Burlington Memories

LIONS CLUB PARK CARNIVALS, THE OLD HOUSE ON THE TORRANCE HILL, AND MY FATHER SUNK MY BOAT

SOME BURLINGTON MEMORIES - I HOLD DEARLY TO THIS DAY

     HERE'S A PREAMBLE STORY. I DIDN'T HAVE A LOT OF PLAY ITEMS AS A KID, BECAUSE MY PARENTS DIDN'T HAVE THE MONEY. I HAD A FEW REALLY GOOD TOYS, AND I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SATISFIED WITH QUALITY NOT QUANTITY. SO WHEN MY DAD BOUGHT ME A LITTLE BATTERY POWERED BOAT, WITH AN OUTBOARD ENGINE, I THINK, THE ONLY THING THAT WOULD COMPLETE THE CIRCLE OF JOY, WAS IF HE WOULD TAKE ME TO THE LAKE SHORE, AT THE BEACH BY THE CONCRETE BREAK-WALLS, TO OPEN HER UP FOR SOME REAL ACTION. SO ON A SUNDAY MORNING, HE TOOK ME DOWN TO THE BEACH, WITH A NEW BATTERY IN THE BOAT, AND WE JOINTLY LAUNCHED THE LITTLE WOODEN BOAT. THE TRICK WAS, IN CASE YOU'RE WONDERING, TURNING THE OUTBOARD ENGINE SO THAT IT WOULD JUST GO AROUND IN CIRCLES, SO THAT I COULD WADE OUT AND RETRIEVE IT EASILY. WE'D EXPERIENCE A FEW TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, SETTING THE ENGINE, TO MAKE A BIGGER CIRCLE IN THE WATER. THEN WE'D GET THE COURSE OF NAVIGATION CORRECT, BUT THE ENGINE WOULD STOP. SO WHILE FIDDLING, ED ACCIDENTALLY STRAIGHTENED THE ENGINE SETTING. WHEN ALL CONDITIONS WERE A GO, HE SET IT IN THE WATER, AND IT WAS CRUISING BEAUTIFULLY. THE PROBLEM WAS, I HAD RUN BACK TO THE CAR, AND BY TIME I GOT BACK, IT WAS A SPECK HEADING THROUGH THE OPENING IN THE BREAK-WALL, OUT ONTO THE BROADER BODY OF WATER. IT WAS A CALM DAY AND IT CHUGGED AND CHUGGED UNTIL IT WAS WELL OVER THE HORIZON. NO, MY DAD DIDN'T BUY ME A NEW ONE. IN FACT, HE NEVER, EVER BOUGHT ME ANOTHER BOAT, SO I WOULDN'T ASK HIM TO TAKE ME TO THE LAKE FOR A LITTLE HARMLESS CRUISE. HE WAS WORRIED HE HAD SET A PRECEDENT FOR ALL BOATING IN THE FUTURE.  I THINK HE TOOK ME DOWN TO THE LAKESHORE DAIRY QUEEN, AND GOT ME A HUGE SUNDAE. MY DAD WAS LIKE THAT. ONCE HE STEPPED ON A BATTERY-OPERATED ROBOT I LOVED, AND IT'S SUDDEN DEMISE, ALSO WARRANTED A DQ SUNDAE. THERE WAS NO AMOUNT OF CRYING THAT WOULD TURN MY DAD AROUND, EITHER, SO I REALLY HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO ACCEPT ICE CREAM TREATS AS REPAYMENT, FOR A LOST OR DESTROYED GIFT. IF HE WAS REALLY SENSITIVE, ON THAT PARTICULAR DAY, HE WOULD HAVE TOLD ME ABOUT HAVING TO USE FROZEN HORSE DUNG, TO PLAY HOCKEY WITH, WHEN HE WAS GROWING UP IN CABBAGETOWN, IN TORONTO.

