ENVIRONMENTAL REALITIES INFLUENCED ME CONSTANTLY AS A FLEDGLING COLLECTOR - JUST AS DID, THE INTERESTING PEOPLE MET ALONG THE WAY
IT STARTED IN BURLINGTON FOR ALL THE RIGHT REASONS - IT WOULDN'T BE AN ACCURATE BIOGRAPHY WITHOUT CREDIT GIVEN
The material below, will read slightly disjointed today, the result of being pleasantly interrupted, almost on the half hour, all day, here at our Gravenhurst antique shop. I am all talked out, and for those who know me, this has only occurred a couple of times in my 59 years; and both times, I was trying to avoid getting the strap at school, for a crime I committed. But felt deserving of credit for all the other acts of benevolence I'd bestowed on classmates, except of course, the occasion when Ray Green and I, tossed poor old George down the coal chute at recess. So please forgive my inconsistencies today, but afterall, this "off the beaten path" stuff, is as much a part of my biography as everything else that is weird and wonderful. We have a social / cultural recreation here, at the shop, in the form of ongoing conversation, that never really ends at the end of one day; and resumes soon after the open sign, is turned the following morning. Let's just call it a maturing point of view, that even casual visitors, feel compelled to weigh-in, critically, or in full support of the prevailing opinion. It might be as simple as a political discussion, or as in most cases, it has something to do with music heritage, and who, pray-tell, was the best guitarist, or song-writer ever. There are no conclusions, but a lot of input, and that can eat into the daylight hours pretty severely. This is where I found myself contently engaged today, with a friend, and I was sorry we had to conclude because of waning business hours. I know we are in this business to make money, but gosh, wasn't it Old Fezziwig, of Charles Dickens' creation, who said, "there's more to life than money sir." Well, I concur.
I never took the risk of hitching a ride on the rails. Riding a box car wouldn't have suited my need for creature comforts, and although I've read many accounts of living out in the open, the memoirs of former (but reformed) hobos, it never had such an appeal, that I wanted to join the brethren criss-crossing this beautiful continent. I have enjoyed reading about the adventures of others, but alas, I am a craven coward, when it comes to "climbing the heights," "diving to the depths," "jumping from the heavens," or "living life on the wild side," as relates to any discernible hardship I might suffer in their pursuit. I am a mild risk taker. The only time I wasn't of that ilk, was as a youngster, with a penchant for trouble-making, trespassing, rabble-rousing, and a plethora of other anti-social initiatives, provoking such questions from neighbors as, "Who the hell is that kid, and why is he disconnecting that power cable?" Or, "Why is that Currie kid using the gas mower on the road," and "Isn't that my mower?" This was my risk factor. I gave all the physically risky enterprise up when I became an antique dealer. Then it was a whole different type of adventure, and a much more enhanced biography, yet having nothing to do with practical jokes, property damage, grand theft auto, or burglary. I never got caught for these affairs of youth, and if this is the kind of character material, you thought might be in this biography, I must disappoint you now before you read further. The adventures in the antique field, I suppose, are pretty mild, in comparison to my tally of accomplishments as a child. I think they're still kind of neat, despite the lack of gratuitous sexual content, related debauchery, and meaningful crumbs of international intrigue. No, to spice up my biography, I had to write about the great little neighborhood of Harris Crescent, back in the late 1950's and early 60's, that inspired me to carry on life as a wise-acre gad-about, who has always cherished the memories of the places I've lived and worked, experienced thus far along, in this marvellous mortal coil. And yet my biography may read profoundly different that others, in the antique profession, because I pay a lot of credit to the environment, that always nurtured my wanderlust as a hunter / gatherer. My mother, by insisting that "I go out and play," was feeding my addiction for open air, and the exploration of the neighborhood and beyond. It's why I got in crap regularly, for sneaking down the watershed of Ramble Creek, in that great and tropical ravine, to the rocky shore of Lake Ontario, which was the one thing that made my mother regret her liberalities. She let me have a lot of room to roam, but if I came back home, smelling like the Lake Ontario fish, that floated belly-up along the shore, I was temporarily grounded. Which meant, I was not allowed to enter the ravine until my penalty had been served. I loved everything that balliwick had to offer, from its cherry, apple and pear trees, to the magnificently quaint several acres, of historic Lions Club Park, where the water of Ramble Creek, frothed and gurgled over flat limestone, sparkling with the dashing of bleeding through sunlight, into the gentle depression, contrasting the shaded park lawn, where the concrete wading pool sat empty for long and long.
