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.

What Did You Learn From Living In Your Old Neighborhood?

WHAT DID YOU LEARN FROM LIVING IN YOUR OLD NEIGHBORHOOD - URBAN OR RURAL? HOW MIGHT IT HAVE INFLUENCED COLLECTING INTERESTS?

I WAS FASCINATED BY EVERYTHING THAT WAS GOING ON, AT HOME, AND ON OUR NOSTALGIC JUNKETS TO NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR

     I had a red tin and assorted metal, peddle car, circa 1958, that may have been in the design of a fire engine. I don't have any photographs to back-up that claim, and no one left in my family who could say for sure, it was "Teddy's ride!" I loved that little car, although I do remember getting my feet, ankles and shins cut up pretty good, when I'd accidentally hit the sidewalk curb, and send my body hurtling down and forward into the inner workings. If one of my shoes popped off, there was a good chance of getting something pinched down there. Of course, this came before my rather large tricycle, so it's likely my parents made the trade-up with someone else in the neighborhood with kids. I got a lot of second hand stuff back in those days, but what the hell. At least I had things. I know that when we moved to the Mountain Gardens area of Burlington, in about 1964, I didn't have possession of what I think was the "Fire Chief's" vehicle in miniature.

      I was a very mobile chap in those days, and whether it was in this tin peddle car, on my tricycle, or on foot, I saw it all. I was the kind of nosey kid who was always watching your property, and your comings and goings, never failing to show up, when a delivery truck pulled-up out front. I was curious. I wanted to know everything about every one, and I hated the thought of something major happening, while I was at school, watching television, or sound asleep. For example, I was absolutely fascinated by the corner homestead, on Harris Crescent and Torrance Avenue, owned then by Mrs. White; because it was so mysteriously appointed, with lots of vegetation around, including apple and cherry trees, and the fact rumour had it, she used to eat children for dinner. You see, there were several large sheds on her property, if memory serves, and because we couldn't see inside, it was naturally assumed by over-active imagination, it was where she fattened up her prey, tied-up and struggling inside. You know, the danger we assumed was always lurking, of being on or near her property, should have been enough to keep us away out of fear. It did the exact opposite. We were drawn to the old house and these buildings, as a moth dashes itself into a light. We were always getting caught by Anne Nagy, trying to get over her fence from the side yard of the apartment. By the way, Mrs. White was a charming elderly woman, who wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a child, but you know how these situations get blown out of proportion. She didn't want us on the property, for fear we might get hurt; not because she didn't want us to see how she was fattening her young prisoners in those sheds. Mrs. Bell, an elderly woman who lived on the other side of the Nagy apartment, just above the ravine of Ramble Creek, was far more visible around her property, and spent a lot of time screaming directives out, about staying off her lawn "or else!" Mr. Creighton, owner of the apartments, adjacent to Mrs. Bell's, was also a fellow who took exception to our trespassing, which was pretty much constant. I never worried too much about these happenstance warnings, and took more interest in the very next project, even if it meant trespassing once again, in order to make it all come together.  

     Remember the bells of the "Goodie Man," coming up the street, on a hot summer day? I will never forget that dazzling little truck, painted brightly with character depictions, (that well, with the fog of age), I don't quite remember, clanging up Torrance Avenue, and heading for both ends of the cul-de-sac of Harris Crescent, where there were profitable pockets of hot kids in need of refreshment. In our section of Harris Crescent, there were three significant apartment blocks (and some multi-family units), including the Nagy Apartments, where we lived, and two others I believe, owned by the Creighton family. Dave Creighton, as I remember, was a former National Hockey League player, but we didn't see him around much, as it was his father in those days, who managed the buildings. Or at least, this is how I remember the setting of Harris Crescent back in the late 1950's, and very early 60's. What is crystal clear, is the vision of that ice cream truck, rounding the corner of Torrance, and Lakeshore, with its bells ringing, while trundling-up the hillside, to Harris Crescent. I do remember another ice cream truck, possibly later on, that played children's songs like "Pop Goes the Weasel," and "Farmer in Dell." It would usually hit our balliwick at about two o'clock. I was never afforded an allowance in those days, so it meant I had to hustle around the building to find my mother, if she wasn't working that day, and beg a dime for a pre-packaged ice cream cone, with chocolate and nuts preferably. It must have been profitable for the operator of the truck, because there was always a crowd on July and August afternoons, when he showed up full of good cheer and playful anecdotes. I've often wondered if any doting parent, ever snapped a photograph of this stunningly nostalgic scene, of kids gathered around the vendor's truck, that was so brightly adorned with tantalizing colors (to make us spend) and curious other images, possibly of clowns or something similar. I expect that I was able to buy a treat once or twice for every five trips he made to that Burlington neighborhood.

    We Curries didn't have a lot of money to spend on ice cream treats, unless it was from the grocery store, when pints were on sale. I guess the problem with our memories of the "Goodie Truck," or as well called him, "The Goodie Man," was that we may have come to associate him with our own misfortunes; watching the other better-off kids getting treats and then eating them in front of us. I did hate that. Gosh, I've been repressing my feelings about the Goodie Man since the early sixties, and never knew it! It divided the "haves" and the "have nots," which I suppose, is the reason I wouldn't want to write a book about ice cream trucks, and all their associated nostalgia. I'm still mad after all these years, that I was poor kid. I think, honestly, it was my first introduction to what social order was all about; and I was different from the others, other than my shoes full of holes, on those afternoons, when I was too broke to participate in this summer tradition. Ah well, it's not like I was denied a hundred percent of the time. Ray Green always had the ready cash, and I suppose it's why I didn't hate myself, for those occasions, when I hit the ice cream out of his hand onto the sidewalk. If I couldn't have it, the treat that is, he couldn't either. Although there was one time, when he did retrieve it, and ate around the chunks of embedded gravel and grass cuttings. This is why Gravenhurst councillors stay away from me, while eating popsicles. I have a reputation you see, going all the way back to childhood. It also explains somewhat, why my best buddy Ray and I were always wrestling over some found object, even the remainders of the ice cream cone, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk. (I have to footnote this little story, to credit the generous parents in our neighborhood, who often showed up at the truck, to buy treats for the whole gang, including those standing back watching the others lining up. God bless those kindly souls for helping out a kid down on his luck.)

     Ray got even with me, when, while wrestling in our apartment, some years later, he fell onto my new Eagle table top hockey game, I had just got for Christmas, breaking the masonite surface, so the rods wouldn't slide easily ever after. He laughed and I cried. It had been reversed for long and long, when I used to topple his ice cream cone, simply because he didn't buy me one.

     I also fondly remember the old Tinker, who used to show up occasionally, on his bike propelled wagon, to repair household utensils, pots and pans, that had developed holes from day to day use. By definition, the "Tinker" was a tin smith. I was compelled to come out on the street, to see him working on some damaged item, a resident had handed to him for on-site repair. Add to this the occasional "Sheeny Man," visit, which was quite entertaining. My mother used to tell lots of stories about the "Sheeny Man," who used to visit their house in Toronto, (also known as the rag man) when she was growing up, and how her mother used to check out what he was selling; often buying something small, just to help the peddler justify his travels, neighborhood after neighborhood.  I guess, by definition, he was a mobile "junk" seller, with a wide array of household pieces hanging off his wagon or bike-pulled cart. Then there was the knife and scissor sharpener, who had the most elaborate bike and cart combination, and I used to like watching the sparks coming off one of his sharpening tasks, for one of our neighbors. My mother even took advantage of his services, for our butcher and steak knives, if that is, we had some extra cash. I don't think his sharpening service was very expensive. He had a grinding wheel he could propel by crank, and I loved to see the spray of sparks flying off into the daylight. Boy would that have looked neat at night.

     Amongst the other visitors to our Harris Crescent neighborhood, were the breadman, milkman, postman, and the delivery men who worked the trucks for Eatons and Simpsons. I particularly remember their hats, which I have owned and re-sold over the years. I always daydreamed about what those trucks, visiting at that moment, were bringing for me; like the song from the movie "The Music Man," and the scene, about the Wells Fargo delivery. (the young fellow, waiting for "something special," was Ronnie Howard) I remember the drivers always looking so sharp with uniforms and caps; just like the postmen, who hauled around those huge black mail bags, strung over the neck, and the keys they had hooked on to their belts, that jingled when they walked. We had a community mail box, at the apartment, I seem to remember, that required one of these keys. There's was something fantastic, in terms of possibility, when the mailman rounded the corner of Harris Crescent, heading our way. Especially around Christmas, when he was loaded down with parcels. I'd watch him on his travels, and try to look into his pouch, to see perchance, if there was something with my name attached; or what other addresses were written onto parcels, just in case, it was Ray Green getting some mail order toy. I saw one once, addressed to me, from my grandmother, that I knew immediately I wanted to send right back where it came from, as having no particular value; just another wool sweater that would irritate my skin. I knew what those parcels looked like; as she always purchased them from Eatons and sent the box used for such things, which I could detect from a considerable distance away. I wanted toys not sweaters. I digress.