     THE RECOLLECTIONS OF MY EARLY DAYS, RESIDING IN THAT CHARMING HARRIS CRESCENT NEIGHBORHOOD, IN LAKESIDE BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, ARE NOT EXCEPTIONAL, OR THE KIND OF STORIES THAT WOULD MAKE A PARTICULARLY INTERESTING MOVIE, OR A BOOK THAT WOULD SELL MORE THAN A HUNDRED COPIES, MOSTLY TO MY FAMILY. AS COMPARED TO THE REMINISCENCES YOU POSSESS, POSSIBLY MINE ARE MODEST AND LACKING THE KIND OF COMPELLING ADVENTURE THAT MAKES A BEST-SELLER. MY ONLY ADVICE, IS THAT YOU SHOULD WRITE THESE MEMORIES DOWN, BECAUSE SOMEONE, SOME DAY, WILL BENEFIT FROM YOUR DUE DILIGENCE. YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE A WRITER, OR AN HISTORIAN. WHAT YOU REQUIRE IS A WILLINGNESS TO TIME-TRAVEL, AND REJUVENATE THE FRIENDS AND FAMILY, AND THE NEIGHBORHOOD CIRCUMSTANCES THAT GOT YOU THROUGH THOSE RAMBUNCTIOUS YEARS. YOU DIDN'T JUST ARRIVE AT ADULTHOOD, WITHOUT A JOURNEY. MY JOURNEY CERTAINLY ISN'T AS EXCITING, AS IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN, IF IT HADN'T BEEN FOR MY DUTIFUL PARENTS, MERLE AND ED, AND OF COURSE ANNE AND ALEC NAGY, THE OWNERS OF THE HARRIS CRESCENT APARTMENT BUILDING, WHERE WE LIVED, BACK IN THE LATE 1950'S, TO 1964. SOME TIME AFTER 1964, WE MOVED FURTHER UP BRANT STREET, TO MOUNTAIN GARDENS. THE OVERSEERS, IN MY CASE, SAVED ME FROM A LOT OF WHACKY STUFF, I MIGHT HAVE PARTICIPATED IN…..THUS, HELPING ME REACH ELDER STATESMAN STATUS, HERE NOW, RESIDING IN GRAVENHURST. I GAVE THEM A RUN FOR THEIR MONEY, I'LL TELL YOU THAT, AND MY MOTHER, AFTER ONE OF MY FAMOUS NEAR-MISSES, HAVING ALMOST DROWNED ONCE, WOULD COMMENT TO FRIENDS, "TEDDY HAS A DEATH WISH." I WAS A LITTLE PERPLEXED BY THIS STATEMENT, I HEARD ONE DAY, WHILE MERLE WAS HAVING TEA WITH ONE OF OUR NEIGHBORS………DOLLY, WAS HER NAME, AND HER HUSBAND WAS ERIC, A GOOD FRIEND OF MY FATHER. SO I HAVE SPENT QUITE A FEW YEARS NOW, MULLING OVER THIS "DEATH WISH" THING, FEELING IN RETROSPECT, SHE PROBABLY WAS RIGHT. NOT SO MUCH THE WISH, BUT I ADMITTEDLY HAVE HAD SOME CLOSE CALLS, WITH DROWNING, IN PARTICULAR, AND ONE, A TERRIBLE TRAFFIC ACCIDENT THAT DESTROYED THE CAR, BUT ONLY LEFT US WITH BUMPS AND BRUISES. I SAW MY GUARDIAN ANGEL THAT NIGHT TOO.

     STILL, I BET YOUR MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD, ARE MORE INTERESTING THAN MINE. FOR ME NOW, I'M JUST THRILLED TO BE OF THE MIND, THAT MY TWO BOYS, ANDREW AND ROBERT, AND THEIR FUTURE FAMILIES, WILL BENEFIT FROM THIS LITTLE COMPENDIUM OF STORIES, ABOUT THE BURLINGTON THEY HAVE NEVER KNOWN……BUT ARE MOST DEFINITELY CONNECTED. I WANT THEM TO VISIT BURLINGTON, TO SEE WHERE, FOR THEM, IT ALL BEGAN. THEY HAVE HEARD ME TALK ABOUT MY OLD BURLINGTON FRIENDS, AND FROM MY DESCRIPTIONS, THEY MIGHT BE ABLE TO WALK INTO THE NAGY PROPERTY, AND HEAD RIGHT DOWN THE HALL, TO OUR FORMER APARTMENT, THAT AFFORDED A BEAUTIFUL VIEW ONTO THE BACKYARD, WITH THAT HALE AND HARDY CHERRY TREE. WELL, THE CHERRY TREE HAD TO BE REMOVED, AND THAT'S UNFORTUNATE, BUT I'VE GOT A PHOTOGRAPH SOMEWHERE, THAT MY DAD TOOK WITH AN OLD BOX CAMERA, SHOWING THE TREE AS IT WAS. THE POINT IS, SHARING YOUR STORIES IS RELEVANT TO US ALL, IN FACT, AND AS AN HISTORIAN, I CAN TELL YOU HONESTLY, WE WOULD KNOW A LOT MORE ABOUT THE SOCIAL / CULTURAL HERITAGE OF OUR COUNTRY, IF WE HAD THE ADVANTAGE OF MANY MORE PERSONAL JOURNALS TO USE AS REFERENCE. MANY PEOPLE THINK THEIR STORIES ARE INSIGNIFICANT. "WHO WOULD WANT TO KNOW?" PLENTY OF PEOPLE….LIKE ME FOR ONE.