As a collector, and a full fledged antique dealer, I have never lost the whimsy of casual childhood observation, and never once found myself entirely grown up, such that I couldn't afford myself the luxury, the classic romantic pleasure, of daydreaming and waxing poetic, about what nature inspired at that particular moment, or on that particular collecting adventure. Above all, I have an unspecified indebtedness you see, to the nature that partnered with me, through the years, without any expectation that I might one day, acknowledge the wealth of my now historic liaison, with the nature I have admired and adored, from the days of my childhood adventures. I have never once gone on an antique hunt, where nature was a lesser partner to the set-out mission of discovery. I enjoy my travels from point to point, and I allow the environs, I amble through, to play with my emotions. I am never sullen, or void of the sensory perception, I am plugged into this landscape through the seasons, through the prevailing weather event, storm or calm; and I can not dismiss casually, the ethereal experience of living life to the fullest, despite what some may overview as a strange, disjointed profession of buying and selling the possessions of dead people. My relationship with nature has always been my most important advantage as a collector, from long before I knew what being a "collector" meant. It invigorated me to explore further afield, and as any best friend, never betrayed me, by being uneventful, or passive to my need to be inspired. Thus, the environment has always been part of my ambition to hunt antiques and collectables, especially recognized by those childhood forays, in quest of buried pirate treasure, which took me through the wilds of our neighborhood, always with ripped paper map and child-sized shovel.
I've read quite a few "antique dealer" biographies, from the expert perspective of those history professionals, who made profitable businesses from selling the best of the best in furniture, china, heritage glass, art and books. I've paid special attention, to those business owners, who like myself, have made a profession as generalist antique, and collectable dealers, having specialities, but never being so restrictive, not to take advantage of a big find completely out of their comfort zone. I want to know how they made good and prosperous lives for themselves, in a field that is never void of excitement, and untold adventure. It can be said with some accuracy, that the antique trade is always a gamble, and it overflows with temptation, subject at all times, to the influences of greed, and the realities of speculative successes, told over and over as industry legend. There is no stalwart antique dealer alive, who doesn't appreciate, just how tradition and legend play into this historic profession, from the passed down stories of hunting buried or sunken treasure, tomb raiding, art and antique heists, and the whole quest for the holy grail, beyond the Monty Python take, on its imminent discovery. The antique profession is a storied one, and it's what I have always enjoyed about it, truth be known. I like being a part of a profession that Charles Dickens thought worthy of writing about. Yet, when you read many of these biographies, you don't really get this impression, because frankly, the dealers never actually lighten-up enough, about some of their milestone adventures. Being way too modest and unnecessarily protective of their inner most thoughts about a business that is chock full of curious activities, and strange coincidences; even the paranormal has a place in the story collection of veteran dealers. An enterprise that by its inherent nature, draws all kinds of unique characters into the fold of day to day business, both as customers, buyers and sellers, and all associates in between. I once thought that being a writer was a razor's edge profession, especially when I was working as a staff writer for Muskoka Publications, reporting on everything from the police beat to local politics, which at times could earn some of those bold print, double-banked, front page headlines, every reporter celebrates with their coveted byline. I can't explain why antique dealer biographies are so conservative, other than to suggest, like the magician's code to never reveal the secrets of their trade, we may be a tad shy of releasing too much information about the way we acquire, or dispense of our respective inventories. Maybe it's the over-riding concern, that confessing too much inside technique would hurt upcoming generations of antique dealing. I don't know, but I can respect why some of these biographies, are respectful of the inner most workings, of how we go about hunting and gathering, in order to survive in a highly competitive field. It's just that I finish these biographies, and feel the best parts of the story were left off, for whatever reason. I don't have a hugely exciting biography, but then I'm still working on my career. I just wanted to start a biography while I could still remember somewhat of how it all began; and it did begin in those childhood ramblings, through the old Harris Crescent neighborhood, in Burlington, Ontario.
