My Burlington Days Were Pretty Sweet

THE LIFE OF A KID, TRIUMPHS AND DISASTERS - HITS AND MISSES

MY BURLINGTON DAYS WERE PRETTY SWEET-

     I WAS EITHER INCREDIBLY LUCKY, OR UNBELIEVABLY STUPID. HERE'S HOW THAT GOES. THERE WAS THE TIME WHEN I BECAME SO PROFICIENT RIDING MY TRICYCLE, ON OUR SIDE OF HARRIS CRESCENT, WHERE THE NAGY APARTMENTS WERE SITUATED, THAT I HAD GRADUATED IN SKILL, (IN AN UNWARRANTED WAY) TO STUNT RIDER. I HAD QUITE A LARGE TRICYCLE, AND I WAS ELEVATED A PRETTY FAIR DISTANCE OFF THE TRAVELLED PORTION OF THE SIDEWALK. I WAS ORDERED BY ALL MY GUARDIANS, MY PARENTS, AND ANN AND ALEC NAGY, MY ALTERNATE PARENTS, TO STAY OFF THE ROADWAY, EXCEPT WHEN CROSSING BACK AND FORTH, TO OUR APARTMENT. SO ON THIS PARTICULAR EVENING, I WAS PERFORMING DEATH-DEFYING FEATS ON THE SIDEWALK, TRYING TO GET MY BACK WHEEL AS CLOSE TO THE EDGE AS POSSIBLE. I WAS PRETTY GOOD BUT YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT THAT?  CLOSE ONLY COUNTS IN HORSESHOES. SO I GOT TOO CLOSE, AND THE BACK WHEEL TIPPED OVER THE EDGE OF THE CURB, AND I WAS TOSSED INTO A SPECTACULAR CARTWHEEL ONTO THE TARMAC. SO GUESS WHAT MADE THE EVENT SO MUCH MORE SPECIAL? AND POTENTIALLY LETHAL? WELL, I FOUND THE ONE PLACE ON A LONG STRETCH OF SIDEWALK, WHERE AN INTERESTING PIECE OF METAL (LIKELY OFF A CAR), WAS LAYING ON THE ROADWAY. IT FOUND MY THROAT. RIGHT UNDER MY CHIN, IN FACT. THIS SHARP PIECE OF METAL, ABOUT EIGHT INCHES LONG, AND TWO INCHES WIDE, BOUNCED WHEN I HIT IT ON THE ROAD, AND SOMEHOW TURNED KNIFE-LIKE AS WE TUMBLED THROUGH THE AIR.

     I LANDED ON THE ASPHALT, CHIN FIRST, AS MANY OF US STUNT RIDERS WIND UP EVENTUALLY. THE PIECE OF METAL CAUGHT ME JUST UNDER THE CHIN, IN MY SUMMERSAULT AGAINST THE ROAD, AND GAVE ME A DEEP GASH. MISSED THE ARTERY. I HAD ALSO ERASED A SUBSTANTIAL PORTION OF THE SKIN ON MY CHIN, AND BADLY SCRAPED LEGS, ELBOWS AND THE PALMS OF BOTH HANDS. I IMMEDIATELY KNEW I WAS IN TROUBLE, BEYOND ANYTHING I HAD DONE BEFORE, BECAUSE THERE WAS BLOOD ALL OVER THE PLACE. SO AFTER ASSESSING THAT BOTH LEGS WERE STILL ATTACHED, I STARTED RUNNING AND BLEEDING. I'M NOT SURE WHO CAME OUT OF THE APARTMENT BUILDING FIRST. ANN NAGY OR MY MOTHER, BUT THERE SEEMED TO BE A LOT OF PEOPLE YELLING AT THAT MOMENT, WHEN I CROSSED THE THRESHOLD OF 2138 HARRIS CRESCENT. AFTER THEY STOPPED THE BLEEDING, MERLE WENT OUT TO GET MY TRICYCLE OFF THE ROAD, AND THAT'S WHEN SHE FOUND THE JAGGED PIECE OF METAL, THAT HAD SOME OF MY SKIN ON THE EDGE. THEN SHE FREAKED-OUT. SO I WAS HUSTLED INTO A CAR, AND TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL FOR A TETANUS SHOT. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANT, BUT I HAD WATCHED A MOVIE, WHERE ONE OF THE CHARACTERS GOT RABIES, FROM AN ANIMAL BITE…..AND I STARTED TO WORRY I MIGHT START FOAMING AT THE MOUTH, AND POTENTIALLY FEEL THE NECESSITY TO BITE SOMEONE. ONCE AGAIN, WHEN ALL WAS SAID AND DONE, MERLE MUTTERED, "YOU ALMOST KILLED YOURSELF TODAY TEDDY." FOR WEEKS AFTER THIS, EVERY TIME I WENT OUTDOORS, MY PROTECTORS COULD BE SEEN AT WINDOWS, BEHIND BUSHES, AND PRETENDING TO BE WORKING AT THE OUTSIDE MAINTENANCE SHED, IN ORDER TO INTERVENE, IF I, OUT OF BOREDOM, DECIDED TO DEFY GRAVITY ONCE AGAIN.