     I also have rather found recollections of the television and radio repairmen (and that amazing multi-level case they used to unfold in our livingroom), and I am sorry to say there were no women in the mix, except to open the doors when they came to fix what was broken. Of course it was all male dominated in those days, and it did have an impact on our psyches. I know if I had run across a female doing the milk, bread or repair runs, I would have remembered it as an event in neighborhood history. It didn't happen. In some places, in the early 1960's, I'm sure there were female drivers and delivery personnel, including for the post office, but it wasn't prevalent in Burlington, at least, in that era before the big changes to come. My father was for all intents and purposes, a male chauvinist, but he benefitted from the fact my mother could always land a job in the banking industry; but if she had come home and told us she was going to be walking the beat of the postman, I think my dad would have flipped-out, and said something silly like, "what will the neighbors think." As if that mattered. It did to him, because he always seemed particularly sensitive to the word on the street, if it was about our family. I found this out by the happenstance of making news, later in life, as a journalist with the same first name as my dear old dad. Let's just say there were a few points of opposition, especially when he was complimented or chastised for articles I had published. His lumber customers thought he was moonlighting as a reporter. My mother eventually broke free of his chauvinistic ways, when we moved north to Bracebridge, with the near revolutionary thinking, spawned by the coming of the 1970's, setting down a new awareness about gender equality. My father had a dinosaur's way of thinking about these things, but he gradually came around to this liberation reality.

     The characteristics of my old neighborhood, just like the ones you recall from your own upbringing, did effect our future outlooks and interests to some degree. I admit being more influenced than some, because I was born a collector of things. I desired what neat stuff other people had, so I suppose, like the ice cream cones I desired (but didn't get), jealousy did enter into the equation of what made up the young Teddy Currie. I studied the welcome intrusions onto our street, and you bet, I was up close and personal to all the repairmen who showed up, to do a wide variety of restorations; whether to fix the horizontal hold on the television, new tubes for the radio, or install a new phone for one of our apartment mates. I knew the hard leather slap, on the hall floors, of the breadman, and the sound of his fibre basket when he set it down to sort product for customers, which included cookies; if I didn't see the truck pull up to the apartment, I surely knew his footfall. The tinkle of glass against a metal carrier, belonged to the milkman passing through the three hallways of the Nagy apartments, and the postman's jiggling keys gave him away every time. As I've mentioned before, I always had the distinct feeling, that what I was experiencing of these visiting folks, and a lot of the characteristics of our own neighborhood, were already nostalgic before they had any right to be; but I didn't know what this meant, other than to feel I was on the cusp of great change happening around me, tipping me off, that what I enjoyed would soon be gone forever. Outdated, and not needed any longer. Thus, the seed was implanted, that for whatever reason, made it very clear in the imaginative part of my immature brain, by the almost eerie pull of sentimentality, that I should pay close attention to it all, before it was gone for good. It's as if I knew that the future would dismantle all this amazing carnival of welcome intrusion, and we would rely on oldtimers ever after, to tell us what it was like to get milk delivered in bottles, lodged in a specially designed carrier brought full of product to your doorstep. Remember the milk boxes on the side of homes, with a little door, for the milkman's convenience? Gosh, here I am, doing this very thing, waxing nostalgic about the good old days, and wondering whether this was the whole pre-destined situation; that somehow God figured out, that I would be a decent spokesperson, some time in the future, to write about history with heartfelt passion. All I know, is that I had a forewarning about what was going to be important in my life, in later years, and by golly, it has come to be very providential to me now. As I've written about many times, this is a feeling I've had all my life. It doesn't mean I've ever accepted it as ordinary, and it does have its burdens. I have an acute awareness of the passing of time, and all the etching it leaves, that may one day disappear altogether, if I don't make mention of it for posterity. I like to think it's a shared posterity, because I'm not really doing it for myself alone. It has always seemed so important, to make sure these situations, in all their humanity, are preserved in some way or another; which folks, brings me to the heart and soul of the exposed collector, and why we try to preserve the past by hanging onto pieces, that remind us of the times we most enjoyed. Expensive proposition? You bet! It's why I invest far more writing about the past, because it is infinitely less expensive, than if I was to buy-up all the nostalgia I feel in love with, much as a wide-eyed kid full of envy; especially of those who got the treats when I didn't.

     "They say that you can't go back - But hey, I never left!" ("Mobilia" magazine, October 1996). My point precisely! I'm here but I'm also still there!

Antiques In The Way of A Biography

The Biography I Always Meant to Write - But Antiques Kept Getting in the Way!
Gosh It's Been A Wonderful Life!

