PAUL RIMSTEAD WROTE ABOUT DETROIT RED WING GOALIE, ROGER CROZIER
FUTURE N.H.L. ALLSTAR, AND NEWSPAPER COLUMNIST, SKIPPING SCHOOL TO PLAY POOL
I know a lot about the history of Bracebridge. What's been written, and what hasn't been! Seeing as I've devoted a good chunk of my professional life, to researching and writing about local history, it's good then, that I know my stuff. What a waste if I didn't! I would certainly have let down a lot of fine mentors, who trusted, and truly believed, that I'd do something exciting in my life. Sooner or later! Well, something interesting at least! That, I have done. This history thing, isn't as boring as you think. It can actually get pretty exciting and controversial, if you play your cards right. My fault, according to my critics, is that I can be irreverent and risque, and invite too many paddlers into the canoe. I've never capsized, and I've never regretted looking at history with a critical eye, and asking intrusive questions, about its acceptance as fact. I don't believe everything I hear or read, and honestly, sometimes I don't even believe myself. That's why Suzanne is my right hand, and challenges everything I write. A so-called factual stress test.
Maybe you know a lot about Bracebridge history as well. But you know, the early years in this town, have been so well documented, and repeated, so many times, in the contemporary sense, that they've become a tad over-exposed, and same-old, same-old. So I decided, for these "Sketches," to follow what I began, first in the 1990's, via the Muskoka Advance. I wanted to write about the period in Bracebridge, from 1966 onward, because it's what I knew from "actuality," meaning I lived the life. I was there when big news happened, and in many cases, I had either caused it, or at least, nearly been run over by it! Most regional historians, these days, are more interested in the very early years of town life, and feel that contemporary history will only be ripe enough to pick, a hundred years from now. Yet the past fifty years has seen a tremendous amount of change in the town, and much of it has had a profound impact on its character, from the days when it didn't have a single traffic light, and horse drawn carts were the biggest transports of goods and services.
The changes I experienced from 1966, through the late 1980's, were startling, to someone, like me, who happened to like the no traffic-light era, and the small town way of life. Our family moved to this small town, to escape the urban jungle, and here then, was the jungle finding us again. And in only a few short years. There was sprawl occurring in the hinterland. So as far as history goes, a lot of it occurred in this period of re-development, of what most of us recognized as the old home town. Some of it was a bit hard to take, especially if you were one who, say in late November, early December, who would race down to the Ball's Flats pasture, when the first full freeze-up, made a country mile of interconnected ice-skating pads. When it became a plaza area, the only contentment I had, was that I had been able to enjoy its last days of open ground. There were many of these dramatic urbanizing changes, and whether former town officials will agree or not, opinions of the citizenry were mixed. The politicians at town hall figured it was time to welcome development for our well being. There were property owners who finally got some big pay-outs, for holding onto land, some of it having belonged to their families, going back to the 1800's. There were locals however, who felt the town was selling out. Changing from what it had always been, into something they didn't recognize, for a handfull of magic beans. Promises that, by being open and accommodating to development, good things would happen to local economics. More money would destine us to be a happier population. Ours would be a sort of hinterland urban utopia on a budget. The more development we accepted, the more utopian it would become. I heard a lot of these claims as a reporter, covering councils across Muskoka during the 1980's.
While there will be accounts of this period, written in the future, that brush over these concerns and objections, to the outward expansion of the urban boundary, to facilitate strip malls, once again, it's because the protests were in private conversation, more so than printed onto placards, and marched in front of town hall. The naysayers were kept well to the back, and there were no photographers to capture their protests for above-the-fold news images. I don't remember even one person, or part time environmentalist, chaining themselves to a tree or pasture post, to halt the loggers and earth movers. It doesn't mean there weren't protestors. Very few made it to the front pages, so when we look back, it may be mistakenly assumed, all was quiet on the development front. But it was very much a split community, when it came to approving development, and the promises being made, that it would all create jobs. As if, accepting these plazas, and strip malls, would eliminate unemployment then, and in the future. The promises were pretty much standard, offered by developers, pushing forward their agenda. There were unemployed during construction and after, and even today, the same situation exists, awaiting the very next promise of prosperity. But it was a very history-making time, and the town was changed forever. It actually didn't take long before the town was looking like a city-in-waiting, just as it still is today.
