our eyes out, or getting cut on the jagged metal that was piled about. They never once told us not to get grease on our clothes. I respected that, and as I knew how angry Merle would have been, if I'd come home wearing a black smear on my pants, I just watched where I walked and stood, so I wouldn't have to explain a single thing about my whereabouts…..to my own Sherlock Holmes. Tell you what. I never, ever left the Downtown Garage, that I hadn't learned something or other about automobiles, and what can break down, and can be repaired…..and what repair has to be improvised. Bet you don't hear about that too much in this day of computer technology dictating everything about repairs except when to go to the bathroom, or have lunch. These old-timers made lots of parts, to help in a crunch, get these customers mobile again. They were alchemists of their industry. This was the kind of classroom I wanted to be in…..not because I planned to be a mechanic in later years…..but because it fascinated me, and compelled me to learn things I otherwise would never have been exposed. My mother wouldn't allow me to take a shop class at school for fear I'd cut my hand off. So I became a writer /historian, and I still cut myself on can lids and pieces of paper. But at least I got a chance to see what it was like in the automobile repair business of the 1960's and 70's, thanks to Rick and Al, and of course Seth and Art, to find gents of gas station legend and lore.

When I'm traveling about the antique circuit, and pop into shops that have automobile and service station memorabilia, I always pause for a few moments, and think back to the days Al, Rick, Don (another chum) and I, had the privilege of hanging-out amidst motor vehicle history. It might not have been called a museum, but it was in fact, a place that should have been frozen in time……or at least when Art and Seth sold it off, preserved for posterity. It's a Hock Shop today, and I can't pass through that door, without re-visiting those tantalizing visuals and scents of automotive heritage. I still come around that same corner, as I did with my father, and wonder, if those three old timers that I used to see, sitting beside the gas pump(s), are still there……in spirit-form, leaning back in their chair against the building, watching the mortal world of this new century, pass by. I know they're still there, so I wave each time I go by…..no fooling.

I'm glad I wasn't so shy as a youngster, as my mother supposed, that I missed these opportunities to visit the industries and shops that operated in our town, back in the mid 1960's onward, because it was all about to change so dramatically even before I hit twenty……and I think I witnessed, up close and personal, those wind-up years where progress and urban renewal became the nostalgia lovers' nightmare. I was afforded a rare adventure in these places, including many visits to the Uptown Garage operated by Ted Smith, on the top of Manitoba Street's, "Queen's Hill," to visit my school mate Ross "Hoss" Smith (Ted's son), who was the service centre gas jockey. He'd pump your gas, sell you a chocolate bar, clean your windows, take your payment, and say "thank you very much," when you complimented the landscape painting, he was working on in the lobby. We also had a painting pharmacist, and a barber artist in our town at the same time. But you won't find that in any history book…..unless I write it…..and I haven't yet.

I do regret one thing about our dealings with Seth Hillman. If we came into the garage looking for old wheels and axles, it was undoubtedly for our go-cart we were constructing. If we didn't find what we needed to scavenge, at the Downtown Garage, dollars to donuts we knew where else to look. I can't tell you how many times Seth came home at night, and when planning to cut the lawn on their Toronto Street property, found his mower to be missing its wheels. He'd just come out of that garage shaking his head, mumbling about "damned kids," and never say another word. We probably got four of his old mowers the same way, and this isn't to suggest Rick and Al didn't get scolded about the wheel-removals, but he never said a cross word as long as I knew the man. God knows he put up with a lot of kid interventions. I don't think he was too happy when we got a hold of some of this cherished dandelion wine, in the basement, and had a wee party of our own. Teddy Currie shy? I don't think so. If it wasn't bolted to the floor, it was finders keepers. Hey, it worked the same in our house, as long as Merle and Ed weren't in at the time. We didn't have a lawnmower to scavenge from anyway. We just raided the fridge for those happenstance sandwiches to give us strength to carry on our neighborhood mischief.