By Ted Currie
     I turned-on to Canadian history big time, back in 1967, along with millions of other students in this country. The year of course, when we, as a country, celebrated the 100th year of nationhood, proclaimed and loudly sung in celebration, sea to sea, by Bobby Gimby's memorable ovation "Can-a-da.". I went to Expo in Montreal that year, with my parents, and I must have visited the Confederation Caravan that stopped in Bracebridge, a hundred times over one weekend, when the large mobile trailers were parked down at Jubilee Park. It was also the year I turned-on to old stuff, which I realize now was my initial foray into the antique way-of-thinking, and my deeply seeded passion for Canadiana.
     Well now, it's fifty years since that special time, of national pride and pageantry, and today, as you read this, we are officially recognizing the 150th year of existence as a Dominion. I guess you might say, I owe it all to Canada, that I became, in heart, and mild practice (until 1977), an antique apprentice. After forty years in the profession, I still consider myself an apprentice with a never ending or lowering learning curve ahead.
     I'm in my sixty-second year of this wonderful old life. Admittedly a little gnarled and rough-hewn around the edges. An appearance in portrait, showing I have not-so-profitably weathered the storms of the seven seas, as if I had, for long and long, manned the crow's-nest of a tall, tall ship. Yes having a noticeable limp from the rigors of fun and games, and a furrowed brow from having lived at times, a rather wild life with wild friends, in some amazingly wild places. And by this I don't mean being outdoors, although it's often how I wound up after parties, and gatherings at the local Bracebridge, Ontario press club, of which I was a co-founder at the former Albion Hotel on Main Street. Opposite the old train station that was a true relic of Canadiana, that was torn down on day, before anyone could meaningfully mount a protest to secure its preservation.
    This is a retrospective of a relationship I have openly adored, and written about frequently, since my first antique-themed column, which had a short run in the fledgling Bracebridge Examiner, way back in the spring of 1978. But it was a year earlier, in 1977, a decade after my trip to Expo, and all the other neat Centennial celebrations we enjoyed in small town Ontario, that I set out my first shingle, promoting "Old Mill Antiques," adorning the front of our new shop on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge.
    I now, for the sake of a good story, will openly confess to my many past misdeeds, misadventures, and often reckless abandon, in the early years of carving out a future in the antique profession; which will probably turn up in various bits and bobbs throughout this biography. This explosion of information then, will be put in place, via an intentionally rambling text, full of anecdotes, as an editorial reminiscence, headed, firstly, "the misdemeanors of a single fellow once at dangerous loose ends, seeking a little excitement." "A precarious but enjoyed existence," that my wife, by the way, refers to as having been the "charmed" period of life. Honestly, I was lucky to make it to the fall of 1983 when Suzanne and I were married, soon to become antique professionals in a business that has lasted to the present, and will carry-on God willing, with our sons Andrew and Robert, for many years to come.
    At the time of writing this preamble, to a biography I have been sketching out for about ten years now, I think she has a valid point believing this, because I've certainly dodged a lot of proverbial bullets in my years thus far. And frankly I get a little nervous buying green bananas these days. Will I be around to see them ripen? Having this feeling of thinning sands left to run through the hour glass, I felt that this year, our 150th since Confederation, was going to be the one, to set it all into a formal yet informally composed manuscript, that I could share story by story with my online readers, before publishing it in a full text sometime down the road. I have promised my sons I would write our stories down, with all the adventure and intrigue I implanted, when spun in the past; the ones by the way, they've heard over and over throughout their young lives, but always felt they were generously more fiction than fact.
     I opened my first antique shop with my parents, Merle and Ed, as partners, in the autumn season of 1977, only a few months after graduating York University with a degree in Canadian history. I shouldn't have done this, the antique shop part, especially with business associates who had no real interest in antiques. Instead, they filled our supposed antique shop with giftware, which in our case, was the preamble to disaster after only three years of business. It is a precarious balance to merge the two, and takes a special talent to pull it off as a profitable enterprise. Hardcore antique hunters are suspicious of businesses that combine giftware and heritage articles, and I knew this before we opened our door that day in October 1977. Giftware eventually became the dominant reality of the shop, because my parents had more money to spend in that regard, and seeing as we already had several high quality gift shops on the main street, at that time, we were fighting a losing battle from the beginning. But I got my taste for the antique trade in the form of a store-front, and I was never going to drop the idea of bouncing back with another shop when I had more money and better quality antiques.
     This is my first and last attempt to compose an all-encompassing biography, for my sons, of how I first, and quite naturally became interested in collecting odds and sods, old stuff, relics, antiquities, and collectables; a bright electrifying spark that shot through my mind every garbage day, when we lived in the City of Burlington, Ontario, after I had reached an age when my mother would set me loose in our neighborhood, thinking of me as a typical kid at play. My play, contrary to her belief, was "scrounging," and I could be found on these days, before school, with my head buried deep in the tin garbage pails that were set out at daybreak, by the residents of Harris Crescent, one block up from the Lakeshore. For this reason, and being unwilling to reject this period as being unimportant to the collector / antique dealer I have become since, I have included a preamble series of stories explaining how my early years on the hustings, played a role in my advancement in the profession. Humble beginnings? You bet. It is how, then, that I infected my wife and present business partner, to launch our own enterprise, which we called Birch Hollow Antiques, in 1985, and subsequently, imposed our values, by immersion, on sons Andrew and Robert, who now have their own respective vintage music and collectables shop, partnered with us in this present tense of January 2017.
      Thus, they both need to know how it all began, and how exactly, and why they fell helplessly into the quick-sand of emotion, that subtly inspires, over time and experience, the love for old and dear things; whether of a musical character, be it a drum, guitar, banjo or old record; or instead, a pine cupboard, piece of heritage glass, an old book, or relic of architecture harvested from a demolition site. They need to know about my forays in the profession, at a time when it was nothing more than a childhood fascination unfolding into reality. I never came home to the Nagy Apartments after such an outing, or even returning each afternoon from school, without pockets full to overflowing of found articles. It was my signature look, to have bulging pockets and broken hockey sticks wedged under my arm. It was my earned identity and my mother thought, as such, I was unusually special; because of my penchant to scrounge as if it was a near holy quest. Such that she told our friends and neighbors, when they inquired about my habit of garbage hunting, that I was just "an old soul," possibly a former pirate of the high seas, acting out treasure hunts in the contemporary sense. Maybe I was. I know I loved pirates and the quest for pirates' gold. I found an ally with history I can't explain, and I hated to see good stuff go to waste. My mother used to throw it all out when I left for school in the morning. It's okay because I could replenish quickly the lost loot.
     I hope you won't be bored by the following recollections of childhood. It's most important because it was when I started this life-long obsession with collecting things. I was probably aged five or six when the collecting bug bit me, and I started investigating what others were throwing out, or in some cases, giving away to the "Currie kid." My sons have never been to Burlington although I want this to happen sometime in the near future. I want them to see my old neighborhood, and walk some of the streets I ambled along back in the late 1950's, to and from Lakeshore Public School, up to the Burlington Arena, and to my favorite cent candy outlet on lower Brant Street, which I believe was called Walmsleys Variety Store. The Burlington years provided the platform, that's for sure, to a career in the trade of buying and selling old things, and to write a biography missing this part, would be defeating the whole purpose of meaningful retrospective.
     The antique profession, one of the most storied of all the professions in history, has entertained me for most of my life, and enchanted me in ways I will never truly be able to explain. If you know our business, and have visited in the past, you will appreciate that our respect for history is unyielding, and beyond compromise, as Suzanne and I are both long serving regional historians, with a passion for Canadian heritage conservation. I still, after all these years, find myself tempted to poke through our neighbor's garbage, each week, to check for interesting cast-offs; but obviously, it's no longer socially acceptable, at my elder age, as it once was, when neighbors in Burlington left out the good stuff, knowing the curious six year old Currie kid, would be dropping by before long to check out the goods.
     I love this profession, as I'm sure you realize by now, and I hope it shines through the stories upcoming on this page, partly as biography, partly as a keepsake text for my sons and their families yet to come, and also to help recognize Canada's 150th anniversary of Confederation; because, as it profoundly affected me in 1967, to favor Canadiana as a collecting future, it still serves to inspire me to buy and represent items of Canadian heritage in our shop.
     Please join me again tomorrow for more of this series of stories about the enchantments of being an antique dealer.
     For the next few chapters in this biography, I want to share some of my earliest memories of my old hometown of Burlington, long before I even knew the definition of "antique," or "heritage." A substantial number of the stories will come from my own archives of mini-biographies I begun as patchwork additions over the past ten years, and reminiscences of the fine mentors known over this same time.