     I HAVE HAD EXTRAORDINARY MOMENTS IN MY LIFE. I HAVE WORKED ALONGSIDE SOME GREAT MINDS, AND BENEFITTED FROM THEIR MENTORSHIP. I THINK OF THESE FOLKS REGULARLY, AND I MIGHT EXTEND THEM THE COURTESY OF A PASSING THANKS, OR NOD, ABOUT WHAT THEY HAVE CONTRIBUTED TO MY CONTENTED LIFE TODAY. BUT I AM STEADFASTLY PLEASED TO HAVE LIVED AN ORDINARY LIFE……BECAUSE, THERE WERE TIMES, I CAME WITHIN A HAIR'S BREADTH OF BEING SNUFFED OUT BY MISADVENTURE. MAYBE BY REPORTING THESE TALES OF YORE, MY FUTURE GRANDCHILDREN WILL LEARN FROM GRANDFATHER'S MISTAKES, AND TAKE FEWER RISKS WITH THEIR PERSONAL SAFETY. SO TO HARP-ON FOR JUST ONE MORE LINE, I DO THINK IT IS A GREAT BENEFIT TO HEART AND SOUL, TO VENTURE BACK AS A BIOGRAPHER, TO PAY HOMAGE TO ALL THE FOLKS WHO PUT-UP WITH YOU, AND NUDGED YOU ONWARD AND OUTWARD IN LIFE. WHILE MY SUCCESSES ARE MODEST IN COMPARISON TO COMPANION WRITERS, WHO HAVE BEST SELLERS, AND ARE LIVING IN EXOTIC, OPULENTLY APPOINTED RESIDENCES, I AM HAPPY IN OUR LITTLE BUNGALOW, LOOKING OVER THE WILD PLACE, WE CALL THE BOG, HERE IN GRAVENHURST. I OWE IT TO KIND AND CARING FOLKS LIKE ALEC AND ANNE NAGY, FOR INSPIRING ME AS A CHILD, TO WORK HARD, WORK LONG, AND MOST OF ALL……ENJOY ALL THE WORK YOU'RE DOING. I HAVE DONE THIS AS A WRITER AND AN ANTIQUE DEALER, AND OUR BOYS ARE DOING THIS AS OWNERS OF A GRAVENHURST MUSIC SHOP TODAY. 

LIONS CLUB PARK AND THE SUMMER CARNIVALS

     Talk about a treat. There were four peak times to be at Burlington's Lions Club Park, in my era of the late 1950's, and early 60's; a concert by the Lions Club sponsored band, which was held on the stage of the building at the back of the park property. I don't remember attending many of these, but a few, held on special summer nights, were just spectacular with the ambience of the park itself. I was absolutely thrilled when the park hosted the annual summer carnival, which I believe was also sponsored by the Lions Club. This several day fete, was a treat for the neighborhood kids, and although we didn't have a lot of money to spend, drinking in the carnival excitement was free. It was an enchanting sight during the evening hours, the dazzling lights in the night sky, and the loud music and whirling rides…..the huge crowd and all the laughter and voices, still resonating in memory. I was a fish pond junkie. And food. I would gladly sacrifice rides, for cotton candy, candy apples, and popcorn. That trait lasted a lifetime. My dates, in my teenage years, weren't impressed that I was happy to watch and not ride. I was a coward when it came to the more thrilling midway rides. So I wound up, in later life, with a girl who felt exactly the same. Suzanne enjoys the aura of the carnival events, but not the gut-stretching of those mad, whirling contraptions, that give us both spells of vertigo. I must have been seriously impacted by the kindnesses of the Burlington Lions Club, back then, because I married into a Lions family here in Muskoka. Suzanne's father was Lion Norm Stripp, a long-serving member of the Windermere and District Lions Club. He has passed away now, but we are proud to display his many Lions achievement awards. So I will always have a soft spot for Lions Clubs, and that small acreage in Burlington, that played host to me, for all the years I lived there…..and sometimes, I only saw the park from the stroller my mother was pushing. I also remember my father's baseball games, in the local mens' league, and the summer camp I attended one year, that involved a day trip to a beach……which I enjoyed immensely. On hot days, all played-out, I used to settle in the shade of some dividing trees, that may have been cedars, separating the ball diamond from the lower park, where there was a concrete wading pool, and the sparkling water of Ramble Creek, at its most shallow passage. Laying on the cool grass, I could look at the beautiful architecture of Burlington's United Church, and the azure sky above.

