THINGS WE REMEMBER FROM HOME - THAT GIVE US A LITTLE COMFORT WHEN IT'S NEEDED
THOSE MULIT-COLORED PYREX BOWLS WERE ON THE TABLE EVERY SUNDAY - LEFTOVERS UNTIL WEDNESDAY
I ACTUALLY GOT CHOKED UP IN AN ANTIQUE SHOP TODAY. THERE ON A BACK SHELF, WITH A WIDE ARRAY OF KITCHEN GADGETS AND COOKWARE, WERE THOSE WONDERFUL MULIT-COLORED PYREX BOWLS WE HAD IN OUR KITCHEN, FIRST AT 2138 HARRIS CRESCENT, IN BURLINGTON, BACK IN THE 1950'S, THEN ALL THE WAY UP TO BRACEBRIDGE, AND THE TINY KITCHEN AT 128 ALICE STREET FROM ABOUT 1966 TO 1974. THERE WERE A FEW OTHER PLACES WE DWELLED FOR AWHILE, BUT IT WAS AT THE BASS ROCK APARTMENTS, ON THE MUSKOKA RIVER, IN BRACEBRIDGE, WHEN I GOT MY LAST GLIMPSE OF THOSE FEW REMAINING COLORED GLASS BOWLS MY FATHER LOVED TO USE AT DINNER-TIME. (MY FATHER TOOK OVER AS HOUSEHOLD COOK WHEN HE RETIRED FROM THE LUMBER INDUSTRY) I'M NOT SURE WHEN THEY WERE MADE AVAILABLE, BUT I CAN NEVER REMEMBER NOT HAVING THEM ON THE DINNER TABLE WITH STEAMING VEGETABLES AND MASHED POTATOES, AND THAT MAGNIFICENT AROMATIC STUFFING, IF IT HAPPENED TO BE A TURKEY OR CHICKEN SUNDAY. THOSE BOWLS WERE ALMOST DAILY SYMBOLS OF BREAKFAST, LUNCH, DINNERS AND SNACKS. OF COURSE WE WERE A FAMILY THAT STRETCHED SUNDAY DINNER ATTRIBUTES UNTIL ABOUT WEDNESDAY, DEPENDING ON THE SIZE OF THE BIRD OR ROAST OF BEEF. I LOOKED FORWARD TO LEFTOVERS JUST AS I DO IN THIS MODERN ERA……THAT SUZANNE HAS NEVER EMBRACE DAS FAR AS COOKERY GOES. SHE LIKES HER RETRO KITCHEN, AND THE TRADITIONS OF SCRATCH COOKING, AND CONVENIENCE FOODS ARE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN, HERE AT BIRCH HOLLOW.
ON THE LAST DAY AT MY PARENT'S APARTMENT, SHORTLY AFTER ED PASSED AWAY, SEVERAL YEARS AGO, SUZANNE WANTED TO KNOW IF I WANTED TO KEEP ANY OF THE REMAINING BOWLS FROM THE SET OF SIX OR SEVEN, SMALL TO LARGE, ALL COLORED DIFFERENTLY, THAT MERLE HAD STACKED ABOVE THE SINK. I THINK THERE MAY HAVE ONLY BEEN THREE BOWLS LEFT, AFTER THE OTHERS WERE BROKEN IN A VARIETY OF COOKERY MISHAPS, AND THEY WERE BADLY STAINED BY MANY YEARS OF ALMOST CONSTANT USE. YOU KNOW, I DIDN'T REALLY KNOW WHAT TO SAY AT THAT MOMENT, BECAUSE WE HAD PACKED UP SO MUCH STUFF, THAT MERLE AND ED HAD KEPT IN THAT SMALL THIRD FLOOR APARTMENT. I DIDN'T KNOW HOW WE WERE GOING TO STORE WHAT WE WANTED TO KEEP, AND THESE BOWLS WERE SO BADLY MARKED AND STAINED THAT I DIDN'T THINK IT WAS RIGHT TO DONATE THEM TO THE LOCAL THRIFT SHOP. WE SENT OVER AT LEAST TWENTY OR SO BOXES OF GOOD QUALITY HOUSEHOLD ITEMS, AND THAT WOULD HAVE PLEASED MY PARENTS. OUR OWN KITCHEN IS CURRENTLY JAMMED-FULL OF ALL KINDS OF HEIRLOOM PIECES, INCLUDING THE COOKBOOKS, MOSTLY FROM SUZANNE'S HOMESTEAD IN WINDERMERE, ON LAKE ROSSEAU. WE JUST DIDN'T NEED ANYTHING MORE, AND MOST OF THE GENERAL HOUSEHOLD ITEMS WEREN'T OLD ENOUGH TO HAVE MUCH COLLECTABLE VALUE. THE BOWLS, IF THEY'D BEEN PRISTINE, WOULD HAVE HAD A VALUE, AS WE SAW TODAY IN THE SHOP, OF ABOUT $75.00 FOR THE GROUPING.