The Strange, Strange Stories Beyond The Story

PART TWO

THE STRANGE, STRANGE STORIES BEYOND THE STORY, OF BUYING AND SELLING ANTIQUES

THE ALCHEMY OF THE MAIN STREET SHOP

     When we get to within a few minutes of opening our shop each morning, while looking out at the few people waiting to get inside, we jointly ponder as a business family, a tad nervously, what we'll be challenged with first-off in the succession of always intriguing events thereafter through the work day and beyond. It's more than a little daunting at times, because we are frequently met by situations that are difficult, if not impossible to prepare for, and usually too complicated to resolve even over the long term. You probably wouldn't think an antique and vintage music shop would have to deal with such complicated and intimate issues, and precarious proposals, brought to us by either angry or stressed-out customers, needing immediate resolutions. Needing money more than anything else is a sort of mainstay event on their part, often to our general disadvantage. We get alot of individuals trying to sell us materials for more than we would actually sell them for on the shop floor. They will, if you can fathom this, tell us in no uncertain terms, that we are going to buy the items from them, case closed. We get a few nasty comments in return, for our refusal to play-ball as they say. We've become pretty good at saying "no" to these sellers, but you never get used to be called down, with colorful language, for performing our business due diligence.
     "One of the great problems of our commercial beginnings was the construction of an outside display stand for the secondhand sale. This operation required our presence for more than five minutes, during which we were exposed the looks of passersby; we had to carry out trestles, the case, then the books and the reviews which were old things that had come for the most part from family libraries. The first time that we made that display we were aroused to the point of anxiety, and when the last pile had been arranged, we escaped hurriedly into the back room of the shop, just as if we had played a bad trick on the passersby; we looked through a gap in the curtain at what was for us an extraordinary spectacle, the formation of a little group in front of the books; the faces that appeared behind the shop window sometimes made us burst out laughing, sometimes shiver with apprehension; if those people were to come in, address words to us! And here was an old lady who took a volume from the display and prepared herself to accomplish that grave act of becoming our first purchaser; one of us decided to emerge from the back room and stammered a ceremonious good day to the lady, who, with a very natural manner, showed what she had chosen - it was Henry Greville's 'L'Avenir d' Aline (The Future of Aline), marked at seventy-five centimes; she had the kindness not to haggle; if she had haggled the situation would have become painful; we would have been torn between the temptation to give her the volume, so that the deal might be more quietly settled and the duty of maintaining our really very modest price to show her that we were serious booksellers who did not charge too much. It was necessary all the same to wrap the book, tie it up with string, take the money, give change out of a franc, thank effusively. That old lady at last perceived the extraordinary emotion that she was provoking; she went away more troubled than she wished to let it appear and did not come back."
     The passage above was taken from the memoirs entitled "The Very Rich Hours of Adrienne Monnier," who operated the legendary Paris book shop, known as "La Maison des Amis des Livres," which of course was across the road from "Shakespeare and Company", owned by American bookseller, Sylvia Beach. Those two important Paris book shops, went on past their opening jitters, to host some of the finest writers of the time, during the literary and artisitic boom years between the First and Second World Wars. If there is any model to aspire to, it is the book culture Sylvia Beach and Adrienne Monnier cultivated on that storied street, Rue de l'Odeon.
     The antique and collectable business, especially on the "mom and pop" level, of more intimate retail operation, which is all I knew during my apprenticeship in the profession in the 1970's, has a strange parallel to the role of a barkeep in a tavern. You can't be in the public's face for long, before an antique shop clerk becomes well acquainted with customers. When you're dealing with materials that have belonged to a succession of owners, down through history, it means death and the settling of estates has had a lot to do with the inventory you're trying to sell. It often puts us in a strange personal relationship with individuals and family history, if, in fact, we are in discussions with a customer about purchasing antiques owned by their now deceased family member. If we have to make a home visit, as you can imagine from you own dealings with such issues, the aura of sadness usually prevails and makes the negotiations rather painful for both sides of the equation. It gets worse if it is a forced sell-off, such as with an estate where there are many family members as beneficiaries of money raised. I hate these situations with a passion, as our own family had to deal with a forced auction to settle my father-in-law's estate, in the early part of the new century. You have to watch as others buy your family heirlooms, and at the time, we didn't have enough money to get everything we wanted, and that made us mad for years after. So we understand what kind of emotional stresses occur in such cases, but it doesn't make them any easier to deal with on site, while tears are flowing and anger welling-up.
     Over the counter we get a lot of stories, and pretty much confessionals, about missed opportunities, family hardships, break-ups, love-lost, the dearly departed, and so much more, that goes well beyond what an antique shop clerk's job should be, under perfect circumstances. Well sir, this is the pivotal point. When it comes to heirloom pieces, and emotional values, there is no way to prepare in advance, for what the very next story, sad as it may be, will represent to us in a business day. We have to be part time therapists, soothsayers, and crisis managers, just to navigate the truly precarious cases, where we suspect a customer is having a melt-down at our counter, about having to sell their family heirlooms for a variety of reasons. We've had many of these sellers in tears, handing over pieces we've negotiated to buy, and on these occasions, it's true! We'd like to be in any other business than this. The one we hate the most is when someone has to sell off an important piece, with considerable history attached, because they need the money. We get a lot of folks treating us as a pawn shop, wanting a temporary loan in return for possession of some item of perceived value. Either way, it sucks to be us, because frankly, we can't possibly give these people the money they're hoping for, to get them out of a jam. I've written about this in dozens of editorial pieces before, so there's not need to repeat these stories, but suffice to say, you never, ever get used to the emotional roller-coaster of being an antique shop clerk; when it comes to being approached by those who have no choice but to liquidate what, in some cases, belonged to their great-grandparents. But it's still the character of our business, to have to deal with such unfortunate situations. There are many transactions that are positive and contenting to both buyer and seller, but when economic times are difficult, as they are now for many citizens, the average seller these days is doing so under duress.
     Now add to this, the very real fact, that a small but significant number of sellers, when asked about the provenance of pieces they're offering us, can't offer anything to validate why they have the items in their possession. You wouldn't believe the tall, tall tales we hear, when these questions of ownership are asked, and sometimes repeatedly in a short conversation. We dispatch a half dozen of these folks just about every week, on an average, because they are trying to fundraise from the sale of stolen property. The greater the social problems in a community, the more adverse the local economy, means a greater frequency of these patrons, with a plethora of watches, jewellry, and sometimes, musical instruments. Mostly guitars. When a seller with a guitar shows up, who can't play a chord, or explain where it was acquired, we quickly reject the offer to purchase, and send them on their way. We often get information about such stolen materials, and we react accordingly to report the most recent event across the counter.
     Most of our customers would have no idea about some of the adversity antique shop owners face, day to day, in order to keep up a saleable inventory of quality pieces, while at the same time, selling them successfully to happy patrons thrilled to get an item, big or small, that has, to that point, evaded them. But in order to build such an inventory, there are many obstacles to overcome, and chasms to bridge-over, and even when we feel that we've met the challenge, there's always the residual crappy feeling we have to live with, that someone had to die to free-up several hundred collectable pieces; or that a financial shortfall forced a customer to part with an heirloom, left to them by a family member for future safe-keeping. It's not always the way we acquire antique pieces, because we shop at many locations around the region, where there are no stories attached, and no encumbrances to get us emotionally worked-up. Yes, this is a preferred way to secure stock for the shop. Although we do attach a lot of importance to having provenance with the pieces we acquire, and there is really no better way to achieve this, than to buy off the people who know a piece's history best.
      We don't object to chatting with our customers, even when it is casual, and has nothing at all to do with acquisition, or even an imminent sale. We talk history here with great enthusiasm. But like the stories heard by the barkeep, we do hear some heartbreaking stories, especially when a customer talks about everything from house fires, when their heirloom pieces were destroyed, to the loss from severe storms, to marital splits, where assets including antiques had to be divided as part of the respective settlement. I've had an elderly friend of ours, who used to come in at least once a week, break down in tears every time he saw something in the shop that reminded him of his mother. He never mentioned his father, but by golly, he sure had fond memories of his mother. Put yourself in our position, and consider the best reaction to deal with such visible emotion, caused by the very articles from which we make a living. This kind of reaction happens more than you would imagine. History brings back memories, and a large portion of that rekindling has a very sad impact on the heart. We sometimes well-up with tears at the same time, simply because we feel sorry for the individual, who might have just told us about the recent passing of a loved one. I think these folks believe that to be in our profession, which is a sort of next step after the undertaker's work is complete; the dispersal of the good old stuff that they remember from childhood. Geez, it makes us feel terrible that the aura of our shop evokes such adverse reactions with some of our clientele.
     Being sympathetic is the only way to operate a business such as ours; being sensitive to the emotional upheaval many of our customers experience, having to part with cherished pieces for any number of reasons. One antique dealer I knew, callously referred to this as "benefitting handsomely from the misery of others." It is true we benefit, but the misery is shared, let me tell you. But if we stopped participating in these transitions, obviously we'd have a lot less to sell, and much less profit to deposit in the bank. So no matter how difficult it can get, we do provide some elementary services to folks in this situation, of having to reduce their possessions. It means we have to be patient listeners, and confidants always. I think that if we ever find ourselves becoming indifferent to these circumstances, we will know it is time to close-up shop and find something else to do with our spare time.

Part 3 How a Mentor Changed History

Both photos by Jamie Oppenheimer

Photo by Jamie Oppenheimer taken after the January concert for James Carroll

HOW A MENTOR CAME TO CHANGE OUR COURSE OF HISTORY -

     For the past three weeks Suzanne and I have been watching, for a second time this year, the late 1990's CBC series, "Wind At My Back," starring James Carroll, as teacher Max Sutton, who you have been reading about over the past two chapters of this business biography. The five seasons of this heritage-themed (Depression era) series was given to us by James Carroll's close friends, Jamie Oppenheimer, and Shauna Leigh Taylor, of Huntsville, who helped the actor / broadcaster greatly with transportation and personal assistance, throughout the period of his illness, and remained at his bedside until the end of his life. James Carroll referred to the Jamie and Shauna as his "angels," and in our opinion, they kept him inspired and upbeat despite the prognosis which was dire from the beginning. There were many others at Hunter's Bay Radio, in Huntsville, including manager Jeff Carter, who did whatever they could to help James Carroll maintain his popular afternoon radio show, and get around town as he was without a vehicle.
     In a very short association with James Carroll, last winter season, our family not only found a mentor possessing a spark of inspiration we had never experienced before, on such an intimate level, and an enlightenment about the entertainment side of our business, our sons Andrew and Robert, of the group Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers, had not experienced to that point. James Carroll gave them an emotional boost at a critical time, when they admittedly were wondering what the future held as far as potential for success. We are all so thankful that we accepted Jeff Carter's invitation to come up to the studio, on December 23 last year, for a surprise performance on James' show. It meant we had to close down the shop just before Christmas to do the late morning show, but that didn't matter whatsoever, because we all profited in the best way possible, having a personal meeting with this fine chap, who extended so much to the musicians of Muskoka during his tenure at the station.
     One afternoon earlier this year, I had a chance to meet Keifer Sutherland, who was playing a concert here in Gravenhurst. He dropped into our studio for a visit, and I surprised him with a question about his mother. He was taken aback for a minute, but thanked me for asking about his mother, Shirley Douglas, who played the most prominent character in the series, "Wind At My Back," "May Bailey," who had a great many scenes with James Carroll's character Max Sutton. Suzanne and I both bestowed considerable praise on his mother, because she was the central figure in the show, and played the part brilliantly. He said he would mention that to her when he saw her next. Geez, now he's the television President of the United States, in the show "Designated Survivor." We mentioned how heart-broken we were about news of James Carrolls's death in April, and how well the two figures interacted on the show. The one we are going to watch again this evening.
     I have re-run the short editorial piece I wrote shortly after hearing about James' death. We could only thank God we had spent some time with him, which has been a source of inspiration ever since.