     I have written previously about the time I did roughly the same stunt, but with a two-wheeler, when that brush against the asphalt cost me a chunk of flesh from my leg. On that occasion, the greater amount of pain, came when Alec Nagy treated the injury with iodine. I screamed that day, let me tell you. It was the kind of burning sensation you don't easily forget. If ever anything taught me about bicycle safety, it was that little brown bottle, Alec kept in an emergency kit in his white storage building, at the side of the apartment. In the westerns I used to watch, the injured cowboy always got to bite on a bullet, when there was some medical procedure about to happen. I would have exploded a bullet, accommodating the pain from that open wound. I still have the gouge in my leg to remind me of this stunt gone wrong. But I didn't get an infection thanks to Alec's quick thinking, and that wicked germ-killer, iodine.  He did the same thing when I smashed my hand in the trunk of Ed's car, and Alec came along first, before my dad found out. In this case, I had no choice. Alec covered for me, but I had to get another iodine treatment for the twelve or so scrapes from the trunk lid, that had cut the skin on the back of my right hand.

     There were a lot of funny incidents on old Harris Crescent, that I start recalling, as I push forward on this compendium of "a young lad's glory days." Like the time Ray Green had found this small snake in the grass. We used to have lots of them, especially in the late spring for some reason. Mating? We were standing in the driveway of the Nagy apartment, and my dad came home from work. He wandered over to see what we were up to, and noticed the snake in Ray's hand. In those days, Ray may have been holding a hand grenade, so every one who knew him, double checked what weapon of destruction he was fondling at the time. This time it was a garter snake. I don't know what possessed Ed to stick his finger in front of the snake's mouth. Ray was holding the poor critter from just behind the head, to avoid even the remotest possibility the snake would swing back and bite. So the snake couldn't believe its good fortune. Here was this big adult finger in its face, and well, it took a real big bite into the flesh. So Ed instantly pulled back with the snake still attached, and it pushed itself, at the same time, out of Ray's hand. It may have been the funniest sight in the Nagy parking lot, ever! Ed couldn't shake it loose. He was trying to  grab its body with his other hand, while trying to fling it back into the ravine. It was getting pretty frenzied, and it gave the appearance of some magic show, where the magician pretends to be in some dire consequence, only to free himself suddenly; the whole incident nothing more than an illusion. This snake had locked its fangs in the fleshy tip of his finger, and was not letting go. It wasn't until Ray finally caught the snake's tale, and yanked hard, that Ed was finally freed of the serpent. He had a fair amount of blood on his finger, mostly from the ripping of the tiny fangs across the skin. Let's just say, the snake was returned to the wilds. Ed went into the house and asked my mother Merle if there were any poisonous snakes in the ravine. That's when Merle gave him the iodine treatment. Could snake venom be matched with a dose of iodine? You know, it was the era of iodine. By time I had got past my awkward stage (my wife maintains I never grew out of it), of falling and skinning all parts of my body, Alec's iodine bottle was empty.

