Paul Rimstead's Interest In Books and Writers Began Early In His Life

Books of Paul Rimstead's youth

PAUL RIMSTEAD'S INTEREST IN BOOKS AND WRITERS BEGAN EARLY IN HIS SCHOOL YEARS

WE'VE GOT EVIDENCE AS TO HOW IT ALL BEGAN

     I remember arriving early at our benefit hockey game, at the Bracebridge Arena, where the Herald-Gazette Rink Rats were playing the CKVR No Stars. I was supposed to meet up with our celebrity master of ceremonies, Toronto Sun columnist, Paul Rimstead, in the lobby. He was early and I was late. Funny thing, it was the exact opposite to what I expected of this nationally recognized newspaper columnist. He was standing against the wall with Miss Hinky, his girlfriend at this point (they would later marry). He was wearing his western-wear, his head tucked into a white stetson, he may have got for his gig with the Calgary and Edmonton Sun newspapers. There were quite a few patrons gathered in the lobby at the time, shooting the breeze, and some of the groups were actually bumping elbows with this hometown fellow, without anyone actually twigging to the fact, here was Canada's best read columnist, looking a little out of place and seeming socially encumbered. Of course, Rimmer wasn't drinking at this point in his life either, which, even by his own admission diminished some of the effervescence he was known for, on the social gad-about.
     I met Brant Scott coming up from the dressing room level of the arena, just as I sat down my hockey equipment, to go over and introduce myself to my newspaper hero. Actually, Brant was another big fan, and had orchestrated the whole Rimstead visit, and his role, calling the play by play from the gondola. Paul seemed relieved we had finally rescued him from the lobby scrum. As it turned out, many in the gathering thought he was a member of the CKVR No Stars, especially wearing the big cowboy hat. Once the crowd heard Rimstead's name, he was inundated with autograph requests, before we could usher him downstairs. But he obliged, and stood for awhile giving his full attention to the readers in his old balliwick. As it turned out, it was a crowd of over 1,700, and most of them, were there because of him, not us. They hung off his every word calling the play by play. I have always wondered whether Paul and Miss Hinky knew this about the game, and the fact our success was directly proportional to his participation. It was a memorable night in Bracebridge.
     When I was acting curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame, working for the Crozier Foundation, almost a decade after Paul's death, I place a copy of his book in the showcases I maintained. I wrote an explanation to companion the book, and a little note about the fact he had been the master of ceremonies at our hockey fundraiser that winter night. A local notable, through arena staff, questioned why I would do such a thing, especially as the book cover shows Rimstead smoking a cigar, with a martini in one hand, and a racing form. The critic thought this was inappropriate for the youngsters to see, when playing at the arena, and asked that the book be removed as soon as possible. I got a message back to him, and it wasn't a kindly one. Paul Rimstead's place in the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame was long overdue, even if it wasn't a formal induction. In case you don't know this, Rimmer was an incredibly talented sports writer, and interviewed some of the best known athletes of his time, including baseball's Willy Mays. But today, you won't find a mention of Paul Rimstead at the Bracebridge Arena. But then, I'm no longer curator.
     I went to the same High School as Paul Rimstead. Gosh, I might have even sat in the same chair in the principal's office, awaiting my turn to explain why I was, once again, absent from class. We had similar taste in books, back in our respective childhoods, and we both started to write early in life. He was writing news copy for the Beatrice Bugle, and I was writing short stories, about war, for my Grade seven teacher. We both got our big break in the newspaper industry, progressing to higher positions with respective publications, and we both lived too hard for our own good. His mother lived in Bracebridge and so did mine!
     In terms of writing capabilities? There isn't much to parallel my writing with Rimstead's columns. He was an exceptionally talented writer, who understood, better than most columnists, the way to captivate an audience. If at the end of my life, and reviewing the body of work commenced in earnest, in the mid 1970's, some critic was to suggest, "Currie could have easily carried Paul Rimstead's typewriter," or "have been worthy to polish his shoes," I would feel, that his name and mine mentioned in the same sentence, was a most honorable and appreciated tribute. I did have a lot of admiration for Paul Rimstead, but mostly because he was a good writer for a contemporary audience of newspaper junkies. And they were a demanding lot, and put a lot of stress on Rimmer to produce the best of the best. I never once felt, as one of those junkies, that he let me down as a Sun reader.
     When I write about provenance, and both signed and inscribed books, I wonder how many readers can relate, to how exciting it is to make such a discovery, in the clutter of books at a thrift or second hand shop. Even for a career wordsmith, I worry about losing readers, because I fail to make the subject of these blogs alluring, and a little bit exciting. Sometimes it's like a private anecdote; you know, the one that a few people appreciate as, "an inside joke". The one a majority of onlookers never really understand. Sharing my excitement for old books is easy with bibliophiles, but not everyone who reads this blogs is of that ilk.