The early goings of my collecting adventures, had everything to do with the environs of that wonderful little neighborhood, that was perfect for a never-say-never novice hunter-gatherer, who had a considerable amount of freedom, to survey the topography almost at will. My mother Merle wasn't particularly patient with me at this age. I wanted outside and she was good with this, and only too happily opened the door for my exit. We didn't do this with our boys, but for Merle it provided her with a small amount of time to regain her sanity, after a period of my confinement. I wasn't an over-active child, with any medical or emotional condition that influenced this behaviour, but I didn't see any value, other than having a roof over my head, and three square meals and snacks a day, to keep me indoors. Merle didn't like me watching television, and she accused me of all kinds of nonsense, on the brink of skullduggery, playing in the apartment; or even my room, which she thought of as my pirates' cove. She unloaded me on the neighborhood, and the plain truth; I was a scourge. I did get up to "no-good" frequently, if not hourly. Like the time I told my chum, Ray Green, to look up a vent pipe, at the side of the Nagy Apartment where we lived, just as I smashed down hard on the iron tube, which by the way, released about a hundred mud-dawbers, which I had an idea, would provide a rather nasty sting. Not just one sting either. I didn't feel very good about this, when I saw Ray running home, hitting himself, and occasionally dropping and rolling on the grass in between residences. Then the little bastards turned on me, and I was dropping and rolling all over the front lawn of 2138 Harris Crescent, when my mother found me welted-up. "Teddy Currie, what have you done?" A lot of neighbors saw me as the real-article, "Dennis the Menace," and may or may not have made the sign of the cross, when they saw my wavering silhouette against the bright morning sunlight, coming out of our apartment door. "Oh, Jesus, the Currie kids on the loose again."
Here then, are a few more environmental-backed stories of my life on the prowl of that charming little neighborhood, where the echo of the fog-horns welcomed the spring shipping season, and summer-ripe cherries were the scent of harvest, the sound of something falling over, with a crash, usually having something to do with me! The collector in training.
LITTLE STOPS ALONG THE WAY - THE BURLINGTON I REMEMBER
EVEN AS A KID, I ENJOYED SIMPLE PLEASURES - AND SPECIAL PLACES
I THINK THAT MY YEARNING FOR THE PAST, HAS AS ITS HINGE, MY CONTEMPORARY, "WHIRLING DERVISH" INTEREST, TO KEEP HISTORY RELEVANT. I AM CONSTANTLY DRAWING ON THE PAST, TO FIND SOLUTIONS FOR PROBLEMS, I FIND MYSELF FACING TODAY. A LOT OF PEOPLE, I THINK, FEEL THAT EVERYTHING IN THE PAST, HAS BEEN IMPROVED-UPON EVER SINCE……SO OUTSIDE OF HIGHLIGHTING THE BIG INNOVATIONS, DISCOVERIES AND VICTORIES, IT SHOULD BE LEFT TO FILL THE SPACE BETWEEN THE COVERS OF HISTORY BOOKS. AND THEY LOOK VERY HANDSOME ON LIBRARY SHELVES. I VERY MUCH DISAGREE, AND ALTHOUGH I'M NOT A WIDELY READ HISTORIAN, AND I HAVE MOSTLY BEEN PUBLISHED IN THE REGIONAL PRESS, FOR THE PAST 35 YEARS, I HAVE STILL MADE IT A PASSIONATE MISSION, WHATEVER MY READERSHIP, TO PITCH HISTORY AS A DYNAMIC, ALWAYS AT YOUR BECK AND CALL, LIFE AND TIMES RESOURCE.