     A little older, I had arrived at the apartment after school (I was a latch-key-kid some of the time), one afternoon, and gathered my hockey gear together for a little game of shinny, at Dick and Henry Bosevelts's house, across Ratkowski's farm field (not sure of either spelling of family names). I decided, before going, to make myself a roast beef sandwich, from leftovers in the fridge. I made the mistake of using the sharp butcher-knife my mother ordered me to "never touch," and while cutting a slice toward (not supposed to do this) the hand steadying the slab of meat, it slipped, and I directed the blade into the side of my thumb. "Blood everywhere," as my screaming mother would have yelled, had she been in the apartment to see the aftermath. I did a real number on my thumb. Running down to Ann's apartment would have meant another date with iodine. As well as a scolding, I'm sure I deserved at that point. What was so pressing here, was that I really wanted to play shinny with Ray Green, and Dick and Henry. So I forced the two pieces of my thumb together, mysteriously avoided collapsing at the sight of blood, wrapped it with toilet paper, and a bandage, put some catalogues under my socks for shin protection…..grabbed my Toronto Maple Leaf Jersey, my stick and gloves, and while still bleeding…..I headed out to play that great Canadian sport on a cold winter's day. Obviously, I didn't bleed to death. We had a great hour and a half game before dinner. I always remember that particular game, because we were all very upset Leaf fans that day. Recently, maybe even the night before, the last place Boston Bruins had defeated the front-running Maple Leafs 11-0…..with back-up goalie Don Simmons in net. Bower must have been injured. Like today, it was tough for the rest of that season, shaking-off that drubbing at the hands of the cellar-dwelling Bruins. When I got home, you ask? "Were you making a sandwich Teddy," Merle asked, knowing full well that I had done just that, leaving the beef on the counter, the bread bag open, and blood on the edge of the sink. "Have a little accident with the knife?" I just showed here the big bloody bandage on my finger. "One day you're going to kill yourself," she responded, yanking me by the arm to the bathroom for a closer look. Wouldn't that be a way to go? Death by sandwich misadventure! Son Robert one day, asked me where I got the large scar on my finger. I said it happened because of the Toronto Maples Leafs. Nuff said! 

     There were lots of interesting sights, sounds, and current events in our neighborhood, that interested me to take a closer look. Maybe you remember some of the same wonderful intrusions in your home town, or happening on your street. I was always interested in the peddlers who came calling. The delivery and service folks who drove up to our street in various contraptions, and styles of motor vehicles. For example, I loved to hear the clanging bell of the "Knife and Scissor Sharpening Man," who arrived about once a month, except in the colder months. It was a strange vehicle and I'm not sure whether it was gas powered or foot pedaled. The neighborhood ladies would come out with a plethora of cutlery and scissors, and he would engage some type of wizardry, (a grinding wheel) to sharpen what had become dull since his last visit. He was quite a character, and was very loud with his greetings and small talk. I guess you had to talk this way, when conversing over the sound of a grinding mechanism. Then there was the "Goody Man," although each seemed to call themselves something different. Merle only ever had money for a popsicle, but on occasion, she didn't have any money to spare. So I was an unfortunate bystander. I hated these occasions, but I didn't blame my mother. It was when my chums would get honking big ice cream treats, and I had to watch as they licked them slowly……and they loved every minute of my suffering. In fact, they licked so slowly, most of the ice cream had melted, and dripped onto their shirts. I may have…..may have I stress, accidentally knocked one or two out of my friends' hands……just to be an ass. If they could lick slowly, I could be acceptably clumsy.

