EARLY ON, I LEARNED ALL ABOUT HOME ECONOMY - FROM THE DOWNSIDE LOOKING UP!
COLLECTING BASED ON EXPERIENCE, AND SENSITIVITY - HOME BEING A MODESTLY APP0INTED CASTLE
My mother's contentment, above having folks from our apartment over, for a weekly game of euchre, (putting on a minor spread with a nice table cloth), was looking at a full cupboard or fridge, and feeling temporarily well-supplied! The true sign of prosperity was a stash of food supplies, that one might casually say, to a neighbor, that "we have two weeks' worth of groceries, so if a war breaks out, we'll be good for a little while at least." My mother and father were through a war, and the Great Depression, and they both never forgot what it was like to do without. And as I've written about numerous times before, nothing went to waste, especially anything that could be turned into a stew or soup, when there wasn't much else available for dinners. I didn't think it was unusual behaviour, because all my friends were in the same kind of family situation of modest economy. We didn't starve but there were few extravagances, but the home cooks were the true stars of my era; who could make meals that were substantial and delicious with event modest ingredients. If it was true by economic standards, we were the hard-done-by, I never knew it, except possibly for the fact I had to live with holes in my boots, and wear running shoes a little shy of rubber on the soles. The whole frugality thing, began to interest me, when I watched my parents shopping for bargains, and listened carefully to their debates, about how to compensate for shortfalls. I still go into grocery stores, as if in their company, and find myself doing exactly the same thing; even though we are by no means, in that particular economic circumstance. If we were, well, then having watched them, as an under-study, I would feel I had excellent early life instruction, on how to survive on less. I actually became fascinated with grocery stores and marketing. Suzanne never has a problem getting me to go shopping. I used to grocery shop a lot when she was working. Now we get along, like her parents and mine, picking out the weekly provisions. She has even taught me to read labels and look for size differences, product to product, in order to make the best purchase for the asking price.
If there is one quirk above all the other oddities of my personal biography, it's the reality, that from childhood, I loved any opportunity to go shopping with my parents. It's not like I was the only kid to enjoy this kind of outing, especially considering that it was the kind of prime-time event, perfect for weaseling the purchase of a treat for good behavior. I was masterful in this regard, and even though my treats were proportional to our modest budget for groceries, Merle found a way of funding a candy treat for me before we left the store. Even at Woolworths, I could convince either one of my parents, that I would be even better behaved, if only they'd buy me some licorice or Lucky Elephant popcorn. Of course I was an opportunist. Show me a kid who isn't!
My point is, I was always aware of what was being offered for sale, in these wonderful, extravagantly appointed department and grocery stores. Just consider a kid's joy in the cereal aisle. My mother hated this area of the store, because she didn't appreciate the way the cereal was marketed to tantalized kids like me. I needed those toys buried in the boxes. I craved the cereal that had the best toys inside. I also really liked cereal packaging that had convertible boxes, with games attached, and some with pictures on the back of my favorite hockey stars, like Gordie Howe, you could cut-out and collect as a series. Smart marketing is what I call it, because any sports collector had to have the whole set. Half the time, we hated the cereal but loved the prizes. Merle would start the cereal lecture two aisles away, informing me, in no uncertain terms, not to bug her about buying anything that was more extravagant than basic corn flakes. She argued that the sugar coated cereal would rot my teeth, and result in my costing the family hundreds of dollars in dental visits. As I hated having to visit Dr. Fitzgerald, my Burlington dentist, I was inclined to believe my mother in this regard. To get past this, I would promise to brush my teeth after every bowl of cereal. Which was a bare face lie, but what the hell. I was a kid doing what kids promise, with crossed hearts, to get what they want.