I SUGGESTED SUZANNE TOSS THE DAMAGED BOWLS IN THE BOXES SLATED FOR THE LANDFILL SITE, AND YOU KNOW, AT THAT MOMENT, WE WERE ALL SO EXHAUSTED BY THE THREE WEEK TASK TO CLEAR-OUT THE APARTMENT, HAULING AWAY OVER TWO HUNDREDS BOXES, PLUS FIVE ROOMS OF FURNITURE. I FELT A PANG IN THE OLD HEART ABOUT THOSE COLORED BOWLS, BUT I WAS BEING PRAGMATIC, PRACTICAL AND STALWART ABOUT THE WHOLE ESTATE-CLEARING EXERCISE. IT HAD TO BE DONE. CLEARED OUT. WORKERS WERE COMING IN TO RE-DECORATE THE APARTMENT FOR FUTURE TENANTS. BUT FOR THE LAST FEW MOMENTS IN THE APARTMENT, SUZANNE AND I, AND OUR SONS ANDREW AND ROBERT, WANDERED ABOUT THE HOLLOW ROOMS, AS A QUIET MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO THE TWO CONTENTED PEOPLE, WHO LOVED THIS LITTLE PLACE ON THE RIVER……AND SO ENJOYED OUR GET-TOGETHERS FOR SPECIAL DINNERS AND OTHER MONUMENTAL OCCASIONS. EACH OF US HAD OUR OWN MEMORIES, WHICH WE SHARED AT A LUNCHEON THAT FOLLOWED TURNING IN THE KEYS. WHEN I STOPPED TO TAKE THAT LAST LOOK BACK THROUGH THE STILL OPEN DOOR, I COULD SO CLEARLY IMAGINE MY DAD SITTING IN THE CORNER BY THE BALCONY DOOR, SMILING AT HIS GRANDSONS SITTING BY HIS FEET, AND MERLE HUDDLED BENEATH AN AFGHAN, ON THE END OF THE COUCH, WATCHING TELEVISION; AS IF NOTHING HAD EVER HAPPENED TO DISRUPT THEIR ROUTINE. THEY HAD A SIMPLE LIFE, AND A PRETTY GOOD RETIREMENT TOGETHER, JUST BEING TOGETHER WITH A FEW FRILLS EARNED OVER A LIFETIME OF HARD WORK. WHEN I CLOSED THAT DOOR FOR THE LAST TIME, I WITHOUT PLANNING TO, INHALED DEEPLY AND CLOSED MY EYES, AS IF TO DRINK IT ALL IN……ONCE MORE…..AND HONESTLY, I SMELLED A SUNDAY ROAST BEEF, SIZZLING IN THE OVEN. IT WAS A SUNDAY, AND IT WAS DINNER TIME, WHEN WE LEFT THE APARTMENT FOR THE FINAL TIME. IT WAS AWFULLY HARD, AS I'M SURE MOST WOULD FEEL OR RECALL OF THEIR OWN FAMILIES, TO TURN THAT PAGE IN HISTORY….AND LEAVE THOSE HAUNTED EMPTY ROOMS FOR SOME OTHER FAMILY…….AND THEIR MAKING OF MEMORIES OVER TIME.
FOR WHATEVER REASON, I DISMISSED THOSE BOWLS AS BEING IRRELEVANT AND A BURDEN ON ALREADY BURDENED PEOPLE. OUR HOUSE WAS JAMMED WITH MY PARENTS POSSESSIONS, JUST AS IT HAD BEEN SEVERAL YEARS EARLIER, WHEN SUZANNE'S FATHER DIED, AND HIS ESTATE HAD TO BE SETTLED. SO IT'S ENTIRELY TRUTHFUL TO SAY, WE DIDN'T NEED ONE MORE MIXING BOWL OR EVEN ONE MORE WOODEN SPOON TO HAVE A FULLY STOCKED COMMERCIAL KITCHEN……IN A MODEST BUNGALOW. EVER SINCE, WE'VE BEEN BUILDING COLLECTIONS FOR EACH LAD, FOR THEIR EVENTUAL FIRST HOMES, AND ONCE AGAIN, OUR PARENTS WOULD BE PLEASED TO KNOW THEIR POSSESSIONS WERE STAYING IN THE FAMILY. THE POOR DAUGHTERS-IN-LAW, BECAUSE I KNOW BOTH BOYS ARE VERY SENTIMENTAL ABOUT THEIR GRANDPARENTS, AND WHAT THEY REMEMBER THEMSELVES, GROWING UP IN THOSE ENIVIRONS……SO TELLING THEM THEY WON'T FIT IN TO THE DECORATING THEME OF THE MATRIMONIAL DIGS WILL BE HARD TO TAKE.
THEY WERE JUST STACKING BOWLS AFTER ALL
There's probably a therapist out there, reading this blog, assessing without even seeing me in person, that I am in great need of an office visit. If I can get misty-eyed about a stack of red, green, yellow, brown and orange kitchen bowls, something is off the rail….somewhere down the line. I don't need a therapist. I want those bowls. They always made me happy at dinner time, and it had to be the pleasing colors. First of all, and although I've explained this previously, I feel it's necessary to reiterate. For my entire childhood, and teenage years, until the day I took off for university, my parents lived pay cheque to pay cheque. They did a lot better when I moved out, that's for sure. We had very few frills in our apartments, except two original landscapes, that hang now in our livingroom, four or five uncomfortable upholstered chairs, a round coffee table, with a veneer top that Merle used to polish daily, and one of those chrome kitchen sets from the 1950's; and of course an old china cupboard she got at a yard sale one year. There were only modest bedroom furnishings, and in the kitchen, very few items including pots and pans. I knew my parents were of relatively low income, but everyone in our apartment building was working off the same grid. The pay cheque to pay cheque syndrome, so buying extra kitchen ware wasn't prudent. And these Pyrex bowls would last forever, and hold just about anything in the way of first-run, Sunday night vittles, and then they would be stuffed to overflowing, with foil fitted over top, into the refrigerator, so that for a few days, it looked like we were one of the most prosperous families in town.