So these columns will look at some of the lesser known, yet significant realities, of local history, that I dare say have been forgotten, in the pre-occupation for the older events of the chronology. It involves two fine local lads, and their accomplishments in writing and sports.
Joe Defabrizio used to run one of the most popular businesses, on the main street of Bracebridge. "Joe's Billiards," located in the basement of what was once, the store-front A&P grocery store, was one of the best and preferred places for teenagers to get away, from the rigors of the school day. It stretched in operation over generations, and I remember talking to Joe, a huge booster of local athletics, especially hockey and soccer, about two of his most famous customers; Roger Crozier and Paul Rimstead. I think one of the two still owed Joe money for food consumed, but he seemed happiest to relay the story of two great young men, who by the way, never forgot him. Of course, both Rimstead and Crozier have since passed away, but Joe is still reminiscing, about all the young folks who found a respite and recreation in his famous hall.
When I was writing a small feature publication, back in the summer of 1994, for The Herald-Gazette, to acknowledge the plan by Roger Crozier, to establish the Crozier Foundation for Children, I came upon a column written by Rimstead, originally for the Toronto Globe & Mail, that profiles his pool-playing buddy, of the Detroit Red Wings. The introduction to the article, reads as follows:
"Well known author of the book, 'Cocktails and Jockstraps,' Toronto Star columnist, sports critic, story spinner, and all round good guy, the late Paul Rimstead, was a great source of inspiration during this research project, on N.H.L. goaltender Roger Crozier. The overview and personal recollections he wrote about his friend Roger Crozier, circa 1964-66, were remarkably insightful, and especially characteristic of the young Detroit goalie. And the columns, slightly irreverent, were just as characteristic of the style, that would later earn Rimstead a huge readership, that cherished his sense of humor, and his down to earth mannerisms, eccentricities and occasional but well planted editorial barbs. Since Rimstead has a family connection with Bracebridge, and he had been a student at Bracebridge High School at the same time as Crozier, plus having been co-editor of the "Beatrice Bugle," with his sister Diane, (hamlet north of Bracebridge), there was no way of bypassing his editorial assertions, as they pertained to an athlete who he believed had been shortchanged of respect; both by the media and hockey fans. Here are some of the editorial comments written by Rimstead."
In the July 9th, 1966 edition of "The Globe Magazine," the publication featured a front page photograph of the 'Roger Crozier Day,' parade, with a story written by Rimstead. The event, which I attended at Jubilee Park (as well as having watched the parade), followed Crozier's outstanding Stanley Cup playoff series, against Montreal, and his being named the recipient of the Conn Smythe Trophy, as the most outstanding player of the final series. Crozier was on the losing team, but still won the newly established playoff award, given the year before, to Montreal's Jean Beliveau. Roger became the first netminder to win the award. I remember watching the final game, in our new home in Bracebridge, having just arrived in town, in February of that year. There was no way I was going to miss the big celebration, even though I didn't know my way around town yet, or where exactly Jubilee Park was located. I just followed everybody else.
Rimstead wrote, "Roger Crozier, the NHL playoff's star, grew up in Bracebridge, so they held a day and parade for him. There was a parade with bands and VIPs, along with folks who knew him when! Every kid should have a chance to grow up in a small Canadian town. When you come from a place like Bracebridge, Ontario, population 2,500, when everybody is home, you're really somebody. When a local boy leaves home and makes it big, the way Roger Crozier did, they all know it. And if he turns out bad, well, they all know that, too. "The city kid is a face in the crowd. He has his pals in the neighborhood and his school chums and perhaps a group of relatives, but he hasn't got a whole town. He never gets to know a place like the Fairgrounds, in Bracebridge, down there in the flat they call 'The Hollow.' Roger Crozier, if you don't know it, is the little guy who plays goal with the Detroit Red Wings, in the National Hockey League. He was standing in the Fairgrounds (Jubilee Park), a few weeks ago, and you wonder if it brought back memories for him.