YOU SEE, I WANT MY BURLINGTON YEARS TO BE RELEVANT. I WANT MY PARENTS' LIVES TO HAVE MEANT SOMETHING MORE THAN THE STATISTICS THAT THEY WERE BORN, GOT MARRIED, HAD A CHILD, VOTED, PAID TAXES, WORKED, AND THEN DIED. WHEN I HAVE SUGGESTED YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR OWN BIOGRAPHY, AS YOU'RE READING ABOUT MY EARLY YEARS IN BURLINGTON, IT'S BECAUSE PERSONAL VALIDATION IS ALWAYS IMPORTANT, BUT MOST OFTEN UNDER-RATED BY THE INDIVIDUAL..…..BECAUSE WE MISTAKENLY THINK IT'S NOT IMPORTANT TO ANYONE ELSE. HOW WRONG YOU ARE. AS A REGIONAL HISTORIAN, I WILL ALWAYS TAKE A FIRST PERSON ACCOUNT OF A TIME AND EVENT, OVER SOMEONE ELSE'S RESEARCHED, DISTANT OVERVIEW. I CAN'T TELL YOU JUST HOW IMPORTANT IT IS, WHEN I HAVE ACCESS TO A HAND WRITTEN FARM JOURNAL, FROM THE PIONEER PERIOD, OR FROM THE YEARS OF THE GREAT DEPRESSION. TO SEE THROUGH THE WRITER'S EYES IS SOMETHING SPECTACULAR. I HAVE ENJOYED MANY OF THESE JOURNALS IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, AND I'VE BECOME A BETTER, MORE THOROUGH HISTORIAN, BECAUSE OF THESE INSIGHTFUL PERSONAL ACCOUNTS. POSSIBLY THE PERSON WRITING IT AT THE TIME, MAY HAVE WONDERED WHAT PURPOSE IT WOULD SERVE, IN LATER YEARS, BUT THEN IT JUST SEEMED SATISFYING TO REPORT ON WHAT WAS HAPPENING AT THE FARM, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD, AND OUT IN THE COMMUNITY. SOME PEOPLE I KNOW, WOULD LOOK AT SUCH A JOURNAL, AND PUT IT BACK ON THE SHELF WITHOUT READING A PAGE. IN THEIR MINDS, IF IT WAS ANY GOOD AS A BOOK, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A KNOWN AUTHOR, AND TURNED INTO A WORK OF FICTION. POSSIBLY A TV MOVIE. I PITY THEM. THEY WOULD PITY ME FOR BEING OBSESSED BY THE GRAVE. THIS IS HOW THEY SEE HISTORY. A CEMETERY! BOOKS ON HISTORY, ARE JUST PORTABLE TOMBS, THAT SHOULDN'T BE OPENED. FROM THESE PERSONAL JOURNALS, OUR LINK IS FOUND, TO THOSE WHO HAVE BROKEN TRAIL FOR US, TO LIVE AS WE DO TODAY. WE SHOULD TAKE THEIR ADVICE AND OBSERVATIONS SERIOUSLY, BECAUSE AS THEY SAY, HISTORY REPEATS. FOR THIS REASON, I HAVE, FOR YEARS, DOCUMENTED AS MUCH AS I COULD REMEMBER, AND ESPECIALLY, RECOLLECTIONS OF INTERESTING PEOPLE I HAVE HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF KNOWING. FOR ME, JUST HAVING A FEW SHORT YEARS OF CLOSE FRIENDSHIP WITH THE NAGY FAMILY, HAS IMPRINTED ON A LIFETIME'S CREATIVE ENTERPRISE, AND I DON'T THINK THERE'S A TIME WHEN I SIT DOWN FOR A LONG WRITING CHALLENGE, THAT I DON'T HAVE THEIR GOODWILL, TUCKED CLOSE TO MY HEART FOR REFERENCE. WHEN I GET DISCOURAGED, AND FEEL DISENCHANTED ABOUT SOME PROJECT, AND ITS FAILINGS, IT PAYS FOR A WRITER TO HAVE THESE LITTLE POINTS OF LIGHT, TO CALL UPON, TO RELIEVE A FUNK. I NEVER REMEMBER A RAINY DAY WHILE I LIVED IN BURLINGTON. LET ME EXPLAIN.
WHEN I THINK BACK TO MY CHILDHOOD, SPENT IN BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, I REALIZE HOW MANY INFLUENCES HAVE TRAVELLED WITH ME FOR HALF A CENTURY. NEAT MEMORIES OF FASCINATING PLACES, AND EXPERIENCES THAT WERE EXCEPTIONAL BECAUSE OF THE PEOPLE WHO WERE AT OUR SIDES…..FOLKS WHO PARTNERED THROUGH A LOT OF OCCURRENCES, AND CAME OUT SMILING AT THE END. DO YOU KNOW, I CAN NOT, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, REMEMBER A RAINY DAY. IF IT WASN'T A THUNDER STORM, I WOULD HAVE UNDOUBTEDLY BEEN OUT IN IT REGARDLESS OF GETTING A LITTLE SOGGY. IT WOULD HAVE MATCHED THE SOAKERS I GOT DOWN AT RAMBLE CREEK. I DON'T THINK WE COULD HAVE MADE IT THROUGH THOSE YEARS WITHOUT A LITTLE INCLEMENT WEATHER, JUST THAT I DON'T REMEMBER THEM. I REMEMBER INCIDENTS OF RAIN ONLY BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE CANCELLED A TRACK AND FIELD DAY AT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL. IT LIKELY HAPPENED ONLY ONCE, THAT ONE OF THESE EVENTS, ALSO CALLED A "FIELD DAY," WAS RAINED OUT. MY POINT IS, WHEN I THINK BACK TO BURLINGTON, IT'S ALWAYS SUNNY. OR MISTY. THEN SUNNY LATER IN THE DAY.