It may seem a stretch, to suggest, that at this time, I was also learning by immersion, about home economics - in the field, you might say. I never remember going to any store, when Merle or my father, Ed, weren't shopping with a keen awareness of budget. It's one of the reasons that we often went long stretches, without radio or television reception. Groceries and clothing needs, came ahead of electronic tubes. I watched my parents like a hawk, as they had to comparison price, on every food outing, and back in the early 1960's, there weren't no name brands like there are today. They had no choice but to be frugal, and I watched them decide whether to buy meat, chicken, or fish, or just have a big feed of homemade macaroni and cheese, with canned vegetables as a side dish. Gosh, those days are back. The other thing I remember, is that we had one grocery day for the entire week. If we ran out of sugar, flour, milk, or butter, this was the advantage of living in an apartment building. Merle would simply run to the apartment across the hall, or beside us, and come back with what she needed to get through until the next week. In contrast, Suzanne and I shop every single day, for most of what we need that night for supper. It started many years ago, when our boys were young, and we were in the middle of a recession. We didn't have the hundred and fifty bucks it would take (back then) to buy that week's worth of groceries. At that time, Suzanne's pay covered the housing and utilities, plus car payments and insurance, and my wage and the shop sales, was used to buy groceries. When I left the newspaper business, it put a lot more stress on the shop, to produce better results. So if we had a good day, we could afford to buy meat for dinner. If not, we had something wonderful regardless, because Suzanne is a well trained cook, and can make rice and macaroni dishes that trump meals with meat, fish and poultry. It was precarious to live like this, but we managed to feed the boys every day, and I never lost weight as a result of a lesser budget, and we kept the house from our fetters. When I think back now, credit goes to our parents, on both sides; because they had to be frugal when we were kids, me in Burlington and Bracebridge, Suzanne, growing up in Windermere. It was always a struggle to stay on top of financial obligations, deal with low and interrupted earnings, and keep the cupboards and fridge full of food. Suzanne and I had learned from resourceful parents, how to pull it all together, in tough economic times. And to never despair. Making do with less didn't have to be a depressing situation. I never thought of it this way. I got treats and good food, and we had a warm place to live on days like this. I guess you could say I grew up thankful for what we did have, and didn't worry about what we didn't have.
I can remember periods when my parents had an abundance of cash, on a particular week's shopping trip, and how enthusiastic they were to head to the meat aisle, and judge which ham, roast, or monster chicken was coming home with us. Chickens seemed so much bigger in those days, than the offering today, which seem at a glance, slightly bigger than cornish hens. It would be the same week that Merle would buy a loaf of raisin bread off the bread man who visited the Nagy Apartments, and maybe even some chocolate milk for me, cream for Merle, and buttermilk for my dad, from the milkman. I can still hear the bottles rattling in his metal carrier, as he came up and down the three levels of our building. But it was very clearly, a special occasion of the family economy, when we got these treats. It wasn't all that often but boy oh boy, was it ever delightful. Chocolate milk from a bottle. We felt like millionaires on a sardine budget. It was the same at the grocery store, and you could tell we were living high on the hog, when we bought bacon, to go with our eggs, and maybe even a small ham to grill up with our pancakes. Then the real sign of prosperity, was when Merle stopped to buy a pound of coffee, usually Pride of Arabia, that she would let me grind, in the loud device, that created such an amazing coffee aroma for anyone in that part of the store, at that particular moment. When we got to buy margarine, in those early days of the butter substitute, my great joy was that, once home, I got to knead the soft plastic package, to integrate the color gel in the middle, into the spread. It was at a time when the dairy industry was ticked off, about this cheaper substitute spread, and demanded, that margarine remain its manufactured color. Not yellow to start with, such that it would be confused with butter. It could only get its coloration when the inside glob was worked, by finger play, into the white margarine. I loved that job. I didn't understand it at the time, but I never turned down the work. If we had a little money left over, I would beg, whole heartedly, one of the individually foil-wrapped wedges of packaged cheese, you bought in a small wheel, under clear plastic, that used to have a wrapped swiss chocolate coin in the middle. I loved that white cheese. Thus, by shopping with my parents, early in life, and paying attention to our family economy, I learned a lot about the period, of the late 1950's, and early 60's, by front line immersion. I learned about having to turn down items we desired, because we had to stretch a dollar a little further some weeks, more than others. I developed a profound respect, for what my parents had to do, in order to keep food on the table. I had lots of disagreements with my parents over the decades, but I had no reason to challenge their ability to deal with home economics. I have carried it on into contemporary times. Suzanne and I don't feel disadvantaged whatsoever. We just watch the price fluctuations, and refuse outrightly to buy a pound of bacon for seven bucks. I know, at times, we feel poorer because of it, but honestly, even if we had a thousand bucks a night to spend on groceries, we wouldn't pay twenty bucks for the same package of ground beef, we paid eight and a half for, two weeks earlier. I get a kick out of cheese bars, for eight bucks, that are so thin, they now wobble when you pick them up. Back in the early 1990's, the cheese bars were about 950 grams, and you could knock someone out, with a hit to the head. Now you'd only cause a slight tickle! I often wonder, if the big wheels with these grocery stores, are aware how stupid pricing is, at least from our point of view - "the customer expected to buy this overpriced stuff"; the ones walking away, shaking their heads, planning to drive to competing stores, because even with gas expense, it's still cheaper to motor where the bargains are best attained.