"Danny Poland got together with Chub Downey, another former Bear (hockey club in Bracebridge), who owns the Bracebridge Dairy, and Porky Mann, once a good softball player, and now the area representative for Parkdale Wines. They arranged the day for Roger, figuring the little guy deserved one, especially after his comeback last season. Crozier had won the Calder Trophy, as the NHL's best rookie, in his first season and narrowly missed winning the Vezina Trophy, as the top goaltender. Danny Poland and Mann decided to go all out and invite as many celebrities as they could think of. This was what was causing the delay at the Fairgrounds. The kids in Bracebridge don't get to meet many NHL stars, and they surrounded the special guests, autograph books at the ready.
"There was Doug Barkley, the outstanding Detroit defenseman, whose career was ended when he lost the sight of one eye; teammate Bryan Watson, the 'pepper-pot' kid from nearby Bancroft, in Haliburton, Ron Ingram, Roger's close friend, and business partner, who plays for the Baltimore Clippers. Ingram spends his summers working at Roger's hockey school at the Bracebridge Arena. There also were the hockey heroes from the area, including Bobby Orr, Canada's greatest junior player, from Parry Sound, fifty miles north; and Wayne Rutledge, a goaltender from Gravenhurst, nine miles to the south. Rutledge played in Minneapolis last season and was voted the most valuable player in the Central Professional League."
Rimstead wrote that, later in the afternoon, at an awards event for Bracebridge Minor Hockey, "Roger stood up, thanked everyone in his quiet, self-effacing manner, then announced that his family was donating a trophy to minor hockey, the next season, in the memory of 'Shorty' (Roger's father), who had died only weeks before the parade. 'Dammit,' you said to yourself. 'Dammit all to hell!' Shorty should have been here. He would have been the proudest little guy in the world."
I came, in more recent times, to have quite a bit to do with some of those in attendance at this special "Roger Crozier Day," event. First of all, two summers later, I was awarded a week's instruction at the Red Wing Hockey School, courtesy of both Roger and Ron Ingram. I wasn't the only one to get the free week, but there's no way my family could have afforded this, if I had been required to pay even half the registration fee. I was a big fan of Wayne Rutledge, in his years as a Muskoka region auctioneer, and I did have the opportunity to discuss the years he played opposite to Roger, in Junior hockey, and then his years spent with the Los Angeles Kings of the NHL, as starting goalie with Terry Sawchuck, as back-up netminder, and then in Houston, of the WHA, where he played on three championship teams with Gordie, Marty and Mark Howe. Then with Roger, I became the curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, that the foundation had financed, at the arena, and I became public relations director of the Crozier Foundation in Muskoka.
The highlight, for me, was when I was able to convince Roger, who was working as Facility's Manager, at MBNA (an American Bank), in Delaware, to participate in a special "Christmas in July Parade," recognizing an anniversary of Santa's Village. Roger, many years earlier, had actually been the engineer of the miniature train at the Village, and I have owned post cards, showing him at the throttle of the popular train. He agreed to ride in the parade, and Guy Waite kindly offered to drive him in his vintage car, a convertable; the four Curries, volunteered to walk along the route, handing out candy to the thousands of youngsters lining the parade route. It was a pretty awesome afternoon, with some interesting rewards. The best part, is that we pulled it off, and Roger had a blast.