   



JAMES CARROLL A TIRELESS SUPPORTER OF THE PERFORMING ARTS IN ONTARIO AND IN OUR MUSKOKA

WELL KNOWN AND RESPECTED ACTOR HAS PASSED AWAY IN HUNTSVILLE -

     Today, and for many days and weeks to follow, there will be hundreds of poignant, beautifully written, and heartfelt tributes to actor James Carroll, of Huntsville, who passed away today after a courageous battle with lung cancer.
     I only met James Carroll once, this past winter, after a benefit in his honor held at the Algonquin Theatre, and then it was only because of my family connection to a local band he knew, from his popular music-themed broadcasts, as a regular host on Hunter's Bay Radio Station.
     James generously supported many local musicians on his afternoon shows, and among that number was the South Muskoka trio of Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers. The Currie brothers of course, are my sons Andrew and Robert, and Bet Smith is a talented folk musician, song writer, who joined with the lads more than a year ago to make some interesting new music. James was highly supportive of their work, offering many on-air tributes, and even hosted the band, before Christmas, in the Hunters Bay studio, for a live performance. It meant a lot to the fledgling group (now having four members thanks to the arrival of fiddle player, Sarah Girdwood) to have an in-person opportunity to meet with James, and play the most popular songs from their latest CD, "Loose Ends." All the way home Andrew and Robert repeated over and over, what I had told them on the way up to the studio from Gravenhurst. "We're never going to forget this dad; it was an incredible experience."
     James Carroll has supported hundreds of musicians during his tenure with Hunter's Bay radio, and he projected a fatherly, warm, soft, nurturing but, make no mistake, powerful force, into local performing arts generally. Particularly improv, which of course, was dear to his heart.
     There are friends and colleagues of actor / broadcaster, James Carroll, who will write better and more insightful memorial tributes, than I could muster, because they shared more than just a few moments of casual conversation. Like the brief one I had with James, in the foyer of a local theatre complex. He was exhausted after a long day meeting friends and supporters, and I was nursing a wounded knee. There are many others who can write his biography with the accuracy and character, such an accomplished life deserves, so I shall not muddy the water further, by adding my periphery overview; of what I think his highlights on stage, in film, and as a radio broadcaster were, when at best, I would be largely and unforgivably guessing. It's true, I wish I had known him sooner in life, and much sooner professionally. I think the writer and broadcaster would have collaborated on something or other eventually, and that would have been great.
     When Andrew came to tell me that he had just received a call that James had passed away, I was, as a matter of some irony, reading a book from my old library collection, of which I am its steward, with an interesting piece entitled simply "Music." It was written many years ago by George Gissing, and struck me as a fitting memorial tribute to a kindred spirit - who also had a genuine fondness for the pleasantness of song - possessing such inspired focus on the longstanding virtues and importance to humanity, of arts and culture. I have used Mr. Gissing's fine piece, printed below, and I can only hope, the essence of our short relationship via music, and his support of those who created it, will please those who knew James Carroll, and who felt his spirit of tireless goodwill; which often meant his hand on your shoulder, a gentle slap on the back, or a tender stroke of your cheek or chin, with a pause, to show his innermost affection, at its most sincere degree of professional, yet human intimacy. It is what the pleasing aura of music, and the arts, can do to heal the wounded spirit, and make new the joy of togetherness. It was this theme above all else, that James Carroll boldly heralded, as being important to us all, if we would only stop, listen, and surrender to its sweet energy's caress.
     In the word of Mr. Gissing, "Of late, I have been wishing for music. An odd chance gratified my desire. I had to go into Exeter yesterday. I got there about sunset, transacted my business, and turned to walk home again through the warm twilight. In Southernhay, as I was passing a house of which the ground-floor windows stood open, there sound the notes of a piano - chords touched by a skillful hand. I checked my step, hoping, and in a minute or two the musician began to play the nocturne of Chopin, which I love best - I don't know how to name it. My heart leapt. There I stood in the thickening dusk, the glorious sounds floating about me; and I trembled with very ecstasy of enjoyment. When silence came, I waited in the hope of another piece, but nothing followed, and so I went my way.
     "It is well for me that I cannot hear music when I will; assuredly I should not have such intense pleasure as comes to me now and then buy haphazard. As I walked on, forgetting all about the distance, and reaching home before I knew I was halfway there. I felt gratitude there, I felt gratitude to my unknown benefactor - a state of mind I have often experienced in the days long gone by. It happened at times - not in my barest days, but in those of decent poverty - that some one in the house where I lodged played the piano - and how it rejoiced me when this came to pass! I say 'played the piano,' - a phrase that covers much. For my own part, I was very tolerant; anything that could by the largest interpretation be called music, I welcomed and was thankful for; even 'five finger exercises,' I found, at moments, better than nothing. For it was when I was labouring at my desk that the notes of the instrument were grateful and helpful to me. Some men, I believe, would have been driven frantic under the circumstances; to me, anything like a musical sound always came as a godsend; it tuned my thoughts; it made the words flow. Even the street organs put me in a happy mood; I owe many a page to them - written when I should else have been sunk in bilious gloom.
     "More than once, too, when I was walking London streets by night, penniless and miserable, music from an open window has stayed my step, even as yesterday. Very well can I remember such a moment in Eaton Square, one night when I was going back to Chelsea, tired, hungry, racked by frustrated passions. I had tramped miles and miles, in the hope of wearying myself so that I could sleep and forget. Then came the piano notes - I saw that there was festival in the house, and for an hour or so I revelled as none of the bidden guests could possibly be doing. And when I reached my poor lodgings, I was no longer envious nor mad with desires, but as I fell asleep I thanked the unknown mortal who had played for me, and given me peace."
     It has been a delight to know you, James Carroll, or as we knew you best in our family, "Max Sutton," teacher and mayor of New Bedford, Ontario, on the well respected Canadian television series, "Wind At My Back." We are all better for having known you, if, regretfully, for only a short while.
     We offer sincere condolences to members of the Sutton family and all his close friends who stayed at his side during his final days.

"The Biography", A Story About A Mentor

Note: Part three of "The Biography", A Story About A Mentor, January 2016 (archives)

MY FACE TO FACE MEETING WITH A HELL OF A GUY - THE FELLOW I KNEW BEST AS THE KINDLY MAX SUTTON, IN THE CAST OF, "WIND AT MY BACK"

JAMES CARROLL AND I, FRIENDS AND SIGNIFICANT OTHERS, HAVE A MEMORABLE GET-TOGETHER AT THE END OF THE SHOW

     The Algonquin Theatre's most recent event, "A Stage Door Thingy," produced and performed-in, by friends and colleagues of actor / broadcaster, James Carroll, of Huntsville, raised $3,100, to help offset medical costs, for his ongoing cancer treatments.

     At the conclusion of the afternoon show, Mr. Carroll, forever humble, silently bowed his head, when he received a standing ovation and thunderous round of applause, that lasted several minutes, bringing tears to the eyes of many in attendance who have known, and worked with the actor over many years. They were in attendance, on this day, to lend support, financially and in any way needed, to assist their friend on his tough journey ahead, facing the protocol of cancer treatments. It was a moving occasion, and it demonstrated that his struggle, to improve his health, wouldn't be one undertaken alone.

     I have only known James Carroll for a whisker of time, a mere smidgeon of our respective lives, in this mortal coil, yet I feel we've known each other since childhood. If we had gone that far back, I assure you, he would have taken off my toque, run like an Olympian, and given it to the neighborhood dog to gnaw on; and I would have chased him up a nearby tree, pulling off his boot, and sock on the way up. We would have boxed each other over a girl we both liked, and he would have given my nose the first of many crooks and lumps. But I would have got the girl, anyway, who liked a rugged looking chap with a "bent and bumpy beak" (now repeat that over and over). No, unfortunately, we didn't know each other in childhood, although we weren't that far apart in miles. I spent my first years in Burlington, Ontario, and he was just across the border, in Philadelphia. But I think we both felt as if we had once played British Bulldog in the school yard, or hide 'n seek in the open spaces of our home communities, and that moment of introduction, broke the ice in a rare conversation, we would both remember for a long while; as having evaded us for a seeming eternity, without eternity having a set value of hours or days. It was an unspoken, unknown familiarity, that diminished the need for conversational protocol; and where a handshake and a twinkle of the eye bridged whatever gap there might have been at the beginning. In fact, I wrote a little editorial piece to cover this social awkwardness, in the style of which, I seem to have most experience. It is sincere and heartfelt, without being overly sentimental or snobbishly stiff, as if it had been a meeting between leaders of government, instead of plumbers comparing who was offering, for public exhibition, the best and fullest butt cracks; without being intentional about it, of course.