What these corporate magnates should do, is hang around these aisles for a time, to listen to the comments shoppers are making about the grocery industry at large; and learn how John Q. Citizen, previously a sucker for over-spending, is figuring out how to do without, and find satisfying substitutes, fitting a much tighter budget of cash. I never thought, quite honestly, there would be a day, when I would thank my parents for teaching me the value of being frugal. I'm a frugal shopper for antiques the same way as I shop for groceries; because I know that business success for us, depends entirely on being able to offer low prices to our customers; the classic - "what goes around, comes around" lesson, of living within one's means, and never having to apologize for being cheap!
THE MYRIAD ENCHANTMENTS OF OLD RAMBLE CREEK -
A SANCTUARY FOR A KID, IN BURLINGTON, THAT PREPARED ME FOR MUSKOKA
ONCE AGAIN, I AM INDEBTED TO TRACY MCKELVY, OF BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, WHO SENT ME A FEW (EXCELLENT) PHOTOGRAPHS THIS WEEK, OF SOME OF MY OLD HAUNTS, FROM MY DAYS LIVING IN THE COMMUNITY, DATING BACK TO THE LATE 1950'S. FROM A CHANCE ENCOUNTER, WHILE SEARCHING FOR SOME NEIGHBORHOOD HISTORY, ONLINE, TRACY FOUND ME, A LINK TO THE PAST, HOLED-UP HERE IN THE WILDS OF MUSKOKA. SHE WAS PARTICULARLY PLEASED TO FIND THAT I HAD WRITTEN ABOUT ANNE AND ALEC NAGY, WHO OWNED THE APARTMENT BUILDING WHERE MY FAMILY LIVED FOR A NUMBER OF YEARS, BEFORE WE MOVED NORTH TO BRACEBRIDGE, ONTARIO. ANNE NAGY WAS MY SECOND MOTHER BACK THEN, AND ALEC, WELL, HE WAS CERTAINLY MY BACK-UP FATHER. I MAY HAVE SPENT MORE QUALITY TIME WITH ALEC, FOLLOWING HIM AROUND THE APARTMENT PROPERTY, THAN I SPENT WITH MY OWN FATHER, ED, WHO SEEMED TO WORK ALL THE TIME, AND WHEN NOT WORKING, WAS COMMUTING TO HIS PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT. WHILE ALEC WORKED, AT INTERNATIONAL HARVESTER, I BELIEVE, HE MANAGED QUITE A BIT OF TIME AT HOME, BUT AS HE LIKED TO WORK, AND I LIKED WATCHING, WE GOT ALONG OKAY. I LEARNED ALOT AS HIS APPRENTICE. I PROBABLY DROVE HIM NUTS BUT IT NEVER SHOWED. ALEC WAS TOO POLITE TO SAY SOMETHING LIKE "GO AWAY KID, YOU BOTHER ME," TO BORROW A LINE FROM W.C. FIELDS.