When I saw the stack of bowls today, all in near perfect condition, I thought about those relic, damaged pieces, leftover at my father's apartment, that I had handled a trillion times in childhood…..sneaking leftovers to make late night sandwiches. They had held macaroni and cheese, brussel sprouts, corn, beans, squash, turnip, gravy, left over roast beef, chicken and turkey…..our big three rotation for Sunday dinners; and when Merle or Ed set those colorful bowls on the dinner table…..on the nice clean table cloth on Sundays, I immediately cheered-up from any childhood funk I might have been in at the time. I don't know how many people are moved to smiles by the color of the kitchen bowls, when used for serving, but probably not many. For some reason, I felt they were kind of symbolic of our own struggle for survival, and it was often the case in our household, when either Ed or Merle had been laid off…..and there were many unhappy times, at the dinner hour, when benefitting from a little light-heartedness, because of bowl coloration seemed innocent fun. The conversation might have been heavy on those nights, but I concentrated on the bowls while I was eating….and looking for seconds and thirds. I suppose they were "happy bowls," and it bothered me for a whole year, that I had told Suzanne to toss out those odd family heirlooms, that I mistakenly thought didn't possess any of that "happy" aura anymore, I used to sense in their company.
There are folks who would argue that you can't find happiness from inanimate objects like multicolored Pyrex bowls. As an antique dealer, collector, and nostalgia freak, I would debate to the contrary, that whatever turns your crank……short of criminal activity, is what you should pursue. Now I'm not likely to spend seventy dollars or so, replacing those bowls of once. I would like to collect them at yard sales and flea markets, which offer such kitchen wares for lesser prices. If I was looking to sell them I could afford to be a little more liberal with purchase price. Considering I would like to keep them for home use, I kind of have to shop frugally, which has always been our house rule. The business and home economics are separate entities. But I know now, that I would still get a happy buzz seeing those similar multicolored bowls on our dining room table. They weren't fancy but by golly were they ever price efficient, durable and ever-lasting apparently. For my family, on a tight budget, they needed articles like this that wouldn't let them down. So from the late 1950's, to the mid 2000's, the bowls, even though in reduced number, survived to carry out their kitchen duties. I'm impressed with Pyrex that's for sure.
I know a lot of my mates, who get subtle, gentle comforts from heirloom pieces. Armchair critics may argue that this is regressive and foolish, to still, long after a demise, hang on to these articles as if they have some special power……the ability to inspire cheerfulness. In our house, we are surrounded by these heirloom pieces that always make us feel good, and we never over-analyze the prevailing situation……or delve into our psyches to see just how nuts we are…..that we can actually get a thrill out of grandmother's rocking chair, grandpa's reading chair, or great-grandmothers collection of pressed glass in the china cupboard. I won't ever feel stupid or trapped in the mourning process, because those colored bowls, of once, make me smile for no other reason…..than a rekindling of happy memories of our family working and living as prosperously as we could. I think maybe, it's the fact we met all our challenges, and they raised a family successfully, despite the shortfalls in economy, that these kitchen relics make me feel, all of a sudden, quite prosperous with the knowledge, they were part of our family culture…….as strange as this may read. They were just colored glass bowls. Utility kitchen materials. Yet socially, after hard days with lots of stresses, we set our table with pleasing colors, over the four seasons……and it was like an indoor flower garden, if I was to wax poetic. They got the job done. Those bowls helped us get through the days, weeks and years. That's right…..they were just bowls. Run of the mill kitchen utility items.
I wiped away a wee tear, as I looked at those stacked glass bowls, wondering who had used these ones over their shelf-life, and what fine dinners they participated in from the 1950's onward. One day, I will hunt and gather a set for us modern day Curries to use, hopefully by next Christmas…..as I will always remember how elegantly those common, work-a-day bowls looked against the decorated tree, with lights blazing, and us wearing those paper hats found in the wrappers of festive crackers on Christmas day. I bet you have some fond memories yourself of similarly curious inanimate objects, from your own family legacy, that you'd like to see, and hold once more. It's part and parcel of being a collector at heart…..if nothing else.
Many thanks for visiting today…..with me in this sentimental spiral of family memories. Regardless what the cynics claim is impossible, I know differently. I can very much content myself, in the company of inanimate objects from the past. See you again soon.