    There were all kinds of neat delivery vehicles from companies such as Simpson-Sears and Eatons, and the drivers wore nifty uniforms and caps. I was always interested to see what one of our neighbors had purchased, and frequently Merle had something delivered. Usually clothes. That didn't interest me too much, but I was always eager to answer the door, to the next most interesting character to happen by the Nagy apartment. Of course there was the milk man, and bread man. I don't remember a female delivery person. I may be wrong. Merle used to leave our glass bottle in the hall, with money inside. I was in heaven, if Merle found enough coins to buy me a bottle of chocolate milk….maybe once a month, and raisin bread, or cakes from the bakery. I can still remember the clink of the glass bottles in the metal carrier, the milk man toted around, and I seem to remember a large tray carried by the bread man, that I always thought was anchored around his neck for walks through our hallway, looking for bread orders, and requests. Gads I miss those days. He also had a selection of cakes in his big basket as well, and by golly, Merle often surprised me, by making an impulsive purchase. The problem, in those days, was that Merle and Ed worked most weekdays, and that limited my access to the bread and milk salesmen as a customer. I'm not sure if this is how Ann Nagy purchased her milk, but I can't imagine her having bought any bread or treats from the bakery chap. As she was one of the finest cooks on the block, or in the whole town, I can't imagine her needing to buy what she could produce better, in her compact little kitchen up on Harris Crescent.  

    I remember owning a red metal pedal car, that today would be worth a grand. I loved that old toy automobile, and I drove it everywhere I could possibly navigate. I think Ed had purchased it second hand, but I couldn't have cared less about its provenance, just that it would perform magic for me. It gave me a lot of blisters and scrapes, as my legs kept smashing into the metal interior controls, but my chances of falling were greatly decreased by the fact I was six inches off the ground. You know, it was one of the things I wanted to ask my dad, when he was in the hospital, after his stroke…..and he had those few precious moments of clarity. I got outside the hospital after the last good chat we had, and I remembered what I had wanted to ask about the old car. By the next day, he had slipped back again into dementia. I suppose they gave it to some other neighborhood kid, when I outgrew it, but I think it must have happened quickly and quietly, and I don't remember ever being asked if I wanted to keep it. My mother was masterful at giving my toys away, and always had such compelling arguments, to soften the blow of finding out my room had been sucked free of debris. "His parents couldn't afford toys for him, and yours were just gathering dust in your room." Merle's excuse for getting rid of my keepsakes, nine times out of ten, was "dust" related. It was the collateral damage of being a neat freak. She was pretty good hearted, and she was very generous to those kids she knew, who didn't have many toys, from families having a tough time keeping food on the table….let alone spending money on metal pedal cars and table-top hockey games. That was the only time I had an argument with Merle, about her benevolence with my possessions. She gave my Munro Hockey Game away, when I went off to university. I adored that game, and no matter how old we were, it was great party entertainment. The the brothers she gave the game to, had been forced to live with a grandmother, because of marital problems with their mother and father, and they truly didn't have a toy in the world. So I learned to live without table-top hockey. I'd like to have it now as an investment. It had the first expansion teams, when the NHL left the six team era. I got my game from Munro industries in Burlington, which made it even more special. But, I survived.

Stock Car Racing Memories

"REMEMBER WHEN - THE EARLY YEARS OF STOCK CAR RACING IN SOUTHERN ONTARIO," THAT SOMEHOW, FOR WHATEVER REASON, I BECAME A SMALL PART

RICK SHARPLES BOOKS ON SOUTHERN ONTARIO RACING TOOK ME WAY, WAY BACK, TO THE DAYS OF "SMILIN' JACK GREEDY"

     How much are we influenced by our parents? I mean really? Fifty percent influence or five percent? Guess it depends on the quality of the relationship. Or maybe that isn't as important as wonderment, about what was going on at the time in respective lives and family experience. I wondered all the time, what was up with these people, who carted me all over God's half acre, to see things they wanted to experience; and I was given opportunity, even if it wasn't what I might have chosen if given the privilege.

     I wonder about this a lot, even with my own lads, thinking about what they have become, in terms of the music profession, and how poor a musician I was, even in the heyday of being in a school band. I even went on tour with them in England but, honestly, I wasn't very good.