    Let's just say, I grew up surrounded by the harder stuff of athletics, where getting a slapshot in the face was character building (or so our coach said); and hobbling off the ice after a wicked body check, was a sign of character weakness. I heard the coach yelling at one of my team-mates, in a game in which we were losing badly, who had just been cracked hard in the face with the shaft of an opponent's stick. The coach couldn't figure out why he was on his hands and knees in front of the bench, while the play went on around him. "For Christ sakes kid, get back in the play," yelled the angry coach. The kid yelled back, "I will coach, as soon as I pick up the rest of my teeth off the ice."  So forgive me for waxing athletic because it's most of what I know at this elder age of penning columns. In this case, it's an inspiring story, hockey or not, and one I wouldn't have missed for, as mother used to say, "love nor money."

     In one of the photographs published above, compliments, by the way, of Jamie Oppenheimer, (Shauna Leigh Taylor also snapped some images as well) it appears, that I'm giving signals down the third base line, for the runner to steal home plate on the next pitch. In the other, I seem to be making some profound statement about the shape of the earth, flat more so than round, while James Carroll tries to figure out what the hell I'm getting at, with all the finger pointing and behind-my-back signaling.

      If you have been reading the recent pieces I've written about James Carroll, and the special show his friends and former colleagues, put on at the Algonquin Theatre, in Huntsville, this past Saturday, (you can archive back through our facebook page posts to catch-up), you would know that I had been writing about the well known, and respected actor, without having first met the man; which is not the usual protocol before setting down to do something even remotely biographical. I had already written three pieces, that by the way, attracted a huge audience of readers, and was intending to meet-up with James at the special fundraising event, "A Stage Door Thingy," when son Andrew and I went up to support the actor, and to further the purpose of the tribute show; which was, of course, to help raise funds to offset the high cost of medical treatments he has been receiving, to abate the progress of a recent cancer diagnosis. I was really looking forward to talking to the actor, admittedly, who I knew best, as the good natured, community minded, charitable (also ran an open-air soup kitchen for the homeless, in the fictional Bedford Falls), Mr. Sutton, the physical education teacher, and part-time radio host, on the historical television drama, "Wind At My Back." His "special angels" as he calls his friends, Shauna Leigh Taylor and Jamie Oppenheimer, found a box set of the show for sale on Amazon, which as a matter of interest, ran for five seasons, and kindly purchased it for me (I have wanted to own this for years); and Suzanne and I have been watching three episodes each night since they arrived in the mail. I won't repeat all the background about the first couple of articles I wrote about Mr. Carroll, the effervescent radio host on Hunter's Bay Radio, in Huntsville, because you can find them all on our facebook page, going back to just before Christmas.

     Well, it's like this. I hustled Andrew out of our shop on Saturday morning, because I knew it was going to take close to an hour to drive from Gravenhurst. And, once again, (as is my hallmark as a motorist) I had nothing in the gas tank except some thin vapours, enough to get us to Skyways Restaurant and Gas Bar, on Highway 11, and not one inch beyond. The idea of getting there a tad early, was to get a few minutes with James before the auditorium filled-up with patrons (which it did pretty well). We sat at the back, off to the north side, where we could get a good look at the stage, and Mr. Carroll, sitting two rows below, just to our right side. From the moment my hind-end hit the chair, there was never a single moment, until the lights dimmed and master of ceremonies, Roger Bird, began to introduce the upcoming acts, when James Carroll wasn't either sitting while hugging, or standing while hugging, or shaking hands with those who approached him from all angles, with only good wishes of course. There were even dozens of patrons turned back from approaching him, when the lights began dimming, and I watched them sit back down, to wait for the next opportunity at intermission. When intermission rolled around, it was second verse, same as the first. He was mobbed in a most friendly, loving way, but make no mistake, he was mobbed. You can therefore guess, then, that at the end of the show, after a rousing standing ovation, the mobbing session was repeated a third time, and there just wasn't any room to get my enormous frame through the crowd to talk with the star of the hour.

     I finally turned to son Andrew, and told him I was going to head to the van, but he should stick around and take his place in line, to extend our kind wishes to James, if that is, the crowd didn't carry him away on their shoulders, which at times seemed highly likely. I didn't want to be rude but I have a bad case of hockey-hip, and I can't sit for a couple of hours anywhere, comfortable seat or bleacher pine, without the need to get up and stretch my legs; and clack noisily into place, my knobby, slapshot altered knee-caps, and back, that is pissed off at me most of the time, because of indiscretions of the past. I'm not good after this, standing on a stairway, and my best bet in avoid toppling over, is to keep the body-works moving forward. It took me ten minutes to walk a single block, but I was in pretty good shape, yup, by time I opened the van door. At this point I could have run the Boston Marathon. This is the contradiction of my body at sixty years of age. It's those first two hundreds steps that beat me up. I got in, turned the ignition, and dialed-up the heater to "inferno" level, because I was cold from the walk; and I switched on Hunter's Bay Radio, the same one James Carroll works with, as an afternoon host. I was enjoying the music and getting toasted.

     I was shaking off the shivers, when Andrew came to the driver's side, pounding on the glass (a real heart starter) as if a car-jacker, opened the door, and began tugging at my arm to get out, like he used to, when we finally arrived at the beach when he was a kid. "Come on dad, James is free now, and he's waiting in the lobby to meet you." I hesitated for one reason only. Once I sit, even for a micro-second, the knees and hip resort to their old ways, and I have to untangle all the bits and bobs of tangled muscles, compromised nerves, and bone sparking off bone. I asked Andrew how long James was going to be there, and if he would be willing to wait the ten or fifteen minutes for my return to the theatre building. "He's told me he's not leaving until he meets you, so we'll get there when we get there," Andrew said, considering how he might just as easily, and for the sake of time, toss me over his shoulder, for the short haul next door. Well, I thanked him for his offer, but suggested that the sheer weight of my considerable frame, would compact him down into his shoes, and seeing as he had his whole life in front of him, declined to either jump into his arms, as I used to carry him, or climb onto his shoulders as if my personal Sherpa, to get me up the small incline to the entrance. I limped a bit, hobbled a lot, whined incessantly (I started to annoy myself), but I really did want to shake the hand of a fine actor, and exceptional mentor in the performing arts, who I knew from television and radio, but not in person. All the way into the theatre again, I thought about how I would handle my greeting and introduction, which for a socially awkward guy like me, can go askew quicker than my knee can click-out the opening notes of the national anthem. I used to be a public relations director, once upon a time, but you'd never know it today, when I get tongue tied trying to order from the restaurant drive-thru; and then make it worse trying to clear up the misconceptions. Which my the way, usually costs an extra twenty bucks for all the extras I apparently ordered by mistake.

     When Andrew and I arrived back at the theatre lobby, James Carroll was indeed waiting for me, with friends Jeff Carter, manager of Hunter's Bay Radio, a close friend and colleague of the host, and both Shauna Leigh Taylor, seen in the photograph above, and her partner, Jamie Oppenheimer (not seen obviously). After brisk handshakes with the group, a hug from Shauna, and a warm clasp of my hand, from James Carroll, what do you think I offered him in return, as an introductory anecdote? Obviously I've been reading far too many Paul Rimstead sports columns, from his book "Cocktails and Jockstraps," because I immediately tried to show how out-of-place I had felt, during the tribute show, by offering the preamble apology, headed, "I'm not used to such a calm, respectful, warm display of affection," as was in ample evidence earlier in the auditorium. At this point I hadn't detected the twinkle in his eyes yet, which usually means for me, the person I'm talking with, has picked up on the anecdote and is tweaked for the full circle of the short story. "I mean, I usually attend sports related socials, and award events, where, hockey cronies put each other in headlocks as a tribute greeting, or robustly smack each other on the backs so hard, the beer blows out their nostrils like a short fire hose. You know, where they give each other wedgies and call each other names, coined in fun, back in their glory days, like 'Crusher' 'Funnel' (that was mine as a goalie), and 'Moose'." Honestly, and in my defense, I've spent a hundred times more writing time, profiling sports and sport personalities, than covering theatre, the entertainment scene, or interviewing actors; although I did cover shows at Deerhurst Inn during the 1980's, when we got free tickets and dinner to attend for our newspaper, and I covered a lot of plays put on by Muskoka Festival at the Gravenhurst Opera House, in an around the same period. Point is, I was out of my element, and having a wee bit of trouble finding words that didn't have a hockey or sports connotation, and that wouldn't, in any way, insult this fine chap who had waited for me to come back to meet him, at last.