THE OLD COAL CHUTE AT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL -
WHAT WERE YOU LIKE IN THE SCHOOL YARD
IT WAS FOGGY THIS MORNING, OVER ON THE BOG, ACROSS FROM OUR HOME IN GRAVENHURST. AS I'M WRITING ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD, LIVING IN BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, IT WAS WEATHER-APPROPRIATE. I WENT TO SCHOOL ON MANY MORNINGS IN SUBSTANTIAL FOG, AND IT WAS PART OF YOUR DAY, TO HEAR A DISTANT FOG HORN, FROM SOME PASSING SHIP OUT ON THE LAKE. I THINK THE FOG MADE MY CHILDHOOD SEEM FAR MORE MYSTERIOUS THAN IT ACTUALLY WAS, BECAUSE WHEN I TALK OR WRITE ABOUT IT TODAY, THESE CONDITIONS ALWAYS SEEP INTO THE DESCRIPTION. I HAVE TO DIG DEEP, TO RECALL WHAT IT WAS LIKE, LIVING IN BURLINGTON, AS IT WAS QUITE A FEW DECADES AGO. I MEASURE IT ALL BY THE SEASONS HERE IN MUSKOKA, AND WHEN WE FIRST ARRIVED HERE, THE DIFFERENCES WERE BRUTAL. I DON'T REMEMBER MANY FORTY BELOW DAYS IN BURLINGTON. BUT IN RETROSPECT, IT'S NOT LIKE I HAD TO WEAR A BEACON, OR CARRY A PORTABLE FOG HORN. I ALWAYS RUN CONDITIONS TOGETHER, BECAUSE CLIMBING UP TORRANCE HILL, ON AN AUTUMN DAY, YOU WOULD GET THE STRANGEST CONFLUENCE OF MIST AND SMOKE FROM BURNING LEAVES. THE MIST SMELLED A TAD FISHY, AND THE YARD FIRES WERE ALLURING IN A NOSTALGIC WAY……YET I WAS ONLY A KID. HOW DID I KNOW ABOUT NOSTALGIA? MY MOTHER TOLD ME I HAD AN OLD SOUL, SO POSSIBLY IT WAS THE REMEMBRANCE FROM A PAST EXISTENCE. AS FOR SMOKE FROM BURNING LEAVES, AND COINCIDENTAL FOG, I'M STILL MADLY ATTRACTED TO BOTH.
I WAS SO AMAZED TO RECEIVE A PHOTOGRAPH, FROM MY NEW BURLINGTON CORRESPONDENT, TRACY MCKELVEY, THE OTHER DAY, THAT SHE HAD TAKEN OF THE CURRENT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL. THE SAME ONE I ATTENDED AS A STUDENT IN THE EARLY 1960'S. IT WAS QUITE OLD THEN. I MUST ADMIT FEELING, FOR THOSE FEW MOMENTS, A LITTLE WOBBLY KNEED ABOUT SEEING THE PLACE, ADMITTEDLY THAT ONCE SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME. FIRST, AS A GRADE ONE STUDENT. I WAS A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. I HAD TWO HORRIBLE WEEKS, TO START OFF WITH, THAT FIRST YEAR, AND WANTED TO COME HOME ALMOST AS SOON AS I GOT INTO THE CLASSROOM. I PROBABLY DID A "RUNNER" THREE OF FOUR TIMES, UNTIL EVENTUALLY, WELL, I FOUND GIRLS! NO KIDDING. RIGHT UNTIL THE END OF UNIVERSITY, THE GIRLS IN CLASS GOT ME THROUGH THE RIGORS OF EDUCATION. WHEN I FOUND A FRIENDLY FACE, A SMILE OF WELCOME, FROM THE GIRL IN THE DESK BESIDE, I'D HAVE STAYED AT SCHOOL RIGHT THROUGH THE WEEKEND, IF THAT HAD BEEN THE PROTOCOL. I DIDN'T ENJOY THE BUSINESS PART OF SCHOOL QUITE AS SUCH. I WANTED TO LEARN, JUST NOT INDOORS. SO HAVING INTEREST IN THE YOUNG LADIES OF THE CLASS, GAVE ME THE REASON TO SHOW UP PROMPTLY EVERYDAY, BRUSH MY TEETH TWO MINUTES LONGER, EACH MORNING, AND TO GROOM MYSELF ACCORDINGLY. MERLE COULDN'T BELIEVE THE CHANGE IN HER SON, FROM ONE WHO LOOKED LIKE HE HAD JUST COME IN FROM THE OUTBACK, TO A DAPPER YOUNG FELLOW, WHO ACTUALLY LOOKED FORWARD TO GETTING AN EDUCATION. SO IT SHOULD NOT BE OF ANY SURPRISE THAT THE GIRL I EVENTUALLY MARRIED, WAS A CLASSMATE IN HIGH SCHOOL, WHO BECAME A TEACHER. I'M STILL BRINGING THE TEACHER AN APPLE EVERY DAY. I'M IN HER CLASS. SHE FEELS COMPELLED TO TEACH ME WHAT I APPARENTLY MISSED IN REGULAR CLASSES…… AND INSISTS I SHOULD KNOW FOR POSTERITY. FOR A KID WHO STARTED OFF HIS EDUCATIONAL JAG, HATING SCHOOL, I KIND OF MARRIED IT IN THE END.
When it comes to writing a biography, it helps a lot if you can, at times, lighten up a bit, from the sentimental stuff that mists-up the old eyes. If you're are interested in writing a personal history, yourself, at some point, today's reminiscence of school days at Lakeshore Public, will undoubtedly bring back memories for you. Not because you attended the same school, or sat in front of me (did I pull your hair, and if I did, I'm sorry), but from the characterizations of situations, discipline and classmates. At the end of this chapter of biography, I think you will probably wish to re-visit your old school, and reacquaint with chums, that made the experience so interesting, challenging, and in the end, quite rewarding. Even though I had later school years. that were bully-full, and I've got lots of recollections of getting clobbered at recesses, I had too many positive moments, with great pals, to ever let the negatives outweigh the truly wonderful experiences of being a school kid, in a neat, responsive, historic school, like Lakeshore Public. So as you're reading along here, let yourself slip back in time, and for every kid I introduce to you, I'm willing to bet, there will be a parallel student and circumstance that you can relate. So if you get a few laughs at poor George's expense, well that's history for you. It's all there. The good, bad and the ugly. In George's case, I represent two out of the three. In his personal biography, the bully got it in the end. If you're feeling really inspired, start writing your own memories down. Your family will thank you, one day, for capturing something special, they had never known of you……..maybe the reality, they can't imagine you were ever…….ever, a charter member, of the order of "the rapscallion." A scalawag, a rascal, a trouble-maker. Even if some called you a "goody two shoes," only you know, how wrong they were, to deny your more mischievous side. So here's my recollection of the school yard prank, that got us all busted down to private.