SEEING THE PHOTOGRAPHS TRACY SENT ME, BROUGHT BACK A FLOOD OF MEMORIES, AND AFTER ALL THE WILD AND CRAZY STUFF, I HAD ENGAGED MYSELF IN, DURING THOSE HALCYON DAYS OF CHILDHOOD, I HAD ACTUALLY DONE SOMETHING PROFOUNDLY INSIGHTFUL AT THE SAME TIME. I HAD, YOU SEE, MADE A POINT OF CAPTURING THESE SCENES AND MOMENTS, AS IF I KNEW THEN, THAT ONE DAY IT WAS GOING TO BE IMPORTANT TO DELVE BACK, AND REMEMBER CLEARLY, THE WAY IT WAS. AS I'VE NOTED BEFORE, THE ODD AND CERTAINLY COINCIDENTAL ASPECT OF THIS PRESENT JAG OF REMINISCENCE, IS THAT SOMETHING ETHEREAL INFLUENCED ME, BACK THEN, TO PAY ATTENTION…..AS IF I WAS AN HISTORIAN IN TRAINING EVEN THEN. I HAD NOSTALGIC FEELINGS BY THE TIME I WAS SEVEN YEARS OF AGE. NOT THAT I WAS PARTICULARLY NOSTALGIC FOR THE SIX PREVIOUS YEARS, BUT FOR SOMETHING ELSE. THIS NEIGHBORHOOD. EVERYTHING ABOUT IT HAD A RELEVANCE, AT A TIME WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT "RELEVANCE" OR "HISTORY" MEANT; AND AS FAR AS HAVING NOSTALGIC FEELINGS, IT WAS JUST A STRANGE INTRUSION OF MELANCHOLY, WHEN AS A KID, I SHOULD HAVE BEEN BOUNCING-HAPPY ALL OVER THE PLACE. POSSIBLY I WAS REINCARNATED. MAYBE I HAD LIVED IN THIS PLACE BEFORE, AND I WAS RE-VISITING THE OLD HAUNTS. I DON'T KNOW. BUT BEING RE-INTRODUCED TO HARRIS CRESCENT AGAIN, IN THE PAST COUPLE OF WEEKS, HAS CERTAINLY REMINDED ME OF THOSE SHUFFLING, SLOW, MINDFUL WALKS, NOTICING EVERYTHING I COULD ABOUT THE PEOPLE, PLACES AND THINGS; IRRELEVANT AS A MEMORY FOR SOME, BUT OF CRITICAL IMPORTANCE TO A KID LIKE ME…..WITH AN OLD SOUL. WHEN LATER IN THIS TOME, I MEET UP WITH ANGELA, YOU WILL REMEMBER THIS REINCARNATION THING. I STILL LIVE WITH ONE FOOT IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE. I DID THEN, AS WELL!
I AM NOT THE ONLY PERSON TO HAVE GROWN UP WITH A KEEN INTEREST IN HIS OR HER SURROUNDINGS. THERE ARE READERS RIGHT NOW, WHO RECOGNIZE OUR KINDRED SPIRITS, AND CAN REMEMBER MUCH FROM THEIR YOUTH, BECAUSE THEY KNEW THAT SOME DAY, IT WOULD BE AN IMPORTANT ASPECT OF INTERNAL FORTITUDE, TO BE ABLE TO RECALL EVEN MINOR EVENTS, SOME GOOD, SOME BAD, FRIENDS AND STUDENT CHUMS, AND WHAT MADE IT ALL SO INTERESTING. AT TIMES, SO PERPLEXING. I HAVE TALKED TO QUITE A FEW FOLKS, WHO HAD ENTERTAINED WRITING A PERSONAL BIOGRAPHY, BUT HAD VERY FEW MEMORIES OF THEIR CHILDHOOD. ONCE I GET THEM PERFORMING A FEW MIND-LIBERATING EXERCISES, THEY DO EVENTUALLY RECOVER MORE MEMORIES, AND QUITE A FEW HIDDEN FEELINGS ABOUT WHAT IT WAS LIKE AT THE HOME, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD AND IN THE COMMUNITY. THE MORE THEY WRITE, THE MORE COMES BACK. SOME TIMES IT SNAPS BACK WITH A STING. SOME TIME'S IT'S LIKE SITTING IN YOUR MOTHER'S, OR GRANDMOTHER'S KITCHEN, SNIFFING A FRESHLY BAKED PIE, AND IT FEELS LIKE A DRYER-WARM TOWEL AGAINST YOUR BODY. THIS IS WHAT WRITING A BIOGRAPHY TURNS UP, WHEN YOU'RE HAVING A GOOD DAY.