    There are other times, when I believe there's no way a single reader is going to be excluded from feeling the same excitement as the writer, because the story being related is what I would deem as being, well, pretty darn incredible. Suzanne always lets that one-line fly, about "I've told you a million times not to exaggerate." Admittedly, as a bibliophile, a book collector and dealer, what turns my crank bores ten others. Today I have one of those situations, where quite honestly, I think this should be the best blog of the entire year, because of what the books I'm looking at, represent to those who follow the Canadian press. Newspapers. Particularly the early days of The Toronto Sun, The Edmonton Sun and the Calgary Sun. And if you've followed this blog, and known my bias over these past few years of daily editorials, you would appreciate that today's offering has something to do with former columnist Paul Rimstead, who of course, had one of the highest read daily columns in Canada, at one point, and yes, he once went to Bracebridge High School, skipped classes, and indeed, snuck down to Joe's Billiards on Manitoba Street; where he occasionally played pool with future National Hockey League allstar, Roger Crozier, also a local kid.
    Rimstead and his sister Diane, began the Beatrice Bugle, a "for-fun" neighborhood paper, when the family lived in the rural clime, just north of the town, during Paul's public school days. He also became a well known stringer for the Orillia Packet and Times when he was in High School, and local retired firemen tell me he had a "press" plate, that he hung over the handle-bars of his bike, which was to gain access to fire and accident scenes. The firemen, however, didn't want him getting close to these scenes, and under-foot, so they would change the note on the chalkboard, about the fire's location, before they left the hall, to steer him in the opposite direction.
     "From the outside, it does not look so hot. And frankly, it is even worse on the inside. But it is the home of the Sun, right next to Farb's Car Wash, and across the street from the King's Plate Open Kitchen, where you can buy a beef steak pie for fifty cents. Another publishing empire has opened on King St. Mind you, we are a long way west from the Globe and Mail, and The Star. You can get to those places by streamlined subway. We have got to get off the streetcar at John St. It's called the Eclipse Whitewear Company Limited building and you have got to watch for that sign over the sidewalk. You will notice, however, that the last E in Eclipse is broken and hanging kind of crooked," wrote Paul Rimstead, about the launch of a new paper, a tabloid, after the closing of the Toronto Telegram where he, and many others, had worked a few weeks previous. He wrote this column on Monday, November 1st, 1971, and if I'm correct, there was a picture of Joe Zuger of the Hamilton Tiger Cats, tumbling on his head, in a CFL game the day before the inaugural issue.
     "There, sharing the fourth floor with something called the 'Tail A Belt Company' is the newsroom and executive office of the Sun. 'Gee, it's dark, huh?' a guy said to me as we walked through the front door. It is dirty, too, if the Eclipse people do not mind me saying so. The wooden stairs have worn grooves in them and the elevator will carry as many as three people at one time. We should apologize for the squeaking sound of the elevator but we have assurance that there is really no need to worry. And, if it ever fails to make the trip, there is a set of steel fire stairs built onto an outside wall. Frankly, the fire stairs might be quicker. When the elevator finally stopped, I did not know whether to turn to the right or climb the steel ladder which leads to a loft above. You turn right. Now the scene might startle you for a moment. People are sitting around on cardboard cartons and the decor, is, well, sort of Canadian factory. Publisher Doug Creighton, our old managing editor at the Telegram, shares his office with executive editor Peter Worthington, who played second base on the Tely ball team. It was not designed the same as John Bassett's office at the old place. There is no rug. Just a wooden floor. It is spacious, however, about 12 feet by 14 feet, and the walls are genuine brick, painted a rather sickly green, with long dust streaks to break the monotony. As far as I could tell, there was no executive washroom. I guess they will have to use the same two yellow-stained bowls as the rest of the staff. In the large outer office, desks are hidden behind piles of cardboard and equipment that belonged to a printing firm or something. At the old place, when I was tired, I could sleep on a cot in the women's washroom. Here I had to climb up on a stack of flattened cardboard boxes, about six feet high, and it was not nearly as comfortable. A major discovery was made early yesterday morning when someone found a dusty old electric kettle among some other junk. A guy made a quick trip to a Mac's Milk store and eureka, we had coffee. This was especially important yesterday morning seeing as how this was the morning following the Telegram wake, at the Press Club. The Sun, of course, is staffed entirely by former Tely employees, which means that every person who worked on this first issue was hung over. A coffee table was set up yesterday and someone wisely put out a large bottle of Aspirin tablets and some Alka Seltzer."
     The above portions of Paul Rimstead's first column for the Toronto Sun, was taken from my second favorite of his two books, "Rimmer Dammit - The Life and Times of a Canadian Legend," a celebration of his career, published in 1987. J. D. Creighton opened the book, writing, "Paul Rimstead, who died too young, was a most gifted columnist. He wasn't the kind of writer you would ask to explain the Constitution or Free Trade issues, but he wrote about the outrageous lifestyle, doing things we have all wanted to do at some time or another. Paul's following was enormous and he felt he had to be in the paper nearly every day. Doing that many columns, he would say, meant some of them would be singles. But he had a lot of home runs and was always swinging for the fence. Paul told me many times that he wanted to be judged by his writing, not his personality." He concludes, he was "a very fine writer....and person."