I LOVED GOING SHOPPING ON BRANT STREET, AND AT A LITTLE PLAZA, FURTHER UP THE STREET. I THINK THERE WAS A WOOLWORTHS STORE, BUT IT MAY NOT HAVE BEEN. WE STILL HAVE A NATIVITY SCENE, WE BOUGHT ONE CHRISTMAS, FROM THAT STORE. IT WAS IN A PLAZA WHERE MY DENTIST, DR. FITZGERALD HAD HIS OFFICE. I DIDN'T LIKE GOING THERE, BUT IF I WAS FORCED INTO THE CHAIR (WHICH IS USUALLY WHAT IT TOOK), I WOULD DEFINITELY HAVE MADE IT A CONDITION, OF PAIN, THAT I GET A TREAT FROM THIS SMALL DEPARTMENT STORE, IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE PROCEDURE. IT WAS AFTER THE BRANT STREET INTERSECTION WITH NEW STREET (OR CAROLINE)….., HEADING UP TOWARD MOUNTAIN GARDENS. I REMEMBER AT ONE OF THE MAJOR INTERSECTIONS, THERE WAS A NEWER CONVENIENCE STORE, THAT WAS QUITE LARGE FOR THE TIME PERIOD, WHERE RAY GREEN AND I STARTED GETTING OUR CENT CANDY AND TRADING CARDS. I'M NOT SURE IF WALMSLEYS CLOSED WHEN THIS ONE OPENED OR NOT. AND RAMBLE CREEK AMBLED ALONG THE BACKS OF THE BRANT STREET STORES; I KNOW THAT FOR SURE. I ALSO RECOLLECT GOING WITH MY FATHER TO A BARBER SHOP, THAT I THINK WAS SITUATED IN THE BURLINGTON BUS STATION, JUST OFF LAKESHORE, NEAR BRANT, WHERE I REMEMBER THERE WAS A SHOE-SHINE CHAP WHO WOULD LOOK AFTER ED'S SHINED LEATHER. I HAD RUNNING SHOES. PF FLYERS AS I REMEMBER, WITH THE SIDES TORN OUT. THERE WAS ALSO A SHOP BETWEEN THE BRANT STREET INTERSECTION WITH THE LAKESHORE, AND TORRANCE, WHERE MY FATHER AND I WOULD SHOP FOR A MOTHER'S DAY GIFT, OR CHRISTMAS PRESENT, THAT SOLD CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS. I REMEMBER GOING INTO THE SHOP, AND BEING BLOWN AWAY BY THE HUGE INVENTORY OF CHINA, TEA POTS, PITCHERS, PLATTERS, PLATES AND BOWLS, SUCH THAT A CLUMSY KID LIKE ME (A TRUE BULL IN A CHINA SHOP) SHOULD BE PROPERLY TETHERED OUTSIDE INSTEAD. WHEN SUZANNE AND I WERE CLEANING OUT MY PARENTS APARTMENT, AFTER ED PASSED AWAY (MERLE DIED A YEAR AND A HALF EARLIER), I'M PRETTY SURE THERE WERE CUPS AND SAUCERS, WE HAD PURCHASED, OVER QUITE A FEW SPECIAL OCCASIONS, FROM THAT SAME SHOP. MERLE LOVED HER TEA TIME, TWICE A DAY, THAT SHE HAD KNOWN GROWING UP HERSELF. OF COURSE MERLE ALSO WAS SCARED OF USING THEM, SAVING THEM INSTEAD FOR SOME IMPORTANT OCCASION, OR FOR A FUTURE DAUGHTER IN LAW. THE QUEEN NEVER ARRIVED FOR TEA. AND SHE NEVER GAVE SUZANNE THE CUPS AND SAUCERS, AND A LOT OF OTHER LITTLE CHINA ODDS AND SODS, THAT SHE HAD TOLD ME, FROM PUBLIC SCHOOL ON……"ONE DAY TEDDY, THESE ARE GOING TO BE GIVEN TO MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, SO I HAVE TO KEEP THEM NICE." SHE KEPT THEM NICE, BECAUSE MOST OF THEM NEVER HELD A DROP OF TEA. IT'S NOT THAT SHE DIDN'T LIKE SUZANNE, JUST THAT SHE HADN'T GIVEN UP ON THE QUEEN.