WHAT MAY BE MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL, FOR ME, IS THE VERY REAL ENCHANTMENTS I FOUND, IN THOSE CHILD-WILD DAYS, IN BURLINGTON, WANDERING THE GREENBELT IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD, WHICH WE CALLED WITH GREAT AFFECTION "THE RAVINE." RAMBLE CREEK (OR AT LEAST THIS IS WHAT WE ALWAYS CALLED IT, IN MY DAY) WOUND ITS WAY THROUGH THE OVERGROWN OPEN SPACE, TOWARD THE LAKE. THE RAMBLING, SHADOWY CREEK WAS PROBABLY LESS THAN A QUARTER KILOMETER FROM LAKE ONTARIO, IN GEOGRAPHIC TERMS, AND IT CAME FROM QUITE A DISTANCE UP BRANT STREET AND BEYOND. I KNOW IT CROSSED OVER THE ROADWAY TO LIONS CLUB PARK, WHERE IT RAMBLED AWAY THROUGH THE BEAUTIFUL LIGHT AND SHADOW, TREE-LINED LANDSCAPE OF THE MID-TOWN PARK. BUT THE SECTION CLOSEST TO THE LAKE, WAS MY SANCTUARY, AND I WANTED TO SPEND ALL MY WAKING HOURS, PLAYING IN AND AROUND THE RAVINE THAT ENCHANTED THE SUNLIT, FROTHING LITTLE CREEK, FLOWING TO THE LAKE. WHILE IT MAY HAVE BEEN A SMALL, SOMEWHAT INSIGNIFICANT GREEN BELT, TO THE ADULTS OF OUR COMMUNITY, TO ME, AND CHUMS, IT WAS OUR "NARNIA." IT WAS A MAGICAL PLACE, THROUGHOUT THE FOUR SEASONS. IT WAS A PLACE THAT NURTURED AND ENCOURAGED IMAGINATION. EVERY KID SHOULD HAVE A RAVINE AND A RAMBLING CREEK, TO IMMERSE IN NATURE. IT WAS, OF COURSE, THE PLANTED SEED FOR MY OWN LONG-STANDING WRITING EFFORT, TO HELP PROMOTE CONSERVATION IN OUR DISTRICT OF MUSKOKA, AND TO SPARE THE LAKELAND FROM URBAN SPRAWL. I CAN TRACE IT ALL BACK, TO SITTING ALONG THAT CREEK BANK, LISTENING TO THE GENTLE, SOOTHING WASH OF WATER, SMOOTHING LIKE SYRUP, OVER THE FLAT ROCKS ON THE BOTTOM, AND RUSHING THROUGH THE CONFLUENCES, OF STONES BUILT-UP AS BRIDGES, SO WE COULD PASS FROM ONE MARVELOUS PLACE TO ANOTHER. IT WAS A POET'S SANCTUARY. A WRITER'S PORTAL. I WROTE ABOUT IT ALL, IN THOUGHT.
I was always told I had an over-active imagination. It was said to me, by overseers, who often felt I was embellishing what I saw, or experienced. If a teacher, friend or family member, had said this to my mother Merle, about the eccentricity of her only son, she would have tightened her jaw, rolled back her eyes, stiffened her stance, and let loose with a tirade of reasons, to allow the creative mind its flowery pastures to roam…..its forest adventures to seek, and passage on the high seas to embark. It was like Joseph Conrad's novel, "Typhoon," when she finally finished. Every one was windblown with adjectives. Merle was a passionate defender of what others thought were mere extravagances, of an undisciplined mind. I see so much of this today, it's alarming…..young kids, who should be playing in the same woodlands, as I did; getting soakers and bumps and bruises by interacting with the natural environs. I get frustrated watching kids walk up our street to school, texting on their phones. They have had to walk a whole stretch of neighborhood, where a beautiful forest and lowland occupies the north side. If a deer was standing close enough to lick their faces, these youngsters would be so consumed by communication via expensive technology, they'd never feel its hot breath on their necks; and how sad, that they are missing these amazing intricacies, and displays of nature. This will have a tragic consequence over time. We can't possibly be stewards of nature, by the indifference that is being demonstrated these days.