The large crowd, with a pretty good representation from the home town, that had gathered along the parade route, had no idea Roger was going to make an appearance. There was no advance publicity. There would have been quite a few young citizens who wouldn't have known his name, unless it was from the wad of old NHL hockey cards, they'd been collecting. I suppose, as the one who recruited him to join this parade, like the one in the summer of 1966, I could only hope, outside of a rain-free afternoon, he would be heartily acknowledged by those who remembered him, from back then; or who recognized him from those old hockey cards, many of us used to collect; or pegged onto the forks of our bikes, to rattle in the spokes like an engine. But I can admit, after all these years, I was scared that he wouldn't get much in the way of applause or waves, but as we rounded the corner by Kentucky Fried Chicken, onto Manitoba Street, and approaching where the Crozier family house once stood, people began waving and applauding for the NHL veteran, just as they had, during the parade of 1966. By time we got to Memorial Park, he was receiving loud cheers, with people pointing and waving, and trying to get his attention. Roger had a grin on his face, that warmed my heart, let me tell you. I couldn't believe how many people were yelling out his name, and following after the car. The parade, this time, wasn't in his honor, specifically, but boy oh boy, was I happy to find out, that the town had remembered him after a lot of years absent. Suzanne and I got misty-eyed, and so did Roger, because it was an overwhelming response, and many times Guy stopped the car, so Roger could talk with old friends, he hadn't spoken to in decades; team-mates he used to play with and against, in his minor hockey days back in the 1950's. I had worried unnecessarily that the townsfolk had forgotten him. It was, without question, one of my most memorable moments in Bracebridge. The only thing that would have made it better, is if one of those spectators, sitting with top hat and tails, had been the legendary Paul Rimstead. Would I have loved to get a photo of Rimmer and Crozier at the doorway of the former billiard parlor, "Joes" where they used to retreat, after skipping class.
We didn't suspect it at the time, but Roger would have a relapse of the prostrate cancer, he had suffered from several years earlier. He would enjoy this parade, spend hours meeting with old friends, and soon make the official announcement, for the establishment of the Crozier Foundation; and host a fundraising gala, a "New Years in August" event, at the Bracebridge Centennial Centre, that made several hundred thousand dollars for the fledgling charity. Roger passed away in January of 1996. I will never forget that incredible parade in the summer of 1995, or the first one, way back in July 1966. I was at both these news events.
You will be hard pressed, in Bracebridge today, to find any reference to Paul Rimstead, who became one of the best read newspaper columnist in Canada. And outside of the permanent collection, at the Bracebridge arena, you will find little else to acknowledge Roger Crozier, or for that matter, former Toronto Maple Leaf all star, Irvin "Ace" Bailey. A few years back, when the town council was looking for names to adorn subdivision streets, I suggested names found in the works of the Washington Irving book, "Bracebridge Hall," because of the fact, the town was named after its title. No go! I wasn't surprised. But I can't understand why the names Rimstead, Crozier and Bailey have not been used, in their honor, and ours. Maybe that will be my project in the future. I've done it before, and I've still got a few good years left to agitate.
FROM THE ARCHIVES
GROWING UP POOR MADE US RESOURCEFUL - SMALL IMPROVEMENTS WERE ENORMOUS IN MY EYES - A GOLD BIKE, A CHEAP BALL GLOVE AND A MULTI-COLORED COAT FOR HALF PRICE
I knew our family was poor. All my chums were from families of modest income, most of them a little better off than us. We were a family of three, living in a two bedroom apartment, up on Alice Street, in Bracebridge, back in the 1960's, and my associates all lived in their own homes. They never held this as a social / economic thing because when it came right down to it, while their families owned homes, they didn’t have oodles of money either, or live extravagantly. These blokes had holes in their runners like me, and got wardrobe changes every August before school started. Maybe socks and underwear at Christmas. For hockey sticks we used ones found at the arena, that were usually broken, and we scavenged baseball bats from the garbage bin at Jubilee Park. I bought a new baseball glove from Bamfords’ Variety Store, up on Toronto Street, as a birthday gift from money given to me, and all my chums had hand-me-down gear that had belonged to older brothers and sisters. No one had much money, other than for corner store treats, and we got those funds from hunting down pop bottle empties and cashing them in for black balls and chewing gum.
My parents, Merle and Ed were good providers but their wages weren’t enough to escape the renter’s way of life. We had to settle for paying off someone else’s mortgage, someone else’s trip to Texas every winter. We just couldn’t seem to get ahead. We weren’t any different then than millions of other folks, who by circumstance, just couldn’t elevate much beyond cheque to cheque living. But I was good with what we had, and even at Christmas, I was contented with a new hockey stick, a couple of pucks, some mitts and a game board. Merle always apologized for not being able to afford more things for me, but I seldom if ever asked. I contented myself by playing outdoors, and used every resource available, for day to day entertainment.