I enjoyed the times Ed would take us to Dairy Queen, on the Lakeshore, for after-dinner soft ice cream cones with the chocolate dip. Kicking around the shoreline, while Ed and Merle got the ice create treats, I found huge gold fish in a small cove, of the lake, situated behind the restaurant. Every time I tried to show Merle and Ed the fish, they'd disappear. If I went down to the shore alone, they'd be there. Smiling at me. If I yelled for my parents to come and see the gold fish, they'd be gone in a flash. It went on for years. Other people had seen them, including Ray Green, but never his parents. I guess they were only visible to kids. I remember the Brant Inn, and Ed used to point out where the old Cannery was located, and a hotel / motel also situated between Brant Street and Torrance, on Lakeshore, that was quite elegant, and may have had live music. I'm reasonably sure Merle and Ed used to go there from time to time, on special occasions…….when I was somewhere else. It was called the "Estamine," or "Estaminet," something like this. Please correct me if you remember the proper name it went by, back then. I know it was situated on the lake side of the Lakeshore Road.
Ed and Merle used to like Sunday drives, when we lived at Harris Crescent, so I became a regular at the Riverdale Zoo, Niagara Falls, Chippewa, Fort Erie, Buffalo, St. Catharines, and parks like Crystal Beach, Kelso Park (I believe, named after politician, Kelso Roberts), and historic sites like Fort Henry, Fort York, and the Queenston Heights battlefield. Ed used to take me on Friday nights to Flamboro Speedway or another race track in Hamilton, but I forget the name. All I know, is that there was a driver named Jack McCreedy, who used to drive what looked like a dune buggy with wings, and he became my favorite driver. I loved these events, and I never once came home, without wood splinters in my behind from the bleachers, and a burned tongue from the hot chocolate. I don't know why Ed started taking me to road racing events, but obviously it was a good father-son activity, because I still remember it, and the bloody cold nights we sat on those unforgiving wood bleachers. Merle wouldn't have anything to do with noisy cars, that might crash into the stands. She didn't like Ed taking me to these events, but she made a deal that he wouldn't sit on a corner bleacher, just in case. She figured that corners were the most likely accident locations, when in fact, the opposite often holds true.
Many years later, our family used to go to Daytona Beach, Florida for winter vacations, (they would take me out of school), always at the time of the Daytona 500 Road Race, which involved a full week of events. Ed really wanted to go, but refused to pay the asking price for tickets, complaining they were way too expensive for just an afternoon of racing. Now the irony here, is that during this period in February each year, the influx of race-fans, always put a strain on accommodations, and presumably made everything just a tad more expensive. I think he liked the excitement of the race week, even though he wouldn't pay to see even one of the shorter races leading up to the Sunday finale, with drivers like Richard Petty, and Cale Yarborough. What was kind of insulting was that he bought us Daytona 500 windbreakers, (when they were discounted after the race) but wouldn't cough up the ticket price for him and I to actually attend the NASCAR event. Merle would never have gone to the track. I think he may have even told people back home, that he had gone to the race…..justifying the jacket. I thought it was a little whacky. Obviously the Flamboro prices were a lot cheaper. It's funny, because I don't remember my father has being cheap, except when I think back about certain situations, and habits he had, especially when traveling. Like the steak house in St. Catharines. He wouldn't go anywhere else for a steak dinner, except the small restaurant in St. Catharines that "served the best damn steak in the world." I don't know if it was good or not, because I got a hamburger whether I wanted one or not.
We had our first trip to Florida, while living at the Nagy Apartments. I don't know what kind of car we had for the trip, possibly an Austin, but it broke down twenty times or more, and sucked up most of the money we had taken for the two weeks' winter holiday. Ed bought some Chinese Food from a Burlington restaurant, for dinner the night before we left. I had shrimp for the first time in my life. My stomach didn't like it. I was sick every fifteen miles. It wasn't until we reached Georgia that I finally stopped yaking. Ed was a monster when it came to driving distances, and his outright refusal to stop for bathroom breaks, often had Merle and I gouging the upholstery. Until of course I started crying, and Merle screaming, "Teddy is going to pee in the car……you've got to stop. Now!" "There's a service station just down the road a bit. Tell him to wait just another few minutes," Ed would advise my mother, and even though I had heard what he said, very clearly, Merle repeated it to me. This would have been okay, if Ed hadn't been such a jerk, and whistled past that restaurant, simply because, "I didn't like the look of that one. There's another one coming up."