Ray Green and I were like mafia "wise guys." We knew our ranking in the school yard, and which tough customers to avoid, and who was king of the mountain on any particular day. This was important. We seemed to be able to navigate sensibly, through the quagmire of bullies, and their belching hubris, to always appear supportive of the very next Tony Soprano. It was a survival skill I learned at Lakeshore Public School, in Burlington, in my early years of education. While it was important to make the grade in the classroom, it was of vital importance to survive recess. How tough were these kids? Well, during my years there, I heard a number of instances, where some youngster, who had experienced the misadventure of getting hurt in an accident, away from the school, got beaten-up when they finally returned to class. Apparently because of "Elmer The Safety Elephant," and all that it represented to a truly safe school. I've explained this in previous blogs, but the Ontario education, policing initiative, was to foster safety at home and school. Each school got points for every day the "Elmer the Safety Elephant Flag," flew in the breeze from a front lawn pole, next to one with the Canadian flag. When a school kid was injured in a home or play accident (not sports), or unfortunately hit by a car, the school would have to take good old Elmer down. Previous to this, there would be the credit bestowed upon the entire school, that Elmer had been flying "300 days without an accident," or some increasing number that was supposed to, by this accomplishment, make us operationally safer out in the community. It presumed, you see, that kids were hit by cars or trucks because of their error in judgement. Heaven forbid a motorist made the mistake, broke a traffic rule, and hit a kid crossing at a stop sign.
We used to hear announcements about this all the time. How great it was that Elmer was still flying after almost a year of "safe" home and school days. So when the principle had to report that Elmer was on its way to the ground, because a kid had been hit by a car, the night before, well sir, it was as if someone had spit a huge gob at the school letters. Although I didn't see it, when the lad came back to school, after recovering from his injuries, it was like a mob-hit had been ordered. The safety freaks did catch him, at one point, and I heard they beat him bad, before a teacher could pull him free. I always wondered if that would have constituted the flag having to be dropped once again. I never liked Elmer after this. But I didn't go out and purposely get hit by a car, either, just to get even with the Board of Education that thought a safety goon-squad was a good idea…….because from what I knew then, getting hit by a car was short and sweet. The school yard bullies could hold a grudge for a whole school year.
I don't know what George's name was, but he was a nice kid. He wore thick glasses, and just enjoyed hanging around with a few kids in the school yard. He didn't have a lot of friends, and that put him at our disposal somewhat, because for the trace amount of "numbskull characteristic," we inherently possessed, George made a great third stooge. And you know what happens to three stooges, who are clumsy risk takers? The fact the principal ordered us to stay away from the coal chute, at the side of the school, was for rebels without a cause, reason enough to give it a whirl anyway. George wasn't a trouble maker, and I dare say, if a precise definition was required, he would be an "A" level pacifist. A lad headed for a Nobel Peace Prize one day. Until we got a hold of him. We screwed it all up for the poor kid. Somehow, we convinced George, that he could get into the school through the coal chute. That was our heating fuel back in those days. As it was winter, and Lakeshore Public was a substantial building, we probably went through a lot of coal. So there was still a pile at the opening of the chute. As I recall, the covering of the chute was missing. Opportunity presented. So who would want to go down a black hole, where there was not bottom visible, and no light at the end of the tunnel? Not us. But by golly, George would go where no other kid had dared to travel. I'm not saying if my footprint was on his head or not. He hung onto the sides, and we couldn't dislodge him, once he got into position to slide down. He backed down, but we were still gung-ho.
While all the other boys (girls had recess on the other side of the building) were sliding on a length of ice they'd created with their boots, Ray, George and I, moved to get a closer look at the backdoor entrance to the school. I think we told George that at the bottom of the chute, was where teachers kept all the neat stuff they confiscated from kids, and that his retrieval of these items, like balls and yo-yos, would make him a school hero. I think he half believed us. So as we kept nudging him closer, and closer to the opening, the more evidence we were creating, (without knowing it) that would eventually incriminate us in the principal's office. Well, we couldn't get George through the chute, as we had hoped, but close enough you see, to have contaminated every part of our exterior apparel. Just as it was getting interesting, and George was bent over looking down the chute, the bell sounded the end of recess. We had only a few moments to get over to the line-up headed indoors. In this clever plan, we had forgotten to complete our due diligence. It would have been clear, on cursory investigation, coal dust is a beggar to clean off, without heavy duty scrubbing. When we arrived up the stairs, on the main floor, we had to run a gauntlet of teachers, watching for situations like this, and they must have got quite a laugh, when these three stooges showed up, as if they'd just been in a comedic explosion……all having black-faces. Every time we stepped on a layer of coal dust, it had puffed up like a spray, and it attached to our clothes and all exposed skin. We looked like three Al Jolsons, at post recess attendance. It was kind of redundant then, to ask where we were playing in the schoolyard. Geez, I don't know. It was my first time getting busted for insubordination, and trespassing. I thought about pinning it on my buddies. They were faster than me, because that's exactly what they tried to do.