       One of my unfortunate memories, involved a stupid act on my part, and the big mouth (and big ears) I was best known for. They had just brought in some new playground equipment, to the open space around the pool, and one was either a fiberglass turtle or ladybug. I was with Ray Green at the time, and we were both on our bikes. I don't think we were supposed to be riding them in that area of the park, but you know what they say about rules……..and being made, just to be broken. I don't know what possessed me, because I wasn't a vandal, and I had great respect for Lions Park generally. But I pulled my front tire up to this plastic bug, that you could ride, I guess, and with my feet on the ground, straddling the bar, I just repeatedly bumped into the playground item. No reason. I wasn't looking to break it, or even leave a black mark from the tire. It was just something mindless. So there was a small group of folks standing there, looking at the other new pieces that had just been installed. One of the male members of the group, asked me very politely, if I would mind not banging into the piece. So what does a pip-squeak like me say in response……"Do you own this park?"  What are the chances, the answer would come back, "As a matter of fact, I do!" As I got pretty good at, in my youth, I beat a hasty retreat. I heard some ladies talking, as I existed the park, that "the Mayor is over there." Looking back, they were pointing at the group of people I had just unceremoniously met. I knew enough by then, to realize a Mayor outranked a snotty-nosed kid, on a two wheeler. If my mother or Anne Nagy had got wind of this, by golly, I would have been busted down to private. Yet I was doing what a lot of kids my age were doing; feeling the inherent right to free speech, before we knew the limits to self expression, even in a democracy.

     As I've written about several times before, but I can't avoid mentioning once again, there was the "great blunder of failed plunder." A neighborhood misadventure that afforded me one "clown foot" for life. The short version goes like this. At the end of the power line, that connected our neighborhood to the corner, where we had our access to Lions Park, and where Ramble Creek flowed through a substantial tunnel, beside a major block of apartments across from the park, there was once a clubhouse made of plywood…..sitting out in the open, full to overflowing with intrigue. I knew the kids who had built it, and although there wasn't any gang rivalry, at least up to this point, Ray Green and I hatched a plan, to invade their space. He knew, from some liaison he had, with a club member, that they possessed some ceremonial weapons……we called "goolagongs," for lack of a proper title attached to the handles. We only found one of them. It was their own holy grail.I suppose. I'm told every club member had one, but five out of six evaded our detection. I haven't got a clue why Ray thought this artifact would give us incredible super power, but as Ray was my mentor, in those days, I followed behind wherever he went. He explained that the only way into this box-style fort, sitting out in the open of the hydro right-of-way, was down through a hatch in the top. The way up to the top, of the six foot tall structure, was to climb up what was probably a piece of plywood anchored to a ridge-board on the side…..which made a flimsy ramp. We waited until the coast (as they say) was clear, before making our broad daylight move on the clubhouse. With modest stealth, we creeped up to the side of the shelter, and Ray went up the ramp first. I followed, and then waited for Ray to pull open the hatch, and then step down onto the ladder inside. I followed, and while dark, there was enough daylight streaming through the open hatch, to see at least part of the interior. And then we saw it. The "Goolagong."