     By the way, my first favorite book, was "Cocktails and Jockstraps," published in 1980. On May 26th, 1987 Rimmer died, "of hard living at the age of 52." For interests sake, and it wasn't the result of hard living, but his pool partner, Roger Crozier also died at the same age.
     Former Gravenhurst writer, and well known musician, Hugh Clairmont, wrote about his friend in a memorial section of the book. He notes that, "I'd known him for thirty years and we were close because we both had the same interests - news and music. It seemed there was always a story when we got together. I remember he once invited me and some friends to Woodbine Racetrack to see his horse 'In Come Tacks'. Within hours of post time, another typical Rimmer crisis had arisen. Paul hadn't paid his feed bill and they were threatening to scratch his horse from the race. Lucky for Paul, Texaco Joe kicked in the money and the crisis was averted. Paul was betting heavily but losing badly. But in the eighth race, he hit the jackpot and won $800. And of course, he insisted on taking us all out for dinner. He would never let anybody pick up the tab; no way. Towards the end of that meal he excused himself to phone in his column and we grabbed the bill. Well, he came back, looked around and said, 'Where's the check?' When he realized what had happened, he insisted the manager return the bill so he could pay for it. In his last column, Paul said he wanted to find a cottage as far from me as possible because we had too much fun together and he had to work. As I wrote after his death, for God's sake, Paul, I didn't think you wanted to go this far away."
     Another Muskokan, and music chum, Gid Rowntree (dentist / musician) wrote, "the first time I met him it was 9 o'clock and we were supposed to start playing and I said, 'Where's Paul?' And another band member said, 'He's calling in his column.' And that impressed me. He always came a few minutes late because he was on the phone, phoning in his column."
     I have been a fan of Paul Rimstead's writing, since this first issue. And when I became editor of The Herald-Gazette, his Toronto Sun columns on page three, (read each day for courage) opposite the Sunshine Girl, kept me inspired at what, for me, was a low paying job, working for a management, that, in my opinion, had no idea what it took to write upwards of twenty-five articles for each weekly edition.  If you hear someone refer to another, as being "the genuine article," well, it can most definitely be applied to Paul Rimstead, who shared his moments of glory, as well as the agony of defeat, whether at the horse track, on the ball diamond, or with management of the newspaper, where he typically found himself at odds. He wrote about the good times of being a husband and a father, and the problems he had with booze, and too much of it, and then how his excesses ruined his marriage. In so doing, he made it a level playing field for his large, faithful blue collar audience, who liked the fact he wasn't "writing down" to them, from a columnist's high perch; he was relating problems that many of us had in daily life, and with the failings of personal economies. He was one of us. He welcomed us into his life, and we greedily accepted his generosity. His wife and daughter, probably didn't appreciate the wide focus on their personal difficulties, getting along with the effervescent husband and father. We felt happy for him, concerned for him, and sad for him, sometimes in the same week. But we had to come back for more, the very next issue, and this was the magic of Paul Rimstead's appeal to the readership.
     In my opinion, one of his finest columns, was one of his shortest. He was in Mexico at the time, on hiatus, from the day to day hustle at the Sun, supposedly there to write a book. He found a little Mexican bar, and it was the harbinger, as much fun as it was with his LIAR'S Club mates, of the break-up of his marriage. The column of June 6th, 1972 reads as follows:
     "San Miguel - Where have I been? I have been drunk. I have been drunk for three weeks. I would sit, staring at the typewriter, trying to write this column and then, frustrated, stalk out to the Cucaracha Bar. My problem was how to write that The Missus Herself had left me. Because of the very personal nature of my column, I had to say something to explain why I would not be mentioning her anymore. But I do not want to embarrass her by airing our problems in public.
     "To set the record straight, however, I should explain that there was no great blow-up. We just decided, after 11 years of marriage, that we wanted different things out of life. We will always be very good friends. She was my foil. I wrote about her as a dowdy, crabby housewife. I owe it to The Missus to explain that she actually is a very sexy broad. I guess it would be impossible for anyone to put up with me indefinitely. We both feel very badly, especially about 10 year old Tracey Lee, who has gone back to Toronto with her.
     "Drinking was not the answer. I did not eat enough. It just made me sick. I am working again. But this is as much as I feel like writing today."
     The above column was taken from page 17 of "Cocktails and Jockstraps." I still get misty-eyed reading this short, poignant, full of heart column.
     The public school books, shown with today's blog, once belonged to this legendary Canadian newspaper columnist, when he was going to class in the Township of Monck, from his home on the Beatrice Town Line. The books aren't valuable, rare, antiquarian, or even highly collectable. But they are part of his reading and writing legacy, very much remembered by millions of Canadians who followed his life, in good times and bad, right to the end of his life. He was their hero and I know why. He wore his human frailties for all to see, and when we compared our lives to his, well sir, we had some things in common. No, a lot of things in common. And it had a lot to do with writing about everyday stuff. It's surprising how interesting it can be, presented with a sense of humour.