Poor George had it worse, because he had this fuzzy orange coat, with a hood, and it picked up every molecule of dust, and turned almost jet black by time we'd beat a hasty retreat from the chute area. As we were forbidden to be anywhere near that chute, we had violated school policy. While they didn't yank old Elmer down off the masthead, we were all hauled into the principal's office, and read the equivalent of the school "riot act." I had heard rumors of a leather strap, they employed for these kind of circumstances, so we all did what was appropriate at the time. We started crying before the desk drawer opened. We must have been quite a sight, because there was a lot of laughing going on, at our expense. I think we beat this rap, because we looked so funny, with tear tracks through the soot on our mugs, and looking very much like out of place coal miners. As we had reasonable track records, of being good students, overall, we got off pretty lightly. We were ordered, under a teacher's direction, to head to the washrooms, with rag and soap, to restore our student dignities. I think it took about an hour. A custodian took George's fake fur jacket, and could be seen outdoors, hitting it with an old hanger, to loosen the black from the orange. We felt pretty good by the end of the day. But I can't imagine what would have been the dire consequence, if George had actually made it down the chute. I think we just might have discovered, up close and personal, what leather smells like, after repeatedly hitting a fleshy hand.
I wasn't really a bully. I came to be a victim, many times in later years. But at Lakeshore Public, I was happiest being a "wise guy" in reserve. I'd kind of go with the flow, and if a bully needed me to offer a little praise, I was good to go. I remained an unlikely pacifist. It seemed I was good at public relations, and talking my way out of scraps. I was a mouth beggar, at times, and sometimes the guy I was calling "stupid head" could run faster than me. Now here was the affliction that made me defensive, as a kid. My problem, like Elmer the Safety Elephant, was that I had his ears. For years I was known as having Elmer or better still, "Dumbo," ears. My mother Merle, used to tell me, it was because I'd slept with them folded over, as a baby, and they had simply grown outward, instead of close to the skull. "Pretty windy out Teddy; are you going to fly away," they'd direct my way, at recess, or "Can you fly with those suckers?" Up until High School, when they finally became a little less outward bound, I had to live with "Hey, big ears….., fly over here," and "Geez, where did you buy those wings." So one Saturday, when George and I were chumming around, and happened to have taken a visit to the school yard, I finally let loose without warning. I don't remember how he worded it, but he suggested that getting our ball off the roof, shouldn't be any problem for a guy like me…..with huge, floppy, Bluenose, wind-catching ears. So without warning, or any time to protect himself, I drove the kid hard, with a fist to the stomach. I think it was something I'd learned from Alan Ladd, in his portrayal of "Shane" in the movie…..although, I soon found myself feeling anything but "Shane-like," as my friend doubled over in pain. I know this was the first time I had ever hit anyone, with a serious intent. It was probably circa Grade Three. I felt like crap, immediately after hitting George. And no matter how much I begged him to forgive me, and how sorry I was to have hit him with that kind of ill-intent, my friendship with George had ended. We never hung-out together after this nasty incident, and even Ray, the moderator, couldn't bring us back together. A perpetual good sport, and kind kid, my action had ruined a perfectly good friendship. As I watched him heading out of the school yard, still partly doubled over, I pondered you know, if God had been watching…..as my mother always warned. If he was, I quite expected the lightning bolt from heaven, and frankly, I wouldn't have been all that surprised. Maybe a little relieved. I knew you see, I would pay for this act of violence for the rest of my life. The fact that I'm writing this today, attests to the fact I was pretty much right on that count. I'm still apologizing to George, in my mind, almost a half century after the crime. I feel better confessing this, as you might appreciate.
Generally, I was a gentle guy before, and after this, I became a hardcore pacifist. I even took blows from other bullies without retaliating. I think my resignation toward bullies in the future, was more in the spirit of Shane, because it was only after a pretty severe beating, that I would finally employ the fist, I had once used to double-up poor George. I should note, that I was never seriously bullied at either Lakeshore Public School, or during my several years at Mountain Gardens Public School, also in Burlington. Moving to Bracebridge was tough for a lot of reasons. Small town schools were tougher, in those days, and a number of city friends warned my parents about the urban to rural adjustments, "Teddy" would have to make. Let's just say, there were a lot fewer "Georges," and a lot more fist-wielding country kids, who were very territorial, and very suspicious of the new kids on the block.
The teachers I remember from those days, included Mrs. Stilwell, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Bielby, and Principal Schantz. Outside of scanning through the old student lists to find my name, they would only have remembered me as the "black face kid," or, that odd looking boy with the "Dumbo Ears."