     Ray snatched it, and told me we should climb out of the fort before the guys came back. It smelled like "kid" in there, so I was ready to climb out too. Ray stopped to give me a hand, from the top, and once I was out, he carefully put back the canopy that kept the rain out. As we were preparing to disembark down the ramp, one of the clubhouse gang, appeared on the hillside, by the cluster of apartments. Ray yelled at me to "come on Teddy, we need to get out of here." Ray was extremely athletic, and could run like the wind. I was fast but a tad clumsy. So when Ray bounced like a jackalope down the plywood, he never lost his balance on the fly, and was down in the thick shrubs, of the ravine, in mere seconds. When I followed, I found out by accident, that Ray's bounce had dislodged the wobbly ramp, such that it was just hanging onto the side by an inch or two. So when I bounced down like Ray had shown me, the first bounce was okay, but the rebound pulled the wood from the anchor, on the clubhouse's exterior wall, and it fell flat on the ground, with me on top. While I landed on my feet, I hurt my foot badly. Not too good when being chased by a gang member. Did I mention, before the quick exit, Ray had handed me the coveted "goolagong." Ray was like that. Generous to a fault. But I always seemed to get clobbered, as a direct result.

     Well, I took a different route than Ray, back to Nagy's apartment. I went up the hillside of the power line, where there was a foot path at the cul-de-sac, by the Creighton Apartments. I knew my foot was badly injured, but I ran as hard as I could regardless of the pain. I still can't believe I beat the kid to the safety of my apartment. How close was it? A quarter of a thin whisker. As soon as I got in the door of our upper floor apartment, and clicked the lock, the smashing on the door commenced. My pursuer had made it right to the door. If Anne Nagy had caught him, and me, we'd have both "been skinned alive," or so the saying goes. Merle came flying out of the bedroom to see what the commotion was about, and while she was talking to me, opened the door to my enemy. Well, let's just say, I was forced to surrender the goolagong, and never really explored its magical powers. It did help me run with pain, so I suppose there was something to the claims it possessed untold powers of enchantment. What it also gave me was a really big foot. And it got me a trip to Joseph Brant Hospital for an x-ray. That was kind of an adventure. I was sent home later, with orders to keep my swollen foot elevated, and that a doctor would see me later.

     Sometime after this, Dr. Proctor showed up at our door, with his bag of medicinal remedies for whatever ailed me. He was no stranger to our house, or me to his office. I was a sickly kid. This time was different. I'd definitely brought this condition on myself. He promptly told my mother "Teddy has fractured his foot, so we'll need to wrap it with tape." I was good with that. I could show Ray and the other neighborhood scalawags. It could be my battle wound. An injury received in the great quest for the goolagong. While I was good with the idea of a flexible bandage, to pull my bones back together, I had no idea that the liniment he was brushing, like paint, on my entire foot, would burn like hot coals, when he tightened the wrap. I saw dancing stars in the universe, and I hollered, and hollered. Fifteen minutes after Doc Proctor left, it was like a chorus of scorched cats, coming from my apartment. Me yelling, Merle yelling at me to stop yelling! Finally Anne Nagy showed up at the door, and just shook her head, and concurred, "the boy has a death wish." Ever since this quest for the goolagong went wrong, I have had a beggar of a time, getting shoes that fit properly. The bone may have knit fine, but the size of my foot was increased forever. I have confounded shoe sales folks for decades, trying to figure out why one shoe fits, and the other, well, not quite. It was really tough when I was playing hockey, especially as a goaltender in later years, when I had to have special skates. No kidding, it gave my friends license to call me "Big Foot."

     The old house on the hill. The old lattice-work tunnel on the hillside. The ever inquisitive big footed, big eared Teddy Currie. Some of the residents called me the "Everywhere Kid." That sure hits the nail on the head. The neighborhood kids heard all kinds of fanciful stories about the old estate, on the left side of the Torrance Hill, on the way up to Harris Crescent. I had been told by someone who had lived on the street, longer than me, that it had been a former golf club in the previous century, but I could never confirm this, either by history text, or by talking to those who had family roots dating back into the 1800's. Here's what was important to me, about the old brick house on the hill. First of all, it was an elegant home, and I keep wanting to say in the Georgian tradition of architecture, but this is probably inaccurate. I do believe it was a Victorian era home. On the hillside of the ravine, about a third of the way down, there was an old, rough condition, "lattice-work" enclosure. A tunnel designed garden house, rectangular, about eight feet at the centre, made of lattice work, that was maybe thirty feet long. It had simple benches built onto the side but if it rained, you got wet. There was a lane up to the house and past, and it did give the impression, of being some type of club…..but not for golfing. The shade-shelter straddled the cartway. The growth in this area was mostly composed of small shrubs and thorns bushes, and there were these intertwined areas of thick vines, which could have been some type of fruit, from a bygone era, but I'm pretty sure they weren't grapes. In some areas, it was so thick, you just couldn't walk through them without getting tripped up. We always suspected, that in this part of the ravine, there were probably lots of snakes, and that kind of limited our interests in further exploration.