Long before I ever read anything Washington Irving had written, there was a passage he wrote that explained, with uncanny accuracy, my own intimate opinion of nature, and my outright refusal, to place science above creative enterprise. I held them as equals. Obviously, even the scientist needs to employ creativity to find solutions, and uncover natural truths, unseen by the naked eye, and even left undetected by the wandering poet. For those who have been reading my blog, for some time, they will recognize this particular reference, to the differences between science and the mysteries of life, science can't entirely explain. I never walk in the woods without thinking of this paragraph, written in and around the early 1820's, published in the book "Bracebridge Hall." (Bracebridge, Ontario, (Muskoka) was named after this book, by Irving).
"I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a threadbare subject; yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of those happy days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained had not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy tale was true history to me. I have often been so transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as almost to wish that I had been born in the days when the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look upon those fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, without a lurking regret that they have all passed away. The experience of my early days, tells me, that they were sources of exquisite delight; and I sometimes question whether the naturalist who can dissect the flowers of the field, receives half the pleasure from contemplating them, that he did who considered them the abode of elves and fairies. I feel convinced that the true interests and solid happiness of man are promoted by the advancement of truth; yet I cannot but mourn over the pleasant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The fauns and sylphs, the household sprite, the moonlight revel, Oberon, Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairy land, all vanish before the light of true philosophy; but who does not sometimes turn with distaste from the cold realities of morning, and seek to recall the sweet visions of the night."
So what would the average public school student, today, say about a circle of padded-down grass, and bent-over vegetation, found in a secluded, shady woodlot? A place where a bear might have rolled around? Two Tom cats wrestling in the night? Something round having fallen from outer space, that was able to walk away from the landing spot? Or could it have been caused by something weather related? Out of ten kids, or a hundred, or a thousand, how many do you think would say, "That's a fairy ring, from a moonlight dance." My boys would have, offered this anecdotally, as they were children of the wilds, who had a mother who read them stories about the "fantastic." I would have answered this the same, even at a very young age, because Merle always read me fairy tales, and the great children's fiction of the world. I knew, as did my wife, and sons, the differences between the actualities, and science of nature, and the intricacies of fantasy. The distance between the two, is what we all called, "the enchantment." Before I moved away from Harris Crescent, and that amazing little ravine, and Ramble Creek, I knew the science of that place. I knew how the seasons affected the habitat, for a million interesting creatures that lived there, and how the water flow was affected in the spring by the melting snow, and how it would be limited to a trickle in the last days of July. I knew the heart beat and pulse that was strong in this shadowy place, and despite the science and botany I enjoyed as much, there was never a time, when I entered the hollow of the ravine, when I didn't expect to find magic unfurled…..whether the glistening art of a spider's web with dew, or the strange designs a spawning Sucker had made in the sand of the shallow pools, between the smooth flat rocks of the creek. I amalgamated it all, into one impression, and it was that this was a place of endless possibility and great expectation. Within only several minutes, of my arrival, any day, any hour of the week, I got a "soaker." It was my initiation, you see, to this perpetually unfolding, natural world, of which I was a humble, inquisitive guest.
It was the background, I called upon, when we were forced to fight the sale plans, the Town of Gravenhurst initiated, several years ago, targeting the marvelous little acreage I call The Bog, across from our home. They were prepared to sell it off for residential lots, without any consideration whatsoever, of the lowland eco-system they would be destroying…..that would affect the water quality of Muskoka Bay, of the broader Lake Muskoka. Many times during the rigorous battle, to preserve the open space, I thought about that little ravine, where Ramble Creek tumbled along, in its tiny natural paradise. I thought a lot about Washington Irving. And the happy ending, is that the people won, and The Bog was preserved……and all the bandy legged wee beasties that dwell there, have their home intact.