One incident that did impact me quite profoundly, occurred during the lunch break, or so I believe. I didn't see the accident myself. I think Elmer the Safety Elephant did. The flag pole was close by, and he was likely flapping in the wind…..yea, like my ears. The school yard, at this time, didn't have much in the way of resources. I don't remember if we had swings, but compared to playgrounds today, it was a tad spartan. So in the winter, the older kids found a way, of creating an ice-strip by packing down an area of snow, and creating a sort of runway in front. They would work over many recesses, attempting to initially, slide on the hard-packed snow. Eventually, they would be able to slide over it enough, to create a fairly long length of black ice. It would have been about thirty feet long, by only several feet across. So the big thrill, was to get it to this level of perfected natural ice, and take a run at it, for a memorable and dangerous slide. You might find twenty or thirty kids lined up for the cheap thrill. It was generally in the same place, each winter, and the teachers on patrol passively tolerated our innocent fun. The problem, as it is for bored kids today, the sliding gig got stale quickly. As the slide was precariously close to a maple tree, or oak in that part of the yard (closest to the front of the school), a few kids got the idea, to jump while in the middle of the slide, and grasp an over-hanging tree limb, to swing from. I remember watching it, and thinking it was pretty neat, to be traveling ten to fifteen feet, at a break-neck speed, and then leaping to grab this overhanging branch. The kids got pretty good at it, but I was still too short to manage it, even with an exceptional leap in the air. (I know, I know, you're thinking about the ears, right). Well, one day at lunch, after I'd come back to school, there was a lot of activity in this zone, and I'd seen an ambulance leaving the driveway. What I heard had happened, was that a kid had been whipping down that black length of ice, jumped for the branch, missed, fell flat on his back, and hit his head so hard on the ice, that his eye popped out of its socket. No kidding. It was just dangling there. Gross. What makes a kid go and stare at the sawdust layered on the blood, still laying on the ice. I had that stupid image in my mind for decades. It made me sick that day, like the twenty or thirty kids that had to go home ill, after the incident. The kid lived. He got his eye back in the socket. Elmer? Do you know, I can't remember what happened to the flag, on this occasion. I think it was already down because of the other kid's accident…..so maybe this kid got off easy…..other than the eye-popping incident.
As for academics, cripes I sucked. I had attention deficit disorder before they knew what the hell it was. All I wanted was to be outdoors. Mucking along the banks of Ramble Creek, sending our hand crafted battleships off toward the lake. I had a million outdoor projects that were being delayed by school studies. The lesson I detested the most, was when the teacher, Mrs. Bielby, if memory serves, used to give us these crazy assignments to cut and paste. You had to cut from one page, to glue onto the other, matching up words with drawings. It's not that I didn't know the differences, between a cow and a freaking rabbit. I would just get all excited because everyone else would be half done, before I made my first cut-out. I had a way of getting glue all over myself, as I still do with fix-it projects here at home. Well, when you're working with paper cut-outs, it's definitely a disadvantage to have glued-up fingers. I'd get so angry, with pieces of paper attached to three to five fingers, that inevitably, I'd attach a cow where the rabbit was supposed to go. As the glue got a little gummy, when it was exposed to the air for more than a couple of minutes, there were no "do-overs" once the adhesive met paper. I can still recall the horror, of trying to get the paper square off the wrong category of beast, and looking at the clock to see, that once again, I was in an out of control spin of "stupid." How could you not feel like an idiot, covered in cut-out paper, even glue to my new sweater, and some on my pants. Every time the teacher gave me this assignment, the second verse was the same as the first. "How does this happen Teddy," she'd ask, with a look of shock on her face, that any student of hers could be such a klutz. Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. If I found myself having to do the same exercise today, and she had survived to see me get to this age, let me tell you, history would most certainly repeat. I'd just be older to watch myself crash and burn. The funny side of this, is that I did become fairly proficient in the art of cutting and pasting in the newspaper business, when I worked as an editor with Muskoka Publications. I just had the advantage of having lay-out artists and my beck and call. And no marks given.
Of other memorable events, at Lakeshore Public School, included the time-honored, kid-adored "Field Days," where even the most athletically challenged kid, could win a ribbon as a participant. I got a lot of "Participant" ribbons back then. I wasn't a bad athlete, and I did get a lot better as time went by, but you see, they didn't have events I might have excelled in……like Ramble Creek jumping, and soaker-getting. I was an accomplished smelt fisherman, and I could catch Suckers with my bare hands. I could climb the trees in the ravine like a monkey, and when someone was chasing me, I could run like an Olympic sprinter. I could catch the "Goody Man's" truck when he turned up on Harris Crescent, even if I was at the lake-end of the creek. If they had conducted races like this, where there was a popsicle treat involved, I would have changed those participation ribbons, to ones of first place gold. But I enjoyed getting out of the school, and the only heartbreak, was when it started to rain before we got outside. If it started raining while we were outside, unless there was a thunderstorm brewing, we usually carried on with the event. So I became very hateful of nature for raining on my parade. I liked my education outdoors. This was a trait through my entire school career.