     I understand the collecting part, because both Andrew and Robert were exposed to antiques, and collectible stuff very early in their lives. They attended antique shops, auctions, flea markets while in stuffed into snuggly bags suspended on our chests. In those early years of exposure, they heard the auction call of Art Campbell and later, Wayne Rutledge, former National Hockey League goaltender, who retired to Muskoka, as both a part time auctioneer and glazier. Point is, both lads are a couple of chips off old pop's (and mom's) collective block, so it partly explains, what I picked up from their grandfather Ed, my father. No, Ed wasn't a collector. What he did offer me however, was the strange, out of place opportunity, to attend motor racing events in Southern Ontario. I don't know why. It came from out of the blue, something my father was known for, because he liked surprising us with special activities. Like taking me to just about every major historic site and fort in Ontario, before I was eleven.

    The car racing thing was unusual, because I had never shown much interest this way, even when playing with my toy cars, on the livingroom floor. I don't know whether someone at work, gave him free tickets to one of the race tracks, and he decided, on the first outing, he rather enjoyed the brisk night air, and the smell of exhaust fumes. I know he would take me to Hamilton's Civic Stadium a couple of times each year, because he got free tickets through his lumber company. I hated the Tiger Cats but I loved when they played the Ottawa Rough Riders.

     Thinking about racing cars? I've still got a lot of nagging questions, but a lingering good feeling, that my dad and I had a few special moments together, when we may have actually, on a few occasions, been on the same wave length. This was a guy, by the way, who decided to participate in the hippy era, and grew his hair as long as mine, (past the shoulders) in a sort of elder solidarity with the lay-about youth, making love not war down on the shore of Bass Rock in Bracebridge. This was another one of his quirks because he had a serious concern about how he was viewed, and his reputation preceded him, wherever he went; except the part about getting into fistfights, at local taverns, a side-effect he once told me, of having been in the Royal Canadian Navy, requiring one to "have dukes at the ready," to settle disputes with ship mates. He told me about coming back to his ship, The Coaticook, in San Francisco, after one shore-leave, to find the coroner's crew removing the body of a deceased sailor, who had been playing in the poker game on board; the same one he had opted against joining in order to visit the taverns on shore. A bad hand, and money lost, had resulted in the shooting death of an alleged cheater, by a bad sport with a side-arm. My dad survived to give me life, instead of playing poker that day, because as God is my witness, Ed would have been in the middle of the frey. He once asked me how many times I thought his nose had been broken, by judging its bumps and bends. He claimed that he had known of five breaks, but six or seven were most likely. He played hockey and was known as a fighter. He just wasn't known as a guy who liked to sit on a cushion, on a cold night, to watch stock cars drive around and around an oval track with his son. But it wasn't a dream. It actually happened. Many times. This was my dad. A man of sudden contradictions, who seemed conservative one moment, and a wild radical the next, with a hint of hippy thrown in for spice. I was fond of him, but I never really understood him. Maybe, when thinking back, you have somewhat the same recollections of your parents. Nice folks, but a little nuts.

     I was browsing through some second hand books, at the annual Gravenhurst Public Library Book Sale, last summer, and came upon a newer, privately published text that, by cover alone, took me back to my childhood. The part of my youth I didn't understand. I still don't, but it happened anyway. I loved my father but I never really understood him, but I'm sure everyone reading this may have had something similar, get in the way of a full and meaningful relationship with a parental figure. Ed meant well, most of the time, but he would get something in his head, that led him on jags into areas of interest, not fitting his character, or what I knew of his background. Auto racing comes to mind. The book that inspired me to think back to those days, when Ed and I used to attend car races in the Hamilton and Toronto areas, in the early 1960's, to about 1966, when we pulled up stakes in Southern Ontario and moved north to Muskoka. The book, volume one, was written by Rick Sharples, earlier this new century, and is entitled "Remember When - The Early Years of Stock Car Racing in Southern Ontario." By coincidence, which happens a lot with me, I flipped it open to page 124, where I saw the familiar image of my favorite race car driver from those years, John Henry (Jack) Greedy, or as he was known to his friends, "Smilin' Jack). I couldn't believe it. And of all places, finding it at the second hand book sale in Gravenhurst. Here's the rest of the story. It has some twists and turns that will surprise you. Again, possibly you can relate, from experiences with your own family, and what they did for you, thinking it was the best thing ever; except they forgot to ask your opinion in advance.