SNAKES, SQUIRRELS, RABBITS, FROGS AND PASSAGE TO THE SEA
The "ravine," where Ramble Creek trickled all the live long day, was more than just a place to find frogs and throw stones in the still pools. I saw it as a natural portal onto the rest of the wide and amazing world. I knew the creek rambled its way to Lake Ontario, and from my early forays into school geography, I knew that one could travel to the Atlantic Ocean from there, and that made this little amber creek, dazzling in the sunlight, so poetic and alluring to me…..as if it was the clearest path to liberation, and eternal freedom from my oppressors. I loved my oppressors, don't get me wrong. But it's just the pull of nature, for a kid to want to leave the nest before the wings were strong enough to enable flight. From the moment I first arrived at Ramble Creek, as a wide-eyed child, in my father's arms, I wanted to get down and explore. One of my first serious adventures, down in the hollow, was during the winter, when a small section of the creek behind the Creighton Apartment block, had been cleared for skating. Merle had acquired some "Bobb Skates," and this was my first skating lesson. It didn't go well. There were quite a few other kids, that day, managing to stand, and eventually, I learned from them how to balance upright. Even from skates, I saw this as a watercourse route leading somewhere…..beyond what I could see clearly down the ravine. When I'd come down to its embankment, on early summer mornings, so cool and refreshing, I wondered what it would be like to sail off on a raft, like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, toward all kinds of amazing adventures. I can not tell you how many plans I had, to build the kind of raft, that I could sail out of the creek, and into the expanse of a Great Lake. I was always looking for newly fallen trees, so that I could harvest the trunks to add to other forest waste, to strap together for a good, secure, floating raft. The crazy thing about this, is that I knew full well, the only way I could ever do this, was in the spring, when the water was running fast and deep. All the children in that neighborhood were ordered away from the creek when the water flow became substantial. I knew the current would have killed the raft before it drowned me. I'd already faced near-death once, when I fell through the ice with my snowsuit on. And as I was up to my chest in cold water, the current was tugging at my boots, sucking me below the other remaining section of ice further down. As my mates ran like hell, some guardian angel was able to alert my mother, and possibly Anne Nagy, (I'm not sure of this), who somehow managed to pull me out of the current, toward shore. My boots and snowsuit were so full of water, that it doubled my weight, so it wasn't an easy extraction whatsoever. I know that the cold water had begun sapping my capability to stay upright, so however Merle arrived on that scene, and whoever got the message to her, my life was hanging by a thread, in the place I loved so dearly. "You nearly drowned today Teddy," she said over and over that night, as I sat covered in blankets watching the television. I know she was right, as I was the one facing my own demise. This event came after I had experienced the vision of an angel, during a terrible illness, and I always wondered if the same angel had something to do with my rescue. She may have been getting a little concerned that I had a death wish. In later years, I would have two other near-drowning experiences, and another in a serious motor vehicle accident with my school chums.
Even though I came within a whisker of slipping below that ice, on Ramble Creek, and washing out to Lake Ontario, (that I had wanted to do onboard a raft), I never feared being in that ravine, or near the flow of water. I was a little more respective about walks on thin ice after that episode. I also had a few questions for my mates, and why they had whipped off home, when they should have been hauling my wet ass our of the brine. They were scared of getting in trouble. Geez, is that all? In that ravine, I saw nature at its most gentle, and I watched its rage, when, after a storm, or a quick spring melt, it was a raging torrent to its mouth into the lake. I watched all the creatures react to these circumstances, and what the weather did, to keep them in hiding, or in cool places when the climate was hot and humid. I watched the minnows and water spiders, the snakes sunning on the flat rocks, old chubby raccoons ambling along the banks, and the rabbits that would all of a sudden dart across a path, into the tangle of vines and shrubs that grew thick and hardily in the basin. The hue of the water, in Ramble Creek, changed throughout the day, depending on how much sunlight spotted down through the hardwood cover. It might seem amber to almost golden, in sunlight pockets, and serpent black, in the maturing low light of early evening. The rippling water gyrated in concentric, moving shadows, silently in the sandy pools, and when the water was particularly diminished, the flow would become turbulent with white water, breaking over the above surface rocks. The crows and chirping birds flitting from bough to bough, gave this place a jungle aura, teeming with life forms……to the thankfulness of the patient voyeurs, who were satisfied to sit and watch a natural day unfold.