     Whether it was his quick wit as an improv master, or his years of social gad-abouting as an actor with a considerable fanship, he knew I was having difficulty wordsmithing in my mind, and he looked at me for a moment, as if removing unnecessary reverence on my part, and with only a few words, and that magic twinkle of the eye, said he knew exactly what I meant, as he had grown up in a family with multiple siblings, and all the rivalry that can entail in earnest; a family that enjoyed sports, aggressively-so, in backyard competitions, and in the schoolyard; and he seemed to appreciate that he was talking to a long-time sports writer, and not a reporter overly familiar with the performing arts. In only a few words, and an endearing look, this humble, but determined gentleman, had set me at ease, by countering with other anecdotes, general, and about the event he had so capably officiated for most of that afternoon. In only a few moments, I felt as if I had known James Carroll for years, and not merely a matter of moments, in the cavernous lobby of the Algonquin venue. I told him that I was very honored to meet him, and he retorted, in a quiet, assuring way, telling me, it was an honor to finally meet me. I was in a mild state of shock, because no one has ever said that to me before. Andrew pointed out that I was blushing, and he was right about that; I've always been a journeyman writer, like I was a backup goalie, (a rider of the pine), a football centre (to hup the ball) and a left fielder in my sporting days, seldom if ever to get singled out, for any special honor or duty, unless I was being asked to carry out some equipment to the waiting bus.

     I wasn't there to interview James Carroll. Maybe that will come another day, if he desires. I was in attendance, and in his company, to pay tribute, because I respect the man, his accomplishments on stage and in film, and most of all, in the contemporary sense, his mentorship as a radio host, to so many up-and-coming regional musicians, who he supports so thoughtfully, and aggressively, on his Hunter's Bay Radio Show. In essence, it was the reason for our meeting, because of our introduction, through a live-performance at the radio station, prior to Christmas, when my sons Andrew and Robert played with Bet Smith, a group he has promoted on air for months. All I was concerned about, at that moment, was that he would think of me as a rough hewn Muskokan, who was not used to such tender, heartfelt moments; that didn't involve a hockey stick, puck or net to shoot it into.

     I enjoyed our brief but poignant meeting, and expressed to him, as much as I could, being tongue-tied and in-awe, that I was truly delighted to finally meet the actor, who had characterized "Wind At My Back's" Mr. Sutton, so craftfully, and believably, such that I wished I could have attended his phys. ed. classes at the Bedford Falls public school, or topped the human pyramid at the young olympics he organized. In the fictional sense, of course.

     James shook my hand again, with the vigor of a phys ed teacher, and the sense of commitment, that come hell or high water, we'd meet-up again, and I think we both left feeling we had completed unfinished business, and anointed a new friendship between sports writer and actor; that you know, has seemed to me ever since Saturday, to be a pretty narrow divide, when it comes down to it, in the grand scheme of what veterans of both professions can talk about without getting bored of each others company.

    Truthfully, I'm a much more interesting person, to take note of (if I'm noticed at all), when I'm in company of someone like James Carroll, a compelling story spinner, a witty responder, and enthusiastic companion of the arts. It's what years spent staring at a keyboard and white screen, and hockey ice rink, can compromise of personality and social elegance; that being me of course, and not him. I had a blast at the show, and a fine meeting with the man of the hour, James Carroll. We all wish him the best, of course, in the latest round of medical treatments, and trust he knows for sure now, just how many fans he has out there, who are pulling for him in this latest, greatest challenge. Thanks once again to all those who helped organize the fundraising event, and facilitate a short, but wonderful meeting with James at the end of the show. I also wish to acknowledge Jeff Carter, an unsung hero, representing Hunter's Bay Radio, for his enthusiastic support of the performing arts, and the generous promotion of local musicians, of which our own family has benefitted greatly. I'm sure James Carroll would agree with me, that this fellow deserves a lot of credit for building a well accepted, dynamic community radio station, with a largely volunteer contingent, and a lot of good will.

     Bless you all. Let's keep in touch!

     And in the words of my hero, Red Green, "Keep your stick on the ice!"

To be Continued…………

A Radio Studio Performance at Hunters Bay Radio

Bet Smith and The Currie Brothers with James Carroll after their live performance on Hunters Bay Radio.
Photo by Shauna Leigh Taylor

Note: to Part 2 of our business biography originally published on December 23rd 2015

A SPECIAL STUDIO PERFORMANCE TO THANK HUNTERS BAY RADIO HOST, AND WELL KNOWN CANADIAN ACTOR, JAMES CARROLL

HONOR FOR MUSICIANS, BET SMITH AND THE CURRIE BROTHERS, MEETING RADIO HOST, WHO HAS BEEN AN INSPIRATIONAL MENTOR

Did you know, that the CBC television series, "Wind at My Back," was loosely based on stories written by Max Braithwaite. I wanted to interview the well known Canadian author numerous times, when I was feature editor of The Muskoka Sun, and The Herald-Gazette in Bracebridge. At that point, he was living and writing at his cottage on Brandy Lake, in vicinity of Port Carling. The closest I got to him, was when he was at a staging of a play he had written, for Muskoka Festival, and on that occasion, I played the part of bumbling idiot, awkwardly trying to introduce myself as a writer colleague, talking to him over the back of his chair, but failing miserably in a mumble jumble of misspoken words. I greatly admired his work, and the folksy comings and goings of the citizenry of New Bedford, which had many of his characteristic features, moods and plot swings. I was attracted to the series because of its Depression era depictions, a time of great family hardship, that my parents used to talk about, mostly on special holidays when we were flush with cash, with lots of food in the house. I found the series to be pretty close to the life and times they described, growing up in Toronto. 

It was the afternoon break I looked forward to, on weekday afternoons, at last pulling the final few paragraphs of that issue's newspaper column, from the tight roller, of my dear old Underwood manual; the one with a defiant attitude, working smoothly one day, not so much the next. It had a personality of its own, but it was part of the creative process, and I very much feared that if I sank it into the lake, like my writing colleagues had surrendered, during the onset of the computer age, I'd be done as a writer, and have to become a golf pro, my backup career. That, or backup to the backup goalie of the Toronto Maple Leafs.

I knew him first as the soft spoken, stalwart, enthusiastic "Mr. Sutton," a convincing teacher-kind, dedicated to the cultural, recreational enhancements of his students, with a budding passion for after-school radio broadcasting, and all that the pre McLuhan era could offer, one liberal inch at a time, to get the media message to an ever-expanding audience; hovering close to the speaker of the floor model parlor cabinet, with the warm orange glow through the fingerprint smudges, on the glass cover over the channel selector.

We closed our Gravenhurst music and antique shop today. Sorry for any inconvenience to our customers. We're going to stay open later tonight to make up for the absence. But we couldn't miss this incredible opportunity, arranged for our merry band of musicians, in the spirit of reciprocal kindness, and oh yes, Christmas spirit, by our good friends at Hunters Bay Radio Station, in Huntsville.

It was intended to be a surprise. The band from Gravenhurst, the radio host from Huntsville, meeting in-person for the first time, as a heartfelt thank-you for his generous helping hand; and in the music business, getting a positive review from a radio host, is a courage builder for all the tough challenges that lurk ahead. And at times, it is a perilous path, with many discouragements encountered along its winding course. It was a case of mutual respect, today, warm handshakes and pats on the back bestowed, and indeed, it was, what they say; a get-together of kindred spirits, that was indeed, all about the music! 

As the writer of this story, I am literally on the "outside looking in," you might say. At the time of writing this facebook page story, today, I have just delivered two thirds of the band, "Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers," to the Hunters Bay Radio Station, in Huntsville, for their noon to one, in-studio, on-air, you betcha, live performance. And they were anxious to meet the radio personality, who has, on his regular programs, offered so much encouragement to the band, and played songs from their CD, "Loose Ends". A popular show, by the way, that has been doing a terrific, but under-praised mission, promoting many local musicians, who have previously, had very few opportunities to reach a serious, involved, and identifiable audience.