I know that the social stigma of being broke bothered my parents way more than it did me. I remember in high school, being able to afford a neat multi-colored, mod-style fabric coat. I think it was twenty bucks. We used the order office of both Eatons and Sears a lot. I imagined myself looking very dapper in this new coat. Funny how I didn’t notice others wearing the same style of coat before I sent in the order. It was like we all belonged to some club, and should have had an emblem or patch on the front that identified us as “The Boys of Knute” or something like that. It seems a lot of folks were bargain hunting that spring, and it showed. When I told my wife this story, she smiled and said, “you mean the coat of so many colors?” “Are you telling me you remember that coat after all these years? We weren’t even dating then?” I asked. “When we came on the bus, we’d often pass you walking to school.....and there was no mistaking your nearly florescent jacket. Everybody on the bus knew it was you.” Great. Nothing like history to improve your lagging self image.
My mother was very proud and didn’t like to admit we were always a hair’s breadth away from financial disaster, at just about every moment. It affected her health and she suffered from high blood pressure from her early forties. Ed was a difficult guy to live with, and he liked to imbibe, and although a million miles from the story of Angela’s Ashes, he had, in his youth, lived very much a tragic life with an alcoholic Irish father, who abandoned four kids and a wife. Ed would quit his job in a heartbeat, if a manager got too cocky, but he always bounced back, and usually made it to a managerial position within several months. With a good knowledge of the lumber industry, he’d quickly show his prowess with customers, on the respective sales desks of a number of regional lumber companies. He was excellent at this job. But the wages were still low and even with both my parents working, it just wasn’t enough to....let’s say, put down enough to get a mortgage, let alone a cottage, which Ed’s bosses all had. We all had inner struggles with jealousy. It would be stupid to deny this. For example, I was jealous of my friends who all had neat bikes. I went for a long time without, and when they decided to go biking, I stood and watched their silhouettes disappear over the horizon. When one of the lads got a new bike for his birthday, he offered me his old one for five dollars. I had enough to swing the deal but it took breaking into my Christmas fund for a selfish, self-serving purpose. So I bought the most rickety, spokeless, wobbly, rusted piece of junk you’d ever seen. When my dad saw it he was moved to action. He took me immediately to the hardware store for spray paint.....no kid of his was going to be seen on a bike that looked so bad. I picked out gold paint and let me tell you, it didn’t do anything to improve the looks of the two wheeler. In fact, like my multi colored coat I told you about, the old bike just stood out more, and even seemed to glow when nightfall arrived. At least I got to keep up with my chums. Well, not keep up as much as tag along, which was fine. It was better to wobble in last place than remain behind.
Eventually my dad couldn’t stand to see this golden wreck beneath his proud son. So he gave Merle ten bucks to invest, on my behalf, as a downpayment on a nifty green bike, with a banana seat, from Ecclestones Hardware, on Manitoba Street. The bike was thirty-five dollars, and Butch Ecclestone, a dear man if ever there was one, let me take it home then and there, as long as I promised to come in every week with a small payment. It was a bumper season that year for lawn mowing, up at the Alice Street apartment, so the bike was paid off before the end of that summer. It was a metallic green and a joy to ride. I could not only keep up with my buddies but pass them. The only problem was, and it always seemed to be a color related issue with me, but during our neighborhood devilry, all the neighbors could identify me.....to my parents or the fuzz, as “you know, the kid with that snot-green bike!” I bet the shipping tag on that new bike didn’t identify it as being “snot green.” I wouldn’t have bought it then. So I apparently have always been identifiable by the color I attach to myself.