     One Friday evening (but it could have been a Saturday), Ed came home after work, carrying two seat cushions; the ones you take to football games, or to lessen the ass pain from sitting on picnic benches. He handed one to me, before dinner that night, and told me we were going to see some car races. Best part, it was going to be that very night. Out of the blue, my dad, who really had no serious interest in cars or racing, (and only slightly understood the mechanics of an engine) decided he and I were going to buddy-up at one of the regional race car tracks, in vicinity of Hamilton or Toronto. I'm pretty sure the first race we went to, was at Flamboro, but there was another track I haven't yet identified, re-reading Rick Sharples' interesting book. I think it was probably "Pinecrest." He had forewarned my mother Merle, that this is what he intended to do, with his seven year old son for sporting recreation. To that point, I think the only time I'd had anything to do with auto racing, had been, typically from home-viewing; what I had been watching on Saturday and Sunday sports coverage on the old flickering black and white television. So I certainly wouldn't have considered myself a race car enthusiast. I think my dad liked the idea of being spontaneous, and in fifty percent of the cases, it was an admirable quality. The other fifty percent, not so much. My mother wasn't into anything that wasn't proportional to our interests, and cash availability. I take after my father. When Suzanne and I were dating, we would start off taking a drive to Orillia, for dinner, and then wind-up in Toronto, dining instead at the Spaghetti Factory. She could write a book on my spontaneous adventures, and it's clear to me now, that my father and I weren't as far apart in philosophy, as I thought, for most of our days together.

     Over about five years, Ed and I became track regulars, at Flamboro, and another one which I now believe was Pinecrest on Highway 7. The chair pads came in handy, as the bleacher experience was bad enough on the bare hands, let alone a behind without cushioning. I always came home with slivers and a sore tongue. The tongue issue came from the fact, that Ed insisted, I drink a scalding hot coffee or chicken soup, I think it was, to stay warm. For every single race I went to, in those few years, I always came home with a blistered tongue; I hated that part, because it would last for at least two days, and hurt every time I drank or tried to eat something. Ed would get us hot dogs to go with our steaming beverages. It was a nice effort on his part, and I did enjoy spending time with him, because he was a traveling salesman for Weldwood Lumber, and he was on the road, sometimes six days a week. I just never really understood why car racing became the focal point of our bonding time.

     The noise of the cars was deafening, and the cold night air, made it a little uncomfortable; but there was no doubt these evening races were exciting. I saw some incredible crashes, where drivers were injured. I din't like that part at all! Ed always bought me a program that Merle used to throw away after about a week of finding it lodged somewhere in the living room, which was off-limits for any of my toys or collectables. I'd love to have a few of those back now, as further remembrance of those cold evenings, hot drink in hand, watching drivers like Smilin's Jack Greedy taking the checkered-flag with his modified car, which had a stabilizing wing on the back. They were neat and fast around those ovals. My favorite part was watching Jack take the checkered flag from the race official, at the finish line, and fly it out the window of his modified racer, around the track, as a victory lap, to the ovation of his many fans huddled in the bleachers; trying to stay warm with the kind of hot beverage that burns the tongue.