Short trips were fine with Ed. Just nothing over two hours. He would be enveloped by this sense of mission, to get to our destination ahead of schedule. You'd have thought there was some benefit to this, or a prize, and at the very least a discount in our accommodations. All we managed to do was shave off a half day on the road, but the abuse of the long, long car ride, wasn't worth the time we saved. It took me thirty years to warm back up to battered shrimp, after this trip. I remember on the trip back home, that we ran so close with money, we only had enough small change for two roast beef sandwiches, from a gas station on the highway, with half a day left to travel. Ed saw this as magnificent efficiency, and a clear demonstration of holiday budgeting to the final nickel of fuel. He was an early model of the later Clark Griswald, from the movie, "Vacation" with Chevy Chase. The Gemini astronauts popped out of the space capsule, bobbing on the ocean, with more life than we had, tumbling out of our small car jammed with cheesy souvenirs and coconuts, none of us even liked. I loved my parents for their thoughtfulness overall, but honestly, I hated getting in that car, when my father had that long distance look in his eyes.
Christmases were always enjoyable at the Nagy apartments, except for the fact, we never had one without the customary domestic situation. One year, Merle decided that we should have all new glass ornaments. She purchased about three dozen beautiful bulbs from Eatons, in Hamilton, as I recall, and all of a sudden, it became real important to get the right tree. We went to one of those lots, lit by strings of overhead bulbs, that with the prevailing snow, and poor illumination, meant by misadventure, we always bought the worse possible evergreen. It looked good on the lot, but crappy when we got it home. A third of the needles, no kidding, were gone before we got the tree to our apartment. My father was not particularly handy, and getting the stand on the tree always involved a rigorous amount of huffing and puffing, and many cigarettes. Possibly several bottles of beer, to chill the frustration. The darn thing never stood straight, during any Christmas, when I was growing up. Ed would finally decided it was "straight-enough," that he could begin stringing-on the lights. Which by the way never lit-up without thirty or forty bulbs having to be replaced. Talk about Christmas celebrations. There was more cussing around the ceremonial tree, than at a logging camp. Once the lights were finally on, (one bad bulb killed the whole string), Merle then took over, and began placing the new glass globes. The only job I had, was to hold the tinsel, in my hands, so that she could pick strands to drape on the branches, after the decorations were properly in place. She would only do one at a time. They all had to be hanging down properly. No angled icicles would do! Now imagine the kid…..you think I was, standing for an hour, with a handful of these foil icicles; Merle accusing me of tangling them, when I occasionally stretched my fingers, out of their claw-position. When she was finally satisfied the tree was perfect, and it was a fitting tribute to our family tradition, we'd sit down with a glass of eggnog, and extend a toast to St. Nick. Just as Ed's eyes were closing, thanks to the rum in the nog, the tree would lurch, stumble like a drunken soldier, (as a sailor, he hated to be called a drunken one) and come crashing down at his feet. Glass flying everywhere. Even if Ed had tied that tree-top to a nail in the wall, the tradition dictated,"The Currie tree must fall, at least three times, before Christmas Eve." I remember Merle crying about those shattered ornaments, that she would also have to tweezer out of my dad's toes, before all was said and done. It only took three years, for all our glass globes, for the celebratory Christmas tree, to be broken. Even when Ed finally opted to get an artificial tree, many years and ornaments later, the darn thing would fall, as if it was mandated by heaven or hell. Arguments. That was as much a part of Christmas as the candy canes and ginger bread. "Who are you calling stupid," Ed would retort, after my mother, in a clumsy and round-about way, of accusing him of incompetence, would say in a soft voice, "Maybe I should ask if Alec (Nagy) would come and fix the tree." That would always generate some restorative activity, Ed trying to prove to my Mother, he was just as handy as the landlord. Well, of course, he wasn't, and in fact, it would have saved a lot of agony, back then, if Alec had been summonsed, much earlier, to help the Currie family save Christmas……and each other's feeling, that always got knocked about this time of the rolling year.
My first meeting of Santa, outside of a department store, was when the bearded chap came to our door, with a brand new hockey stick. I remember answering the door, and nearly fainting. I didn't even know Santa played hockey. So I stood there, speechless, with Santa hunched over with the stick, like he was preparing to take a face-off. Ed finally had to say, "Teddy, for God's sake, say hello to Santa. He's brought you a present." I hadn't thought of that. It looked as if he wanted me to drop the puck. I don't think, that any time, during our five minute meeting, in the doorway, that I said one word. I just stared at him, trying to debunk the story, in my own way, that Santa could have forgotten my stick when he came to our apartment earlier that Christmas morning. How do you forget a hockey stick? Something wasn't right about this guy, and he was wearing running shoes. Santa doesn't wear sports attire on his deliveries. My mother always accused me of ruining events like this, by over analyzing things….like me pointing out, in a whisper, that Santa smelled like the liquor Ed puts in his shot glasses. "That's just the smell of egg nog, Teddy, geez," she cautioned me, not wanting to offend, whoever was playing apartment-Santa that year.