     I used to study that house, every time I walked up the Torrance hillside, and it was like a Trish Romance painting, in the fall of the year, when the colored leaves were falling off the hardwoods, and those looking after the old place, were out raking and burning piles of leaves. I remember seeing kids playing there, but I don't think they lived in the house, or our neighborhood. There was some chagrin when it was proposed, a large apartment building was going to be built on the site. I don't remember how many floors it had, but in the photograph of the Nagy Apartments, you can see Torrance Terrace, which I think was still being completed when we moved, circa 1964. I always remember the tiny bungalow below, which was owned by the Smith family, I think, and how that family had their whole world intruded upon, when they lost the beautiful house next door, replaced by this towering residence. So I don't know how that worked out, but it gave me a nasty opinion of progress intruding upon and over history.

    Just before the old house was to be torn down, Ray Green and I, and possibly another chum, (I don't remember), got into the hollowed-out house, and it was as huge inside, as it had always appeared outside. It was probably my first exposure to a haunted house. The moment we crossed the threshold, we felt the presence of its entire history, which we imagined was full of intriguing characters and events. The real haunting of course, was that it had entered its last phase of physical existence, and like the human body, was in its own death rattle. While we should have been scared, of even being caught inside, the haunting we experienced wasn't of the frightening variety. In fact, after ten minutes or so, of looking at the debris left on the floor, and the gaping holes in the wall, where fixtures had been pulled out, there was a much friendlier atmosphere, much as if (if a house can feel), we represented a parade of kind intention…..as we swung no hammer, and did not wield a crowbar. I recall jamming my pockets with bits of cutlery laying on the floor, old spoons and forks, some interesting pieces of colored glass, some prisms that looked as if they might have been from a chandelier. While I didn't tell Ray that I felt the presence of spirits, drifting about in the murky light of late afternoon, there was no doubt I was being spoken to, without anyone visible to "do the speaking." As a cheery kid, with big ears and a big foot, I looked at life as one big joy-flourishing opportunity, so for me to admit the old abandoned house made me sad, was an out-of-place emotion. I think we may have been the last friendly folks to visit that house. We had another visit planned, the next day, for some more innocent hunting and gathering, but I'm pretty sure, the house was partly demolished by the time we were walking home from school that night. Now that was sad. I couldn't understand why something, that was so nice looking, and still able to keep the weather out, was being destroyed. That's when I heard more about the eventual construction of Torrance Terrace. Even at the time, as a kid, I was pretty mad about the changes to the landscape in my bailiwick. My historian's bent is like this……status quo is not so bad. It's not that I buck change, because I'm stuck in the past. I don't like when the character, and established integrity of an historic street, for example, is intruded upon, by replacement architecture unsuited to the environs. This is how a lot of folks felt about the new high rise. Yet it was the way of the future, and the investors with that progressive outlook, weren't about to be knocked-off their game by old house and tree huggers, of which I was apparently, a junior member.

     Earlier, I had written about Mrs. White's beautiful Victorian house, on the corner of Harris Crescent and Torrance. Mrs. White's property abutted our apartment, and there was a narrow side-yard between her lot and the Nagys. What was intriguing about this estate, was that it was kept, (in my own misguided opinion), as if a diorama. Like it was inside a snowglobe. It changed with the seasons, but it always seemed to have a separate, peculiar atmosphere. It was traditional in every sense, including the white dresses Mrs. White used to wear, when she wandered about the property, or sat in a porch chair, watching the birds flitting through the fruit trees. I always believed they were pear, apple and cherry trees, and the spring blossoms were amazingly beautiful, and full of rich perfume to tantalize a kid, about the fruit yet to come. It had a beckoning quality, it really did, and I wasn't the first kid on the block, to entertain the idea of getting inside.