I loved living up at the Alice Street apartments because we were all in the same boat financially, and I’m pretty sure it was discussed, during those summer evening vigils out on the lawn, escaping the terrible humidity trapped in the apartments. But no one seemed to feel downtrodden,..... just living day to day without abundant resources. If you bought a new lawn chair you were living on the wild side. Two lawn chairs and you were getting ready to move on from Alice Street. There was a comradery in that apartment complex, and a sharing of what resources were most bountiful. Food and condiment sharing was a vigorous trade, and you seldom got through a dinner without someone poking their head in the kitchen door, begging a cup of milk, flour, sugar or a container of mustard. We gave what we had. We knew that whoever we loaned the items to, would be there for us, when we needed groceries but were cash restrained. I didn’t see anything wrong with this kind of financial modesty. We helped one another. When one car didn’t start in the morning, there was always a partnering in the very next vehicle that did start. I had a dozen parents in that building. Merle and Ed could ask neighbors if they’d seen me recently, and although the questions might have had to ricochet around the complex, someone as sure as pumpkin makes pie, knew where to find me ninety percent of the time. And yes it helped having a glow in the dark, gold bike, then a snot-green one, and later, a multi-colored coat......the only one in our neighborhood.
By all definition we were poor then. I knew it but for some reason, I found strength in being resourceful as a result of being poor. I had more patches on my pants and shoes than original fabric. The souls of my shoes used to flap in a strange, almost musical cadence, that simply eliminated having dry feet on wet days, or sneaking up on my friends....or enemies. When they couldn’t be held any longer by glue or tape, and I’d be suffering obvious skinned knees from the frequent falls, Merle would insist on getting me a new pair. Not PF Flyers but whatever shoe was on sale at Stedmans or the Economy Store. It didn’t matter to me. I held no stock in flashy shoes but I certainly liked ones that kept my feet dry. I used to run a lot so the not-tripping thing was pretty good as well.
I can remember at baseball, some of the kids, and even the coach, laughing at my cheap ball glove. I knew it was cheaply made every time I caught a ball. It had thin layer of leather and some felt I think under that, and a fabric covering. But basically it was my skin and bones stopping the fastball. The fastball was smaller than the softball most of the younger teams played with. Some of our players could really move that ball along, and all I could do was grimace and turn the frown upside down. As the coach would have liked me to admit, even the pop-ups into the outfield, hurt like hell, if I didn’t catch them in the small webbing of the tiny mitt. It was all I had and my parents couldn’t afford anything better. I think I did feel disadvantaged about this situation, yet I made some incredible catches with that corner store purchase. I got so used to it, that even when I got extra money, I felt it would be unlucky to abandon an old and very worn-out accessory. I probably used that glove into my late teens, and everybody took a shot at making fun of it. Then I’d make a diving catch and they’d be absolutely spellbound how I could have hung onto the ball with such a poor quality glove.
I did the same in hockey, with woefully inadequate equipment. I couldn’t afford goalie skates until my Midget years. Truth is, until it was ruled illegal, I used my baseball glove, with a special protective sleeve taped on, for a couple of seasons. The league didn’t have a lot of surplus equipment to loan out, and I had to settle for what no one else wanted. The pads for my legs were terribly thin and for years I played without arm pads. Until that is, I came home after one game with huge bruises on my arms from slapshots I’d stopped. I didn’t get a lot of rebounds off flesh and bone, I’ll tell you....just a searing pain and tears in the eye. I wanted to play so badly that I was glad to compromise. After nearly breaking my toes, on each foot, the coach finally insisted that I had to have proper goalie skates for insurance purposes. In my pre-juvenile year I was able to buy all new goalie equipment from money I’d made at a summer job.
It’s funny now when I think back on those days. It’s not that we’re wealthy today but infinitely better off than Merle and Ed were in the 1960's, living up there on Alice Street. As young parents ourselves, Suzanne and I did have some painfully lean years trying to afford a new house, a broken car, debt to the eyeballs, and raising two young lads. And we raised the boys with a keen understanding of what being resourceful is all about. Suzanne, who originally trained as a home economics teacher, which later became “family studies,” could make up a soup or stew from just about anything, and kept us well fed through some pretty tough economic times. The boys are still pretty resourceful running their vintage music business, here in Gravenhurst. I can’t tell you how many old guitars, they got cheaply, were fixed up and passed onto young folks and old, who wanted “something affordable.” I know where they were coming from. Settling for less isn’t so bad, even if it’s a wobbly gold bike, a ball glove with a capable hand within, and a multi-colored bargain coat that kept me warm and dry regardless.
I may have been poor but it never stopped me from enjoying each and every day.
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