Merle was a very defensive parent. She hated when any of my teachers would reference that "Teddy is very shy, and doesn't participate in classroom discussions." "Teddy is always looking out the window, and doesn't seem interested in what is going on in the class." I knew by the look on her face, while she was folding up the report card, that my teacher was going to get a surprise visit. I was never wrong about this either. I went with her once, for a parent-teacher meeting, and all my instructor could do was answer, "But, well, but, but, okay but, well, maybe but, yes Mrs. Currie." I was proud of her for standing up for me, because I was habitually shy. Still am. But Merle felt it was wrong for teachers to feel it was their incumbent duty, to break what I had been born with. "There are many successful people in this world, who have overcome shyness, in time, and never suffered any long lasting disadvantage, because of it." It was written onto an accompanying note, attached to the report card that I had to return to the school. Merle had actually run out of room, on the report card, where it allowed for parental response, and had to use extra note paper. She also chastised the teacher, about the comment she had made about my looking out the window, and not paying attention to the the lesson being taught. 'Well, maybe Teddy is telling you something about the way you're teaching the lessons……because he's interested in a lot of things, if he's presented them with enthusiasm." Merle, in the fog of war, as she saw it, had defended my honor, and privilege of being the kid I was. I have always been a dreamer; a shy kid who saw more potential in the field, with nature my instructor, than jammed into a classroom watching the clock define my day. As a writer, I still seek liberation from the same old, same old. So Merle was both timely and quite perceptive. And as I've also written a biography, of one of Ontario's well known Outdoor Educators, David Brown, of Hamilton, one of my closest friends, my destiny was to learn from paddling a canoe, and being immersed in the wilds……as I so dearly loved in the Ravine of old Ramble Creek. Dave Brown was a teacher, but his classroom was outdoors. This I could enjoy.
My few years at Lakeshore Public School, were quite memorable, and once I stopped trying to escape, actually became quite enjoyable. There was a basement area, where they'd take us for art classes, and I can always remember the aroma of the watercolor powders, in big cans, and the must of a cool basement. I liked art because there were a lot fewer rules to follow. I was an expressionist painter right off the bat, and despite having to wear a smock, I painted myself handsomely, as well anyone who happened to be sitting beside. I was better than Jackson Pollock. I could paint a Campbell's Soup Can as well as any man, including Andy Warhol. Damn thing, I always got a crappy grade. It may have had something to do with the fact, the exercise wasn't supposed to promote abstraction, and there was never an option to paint a soup can. I always had such a vivid imagination, you see, that I just painted what seemed appropriate, including Ray Green's red hair, "blue." Looked good.
The favorite part of my early school years' experience, without a doubt, were the "hunt and gather" walks to and from Lakeshore Public. I most often went the back-way, running past Dooley the Irish Setter (it was a good day when I didn't get nipped) through a laneway at the end of our cul-de-sac, which abutted a hydro right of way, with massive towers that I fantasized about climbing…….but only ever touched them, just to say I had! When I walked home along the busy Lakeshore, it was most often at the time when Chestnuts were falling. The first part of the Torrance hillside, heading up to Harris Crescent, had about four to six chestnut trees, and it was what all the neighborhood kids stuffed into their pockets, even with the thorny green husks. The real joy was cracking the brown (toe-like) nuts out of the thick covering, and a lot of my chums took them home, where their mothers helped them drill holes, and make them into long strands on string. You used to see them hanging over hydro lines, all up and down the Lakeshore. I really never understood this part of the chestnut-thing, but what I did appreciate is how bad they smelled, when I'd forget about them in a corner of my room, and they'd begin to grow into something other than a tree.
But whether I was coming or going, my intent was to enjoy the walk, find interesting things to get-up-to along the way, and pocket what ever I found that seemed too good to throw away. Garbage day was my favorite. As I've written about many times before, I got my start in the antique trade, on these walks to and from Lakeshore Public School. Anne Nagy and my mother, always scanned me thoroughly, before I got to the apartment sidewalk, for undesirable items I might be concealing in my jacket, or trouser pockets. I could see no good reason to let a big iron hinge get thrown out, in someone's garbage, just because it was a little rusty. I knew what Alec Nagy did with spare parts, and how he used them to fix his lawn mower and other groundskeeping equipment. I looked for things to add to my bicycle, and a hinge might have looked neat. By time I'd round the corner off Torrance, they could tell by the droop of my pants, approximately what weight of garbage-picking treasures, I had on my person. I was pretty good at concealing even big pieces, like old hockey sticks I'd find, if I swung by the arena first. I was a junior hoarder. What I did sneak into the apartment….with some minor livestock (crickets and a couple of injured birds; maybe even a squirrel), Merle would begin tossing out, the moment I left for school the next day. If Anne Nagy wasn't careful to disguise the garbage, as only kitchen refuse, I'd have my head stuck in those metal pails every time. "Teddy's in the garbage again, Alec." Anne would yell from the front door. "Get out of there," someone would yell, and I'd be off in a flash. I used to find my own treasures Merle had chucked, so I'd haul them in a second and third time. It was all neat stuff, that would have been wasted at the dump…..when I had a use for it all. Or I thought I did, (the hoarder's credo) at the moment, rescuing some neat article, even clothing, from the wet coffee grounds, and grease covered newspapers. Someone was throwing out an Easy-Bake oven, complete with one cake mix. Geez, how neat was this. So I told Merle that I traded a kid a rusty metal hinge for the oven and cake mix. She actually seemed good with this, though she wasn't sure how Ed was going to react to his son having, what he would have called, "A toy for a little girl." I couldn't have argued about this, because that's how it was marketed on television and in the catalogues of department stores. So we just didn't dwell on the subject, and Merle helped me make the last cake. The light bulb didn't cut it, so I was disappointed. Merle took the still-wet mix, and stuck into her kitchen range, and within minutes, it was done. We both had slices. It tasted like it smelled, when I first took it out of the box for a peak. Well, if "musty" can actually translate into "a taste," then this would explain the most horrible cake ever! "Where did you get this Teddy," she demanded. "You didn't pull this out of the garbage, did you?" she asked, still spitting-out musty cake into the sink. I may have. And then I ran out of the apartment before she could grab one of my big ears.
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