These were memorable family times because they were kind of off-kilter, a little left of centre, maybe even a touch crazy…..eccentric, that today, in retrospect, make them more endearing. If everything had been normal and calm through those years……the memories wouldn't keep jumping for attention today. We Curries had a way of raising excitement from even the calmest situations. Like the time Merle opened the back door of the apartment, and yelled at me, wading in my blow-up swimming pool, whether or not the little garter snake was gone from the backdoor. I think there were a few steps down to the door, and a covered concrete entrance, possibly with a drain. Once in awhile, a couple of backyard snakes would slither down there, possibly to feed on bugs, that had fallen after bumping the overhead light, the night before. I looked down the steps, and honest to God, I could not see them, coiled in the corner, apparently having a well-deserved nap. Even though she could see out, she missed them as well. She had a tray of drinks in her hand. So when Merle came out of that backdoor, two small snakes were waiting for her. Well let's just say the she shrieked with a hop, and so went the tray of drinks, and those poor little snakes shot out of that alcove like their tails were on fire. She wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the day. Hey, there were no injuries at least. Even the snakes were spared. Merle had a life-long phobia of snakes, and the ravine was full of them, so she simply stopped coming out the backdoor from that point.
Long before there was a link made between sun exposure and skin cancer, Merle was hugely proactive about me in the sun. She insisted I wear a hat, even when I was in my pool. My blow-up pool had to be under the cherry tree, without even a trace of sun hitting the spot it was finally positioned. Now when the pool was full of water, from Nagy's hose, it had to be positioned in the sun, to warm it up adequately, before I could even stick my toe in……and then only when it had been pulled into the shade. It's no wonder I went through a lot of pools. It wasn't the easiest thing to do…..pulling a plastic pool with forty gallons of water sloshing about. What made me crazy about this, and stuck with me forever, was the smell of rotting cherries. As Ann knew the cherries had worms, which always freaked me out a little, most of the fruit just ripened, and then hit the ground when it was ready to seed. I absolutely detested, having my pool in a vicinity where I'd be stepping on rotting cherries, if I got out to get something. The cherries inevitably, wound up in the water, and I'd start gagging. I came to hate the smell of these rotting cherries. Before I'd agree to have the pool under the beautiful cherry tree, I had to clean up every last cherry on the ground, before I could even think about entering the recreation zone of that inflatable contraption. Folks, there's is nothing so horrible as rotting cherries between your toes…..and then have a cherry pie for dinner. (Store bought. Merle and Ed loved cherry pie for Sunday dinners.) I went for decades without touching anything cherry including gum. All I could think about was those awfully smelly things landing in my pool. And yes, because the birds loved that tree, and the cherries, I got some of their stuff in my water as well. Merle used to try and scoop it out, and convince me everything was hunky dory, but I didn't buy it.
You know, none of this mattered, because it was all part of the life-experience, and was never about the parts, but very much the whole…..and that has been a lifetime of so many cheerful memories…..of days that never seemed to rain, and were always sunny and full of expectation and fulfillment. I drank it all in, and in my own way, celebrated everything opportunity afforded me…..they young voyeur. But I knew there would be a day, when all I would have, were these memories of Merle and Ed, Alec and Ann Nagy, Ray and Holly Green, and all my other cronies, I loved dearly as partners in that great little neighborhood, of Harris Crescent. I have haunted 2138 Harris Crescent ever since. The ghost of my childhood isn't anything to fear or loathe. It is the passion of a wee lad's spirit, to remain, in the place he once travelled, and got up to mischief, lived and loved, and found a safe haven in which to dwell. This trace spirit still wanders the halls, sits patiently in Ann Nagy's kitchen (watching as she prepares a meal), and then (if she still has it), plays with the floor pedals of the upright piano in the livingroom, where I used to hide when I had been naughty. In spirit I might wander the apartment lawns, waiting for Mr. Nagy to fire up the mower, or Ann to muck about in her gardens, that always looked so beautiful. And if you heard a tiny patter of running shoes on the stairs, but couldn't see anyone there, don't worry, it's just me retracing the million steps I took as a child, in one of the nicest, friendliest places anywhere on earth.
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