When the band was offered a time slot to play, at the Hunters Bay Studio, for the benefit of community-spirited host James Carroll, who had expressed interest in seeing the group perform live, it was unanimous; "We're going to Huntsville to see our friend." It didn't matter that they had never met him before; they had heard his voice many times, on television, and during his popular broadcasts from the Victorian era building, perched prominently on the hillside overlooking Hunter's Bay.

What has made it all a double honor, for all of us associated with the band (I'm the auxiliary driver, occasional publicist) is that James Carroll is a radio host with a few (well many) outside credits, that include being part of the cast of the well respected, CBC historic drama, "Wind At My Back," which aired in the late 1990's. In the show he played the vice principal / teacher, and part time radio host, set in the 1930's, in the Canadian community known as New Bedford. His credits are numerous in film, stage and in recent years, he has become well known as a popular radio host, and most significantly, a mentor via the electronic media, to many aspiring musicians, who have greatly benefitted from his years of on-stage, on-movie-set experiences. A man with a commanding, folkish, honest, comforting voice, who captivates his audience, with a wry sense of humor, embedded subtle jokes and clever wit; and when he offers an opinion, or in Bet Smith's case, an editorial plume, it's worth a king's ransom, to the performers, who most often only know their critical worth, by the sale of CD's, and how many patrons show up at special events. And, admittedly, sometimes that's small in comparison to the artist's dream-fed idea of what a good audience actually looks like when the curtain is pulled back. Today, an audience of one, was just perfect, and it was James Carroll, who was, to the group, a crowd of hundreds.

Truth be known today, Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers (Andrew and Robert), were here at the station to play for this talented, accomplished man; James Carroll. The group would have shown up to play for him alone, just to show their thanks to a patron of local culture, and a kindred spirit to the performing arts. In the days leading up to this special in-studio performance, all of us have been refreshing ourselves about James Carroll's highly successful career on stage and in film, and have become entranced all over again, with a truly brilliant show that should have run a decade longer. "Wind At My Back," was a charming, provocative drama, and we are now trying to get the box set, to watch every episode over again. As a sidebar, when I wrote at Birch Hollow, our Gravenhurst home, I used to stop work when the show was aired mid-afternoon on CBC. I viewed it as a drama for the benefit of the historian, "me", and I well remember James Carroll's performances, especially the episode with the radio-studio "whistler," performing "Flight of the Bumblebee"; and meeting with the school board trustee, regarding program cut-backs due to education budget restraints. How ironic that he is hosting today on Hunter's Bay Radio (88.7 FM). And school funding cutbacks to art and recreation programs, in the contemporary sense of tight budgets, are still nagging concerns for the local Board of Education. Some things, as they say, never change.

I am waiting anxiously, now being three minutes to noon, for the start of Mr. Carroll's afternoon show, and the performance of the band, probably pretty nervous right now, about to perform for their newfound mentor, commanding in the chair overseeing this studio; this stage set in a small, modestly appointed, but well respected community radio station, serving north and central Muskoka listeners.

"The After Show," is the title of James Carroll's well supported afternoon show, and it has just begun. I have to fiddle with the controls of the car radio to get the best sound. (The Fresh New Sound of Muskoka). Mr. Carroll opened his show by acknowledging that his friends at Hunter's Bay, had surprised him with the live performance, and son Andrew told me earlier, that staff had tried, without going fully monty, employing chains, locks, and spikes hammered through the woodwork, to keep him in his office a little longer, before the show was to start, in order to allow for the set up of equipment; it was supposed to be a surprise for him. But he was able to free himself without having to go all-Houdini-like to mount an escape; and that was his first meeting with the band he has only heard electronically. He was glad to see the group, setting up in the studio, and knew Andrew immediately, by the sound of his voice. The two had talked on the phone just a few days earlier.

"Signs of Hostility" was the first song performed by the three piece band, haling from both towns of Bracebridge and Gravenhurst. He referred to Bet Smith as a "renaissance woman," and she laughed. "That's what you've called me on your show," responded the lead singer, with a smile and a nod, that it was a characterization that pretty much fit, her style and interest in making music, that has a distinguishable soul, and a haunting, romantic, guilty pleasure embedded; as if bringing home the ages, and interpreting their poetic thrust, in the course of just one well received CD.

The band has played two numbers, and I've had to start the car, so as not to drain the battery. I've had the show turned way up, and I was getting a little nervous we would have to push the van back home after the show. "They have done a wonderful thing," said James Carroll, "I'm overwhelmed," about the surprise performance the station had given him, for his afternoon show. He then asked the band to perform another song, which Bet Smith obliged, with "Talisman." Then came Dynamite," an admittedly dark piece, with a pulse of its own. I am looking out over Hunter's Bay as it plays, and the barren branches of the leaf-less hardwoods on the hillside, with the still grey water in behind, the tree line ruffling at the sky, looking beautifully barren and pleasantly haunting, as a dreamscape of a place, of once, we may have had a relationship; a picturesque townscape that is neither one decade or another, but all at once an historic scene. The host makes mention of the tangible aura of the district, or as he calls it, the nurturing "Muskoka Muse" as representing a special place on earth, inspiring "an incredible plethora of artists;" asking Bet Smith her feelings about the area's allure to creative enterprise, and the encouragement for the performing arts. She agreed whole heartedly, that the Muskoka network of musicians, as one example, is uplifting to the artists sometimes struggling within, for recognition and opportunity. Generous support freely given to up and coming performers, by those creative mentors, the veterans of the entertainment scene, who like James Carroll, give generously to enhance cultural initiatives and support programs. She also pointed out that all the folks, including upwards of fifty volunteers at the station, have made Hunters Bay a well respected name amongst local musicians particularly, benefitting from the local content, and the benefits of recognition from listeners, who may eventually decide to attend one of their concert venues, and consider purchasing their CD's. Carroll reminded the band and listeners, how many at the station contribute to the quality of these music programs, working side by side local musicians, to enhance broadcasts like his own. Bet followed this by performing her solo version of "Lone Wolf." "What Matters Most," was the new single performed next, which the host admitted, having heard it before, "I love it."

It's hard to believe it has been an hour since the show began, because I've been absolutely absorbed by the show, the host and the performance; and that takes a lot, for this writer, who is distracted easily by interesting passing cars, passersby wearing strange pointy hats, and shiny objects I see sparkling in the distance. Today, this afternoon, I was unusually (for me), spellbound; this is the part where I have to declare the pretty obvious and flagrant nepotism, on my part, cheering for this band, made up, on a ratio of two to one, of my sons. Bet is family as well, as son Robert and her are dating these days. "We're so grateful for your support," says Bet Smith, at the start of her final song of the show, thanking James Carroll and all the Hunters Bay Radio staff and volunteers, for such a nice afternoon social in North Muskoka.

I want to make special mention of Jamie Oppenheimer, and Shauna Leigh Taylor, station supporters / volunteers, and the duo who Carroll refers to as his special angels, for the kindness they have shown him, as both friends and radio partners. It was the handiwork of these two Huntsville and Muskoka music advocates, through my son Andrew, who inspired and helped initiate the special live performance for James Carroll, at the Hunter's Bay studio.

The band wrapped up the show, having a brief social time with the host, over a container of cookies, brought from Momma Currie's home kitchen (that would be my wife and business partner, Suzanne), and it was just one of life's memorable occasions, between good friends and significant others, that will serve the musicians well, as inspiration, for many years to come; especially, in the spirit of mentorship, demonstrated by James Carroll. In turn, rest assured, it will all be shared as experience by each of the three excited musicians, when it is their turn to inspire and mentor the coming generation of indy musicians, looking for their place in the social / cultural mosaic of this region, and this country. I know I will be talking and writing about the experience with enthusiasm; because, on hearing of the offer to perform live, I was the one who demanded the store be closed, and the adventure be undertaken; and it was, methinks, a most enlightening afternoon in splendid company. Now the boys are vibrating the van like a cocktail shaker, loading-up the sound equipment and guitars, as we Curries have done, hundreds of times, since the boys first gigs, way back on the high school stage. We're about to head home now, collectively feeling we really did network music today, in a most productive way, and made new friends in the process of sharing and benefitting from a deep well of creative energy.

Thanks James Carroll. Thanks Hunters Bay Radio, Jeff Carter and staff, for making this opportunity available to Bet Smith and the Currie Brothers, and this writer, glued to the radio, in the black van parked outside. Aye, the life of the roadie.

In the words of former Toronto Sun columnist, and occasional beer pitchman, Paul Rimstead, "This ones for you," James!

To be continued........