There is another foggy memory I have, that I have played with, and embellished to serve specific purposes, for years, and in dozens of stories……, about a girl I had great affection, as a wee floppy-eared lad. Her name was Angela, I believe (but I may be incorrect), and she lived in a house that backed onto the creek. I knew her from my class at Lakeshore Public School, and she knew me best, from watching our little Harris Crescent Gang, marauding through the ravine, like Tarzan and the Apes. She'd play on a creaking old swing set, in her backyard, waiting for the next time Teddy Currie might pop out of the jungle. One day, after school, she invited me to her house to play. I didn't have girlfriends, except Ray Green's sister, Holly, who was just a good mate, so I was a little nervous about a girl summonsing me to an undetermined social encounter. I did emerge from the brush, and tangle of vines….(from a plant species I never identified), and followed the path she pointed out, as the best way across the creek to avoid a soaker. I didn't make it anywhere, without wet feet. Angela invited me to play on the swing set, which I concurred would be okay, and while we didn't talk, I could feel an aura I wasn't familiar with…..and as it turned out, it happened to be my own. Something clicked here, and I was getting pretty electric, swinging alongside this beautiful angel-sent creature. The only crush I'd ever had, to that point, was the pop I used to buy at Walmsley's Variety Shop (I think this is what it was called). Orange Crush. A human crush, oh dear. I was a rookie at this kind of stuff, and as my mother told me bluntly…….."Teddy, you're not dating any one until you're sixteen." She started telling me this when I was five, and couldn't have cared less if I ever dated. So here I was, still pretty much a kid, with a date, on a swing, and my God, the old heart was going pitter-patter. We were on the swings for about an hour, talking a little about school, and friends from class, when I heard the Herculean bellow of my mother, on the hillside above (which was pretty much the apartment parking lot), commanding me to come home for dinner. I remember being shocked at how long we had been swinging, as it had only seemed a few moments. Possibly Merle had a suspicion I had found a femme fatale. Angela didn't want me to go. Which was funny, because I knew enough from my occasional glances in the mirror, that I wasn't the cream of the crop, of good looking lads in my grade. My big ears usually kept me in the "best left to mature" grouping of classmates, with thick glasses, pants pulled up to their chests, and those who had odd and bushy uni-brows. Generally I wasn't a keeper, but that supposes, someone like Angela had reason to make that judgement. On this occasion, she decided I was worth a wee and measured investment of emotion. On a trial basis.
As I headed to the creek bank, to hop the flat rocks to the other side, Angela grabbed my hand, and I stopped in my tracks. "What's this," my body asked my soul? I stood with her for a bit, watching over the babbling creek, in this widened portion nearing the lake, and when I looked at her, gads, she had tears streaming down her cheeks. Again I asked myself, "What's this all about?" I went from being shocked that a girl would find me "swing worthy," to actually causing her to cry at news of my departure. I think at that moment, one old soul had encountered another. Maybe we were, without knowing it, in the historical sense, recreating a scene belonging to two other lives, of once upon a time, parting at this very point of local geography. Maybe a separation because of war. Possibly we were the spirits of a former boyfriend / girlfriend alliance, broken-up by circumstance. I don't know, but the sadness of that occasion was overwhelming. What had begun as a play-date with no strings, had ended with such melancholy, that it was hard to forget…..hard to let go of that little pink hand, so warm in mine. I almost fell into the water, looking back, at her tearful expression, and watching her clasp hands at the waist, and looking as if we had been together for years, rather than a few moments, on a creaking swing.
I have no recollection of Angela after this. When I'd trek down the waterside path, to the back of her house, I never saw her again, and I have no memory whatsoever, of meeting her again in class, following this strange and perpetually haunting afternoon. I told my mother this one day, and she said, without hesitation, "Teddy, you were swinging with a ghost." I wasn't terribly familiar with what that meant, entirely, or what a ghost represented to the human-kind. For all these years, and with what ghosts I have witnessed in my life, I have always wondered about Angela, and just what made that hour in my life so darned eternal.
Surely you have had similarly haunting encounters like this, to write down, in your own personal biography. We've all had curiously romantic liaisons we can't explain or justify simply, or rationally. Even after all these decades, I will see someone who instantly reminds me of this little girl, of once, who used to live on the shore of Ramble Creek, and I can almost feel my heart skipping beats. Both so much older now, could it be? Is it possible? Most of us can relate to one or more romantic situations in our lives, that was more enchanting and mysterious than the others. I just had mine a little earlier than most. Was it a ghost? An over-active imagination? The over-active imagination of my mother? Or just one of the raging enchantments, inherent of the Ramble Creek experience?
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