     She had several rectangular outbuildings, one that looked like a former greenhouse. I remember something about a bird she kept, that was supposed to eat nosey kids. Ray and I may have concocted some crazy stuff, in our years marauding through the neighborhood, but getting into Mrs. White's yard was ill conceived, and too close to the ever vigilant Nagys. To take a chance at being able to execute entry and exit from the property, without getting busted, on either side of the wire fence, was a suicide mission. I was a big war-movie fan as a kid. Someone told us she was a witch. So what does a kid do, when confronted by such a story. Investigate. Intruding upon an alleged witch, seems so much more exciting, than just intruding upon the privacy of a senior citizen. As we had done in the great "goolagong" caper, we decided, one quiet afternoon, in the early summer, to take the plunge quickly and quietly. I'm pretty sure Anne had gone out for the afternoon, and my parents were at work. I helped Ray get over the wire fence, and using an old suitcase I got off Alec Nagy, I hustled myself up and over as well. We wanted, very much, to get a look inside the large shed, where we thought she hid the bodies of the kids she snatched off the street. We expected that it was guarded by a Raven or something similar (larger than a crow), so we snuck up very, very slowly. We were basically on our hands and knees, inching up to the doorway of the building. I recall looking up as we were rounding the corner of the building, and seeing two feet, attached to corresponding legs, with a white dress, and a hand, that seemed, at first glance, to be carrying a stick. Exploding like two Mexican jumping beans, Ray and I shot up, and as the two cartoon characters we were, the legs were already running before we hit the ground. I think she swung the stick at my behind, because I'm pretty sure there was a slash of air behind me. We made it back to the fence, and Ray couldn't get over. I pretty much flew over, like I was high jumping at the school track and field day. He got his pants snagged, and when I went to drag him over, I could see Mrs White coming out of the shadows with a cane. I almost tugged Ray's arm off, trying, by force, to get him on the safe side of that wire fence. He finally managed to get over, but he cut himself in the process, on a jagged barb of wire, right down the inside of this leg. We ran and hid down in the ravine, because we knew Mrs White was going to tell Anne Nagy, who would then tell my mother, we had been trespassing. You know, I never remember her saying a word, while we were in her yard. Just the sweep of air, when she whipped the cane at our respective behinds. It was the only time we hopped her fence.

     I don't remember what the punishment was that day. I know we got in trouble. It may have even been initiated when Mrs. Green, (Beatrice) came over to find out why her son had a wound that looked as if he had been slashed with a pirate's sword. She wouldn't have believed Ray's story at any rate, and I'm not sure which of the hundred standards he offered-up, so while my memory is foggy about the aftermath, I'm sure the punishment fit the crime. That was our first and last foray over Mrs. White's fence, to find what she kept in those sealed-up sheds. No she was not a witch. She was a very nice lady. We were just little buggers that's all. We felt it was our duty to explore all the nooks and crannies, and that got us in a whack of trouble. And a lot of personal injuries. Fun? Bucket loads. Even on that day, of the great escape from Mrs. White's yard. After awhile, and as our friendship grew, the stories were the framework of legend. Two wise guys, who sometimes acted like dumb and dumber. Good times.

     We were minor celebrities in that neighbor, as Ann Nagy could attest. Mr. Crieghton, owner of the other two apartment blocks on the street, used to yell at me regularly for trespassing on his driveway, and Mrs. Bell used to remind me where her property line was, on some of my cross country treks. The Ratkowski's (not sure of spelling), workers, used to chase me out of the farm fields when I was taking a short cut, and hydro workers yelled at me for touching the transmission towers. I got yelled at all over the place, even at school, although I was much better behaved than some of my contemporaries. Ray Green and I were a bad pairing, and a lot of neighborhood watchers felt the same. "They're going to set a building on fire one of these days," one resident would warn, as another agreed, "You never know what they're going to do next." This was a pretty good assertion, because it's true. We didn't pre-plan our mischief. I wasn't sure, by definition, if stretching a kid's underwear up over his, or her forehead, qualified as mischief, or not. Or hitting someone in the back of the head with a chestnut. Mischief, in my mind, was getting to the upper floors of Torrance Terrace, during construction, and tossing some small items, over the side, and onto the Smith's house below. "Teddy Currie, you should know better," said a group of parents who had phoned the police, about many kids being in the open-sided tower. I needed my Guardian Angel, but I'm pretty sure she was asking God, "Why me?"

     Have you thought about your own biography. Bet your childhood stories are better than mine! Maybe your biography has the action of a Hollywood Movie. Funnier things have happened.