     The extra part of odd, in my relationship with my father, as related to stock car racing, was when the Flamboro and Pinecrest experiences morphed into our yearly trips to Daytona Beach, Florida. Now get this! We would drive to Florida, having and enduring at least five major issues with car and tire repairs, always in the jaw of brutal weather traditional to February; being stuck in Ohio in snowstorms became a family tradition. Now you have to appreciate, if, that is, you know anything about Daytona Beach, that you don't go there during "Speed Week," if you're not prepared to spend a premium price for lodging, and a few other related situations, including higher than normal prices for even general merchandise. The Daytona Speedway is one of the most famous race tracks in North America, and the Daytona 500 is the culminating event for "Race Week." It's pretty much the case, that if you are coming to Daytona in February, you will undoubtedly have some interest in stock car racing, or racing in general, because there is at least a solid week of activities, in and around the landmark track. It's a pretty wild city when all the race fans converge. While we considered ourselves race fans, because of our Southern Ontario experiences with Flamboro and Pinecrest, and felt in the groove hitting Daytona, we were fence sitters when it came to actually attending Florida races. My parents would buy me the latest edition of the "Daytona 500" nylon windbreaker. I got a new one every other year. It had the whole outline of the track printed on the back of the jacket. Every year, my dad reminded me, before we left, Burlington, and later Bracebridge, that we were going to get tickets to "The 500," while in Daytona. It's kind of expected, you see, when you're plunked down in the middle of this racing hoopla, that in my day featured drivers like Richard Petty and Cale Yarborough.

     Every year, without fail, Ed would find a plethora of hard-to-argue-with excuses, for not going to the big race, or any of the lead-up events. We would go to shopping malls that had race exhibitions, and anywhere else that offered free exposure to the racers and their cars, as part of a public relations initiative. I even collected all the Daytona newspapers, that featured the lead-up to the Sunday race, which would be televised around the world. I don't know what happened to my father, when we got to Daytona, to change his mind about attending the race, but it never changed in all the years I went with them to Florida. The closest I got to the Daytona Speedway, during the "Race Week," was to pass by, taking the road to a neat little par 3 golf course just up the road. Yup, I used to play double rounds on the eighteen hole course, close enough to hear the cars, racing the track a mile away. I don't know whether he was worried about the expense of tickets, which weren't too high back then, or he didn't want to be part of a large attendance, in those massive bleachers, we saw in photographs and film coverage, on the nightly news at our oceanfront cottage. It made the Flamboro and Pinecrest adventures, so much more curious and hard to explain, as far as my father's interest to immerse me in race culture. It did have an impact in so many ways, but it just seemed so incredibly odd, even for my father, to drive all the way to Daytona Beach, to coincide our vacation with "Race Week," and not actually attend a single event while there. I think it was possible, that I would have become addicted to the race scene, if we had followed through on our plans to attend; because I really liked Daytona and the race culture, that thrived there, and still does, for this winter classic. Funny how these things go, and how collecting interests change, for the strangest reasons. You have to admit, this was pretty strange. If he had truly wanted to please his son, we would most definitely have gone to at least one of those "Daytona 500" races, or even a minor lead-up race, instead of whacking golf balls around a burnt grass, par 3 course. We even had the seat cushions in the back of our car, just in case, but wound up using them instead, when we had ocean side barbeques.

     At one point in my life, I possessed lots of race car memorabilia, but always reflective of either Daytona racing, or the two Southern Ontario speedways, Pinecrest and Flamoro. I could have fallen fully into this side of mobilia, if it hadn't been for the reluctance of my father, to finish off what he had begun. If there is one question I would liked to have asked my father, before he left this mortal coil, it would have been this; how come you wouldn't take me to the Daytona Speedway? I would have only hurt his feelings asking this, so I'm glad I never had the chance. Just the same, I had a great opportunity to meet with some of NASCAR's racing legends, and see their cars up close. Race Week was always good this way, because drivers and sponsors made sure the fans got to see what modern racing was all about; and that came in the form of public appearances all over Daytona for several weeks before the big race. I've never thought about this until now, but one of my mother's concerns about by father, taking me to the Ontario speedways, for those evening races, was the distinct possibility we could be killed before finishing our hot dogs in the bleachers. She had watched major races on television, when accidents between multiple race cars, sent debris hurtling into the stands, where fans were nearly cut in two by jagged metal. It's possible that Merle may have made a deal with Ed, to keep me out of the stands at Daytona, where admittedly the cars were traveling a much greater speed. Instead, I stood on the tees with a driver, occasionally chasing away snakes, that my have been trying to hatch my golf ball into snake-lets.

     I'm glad that I paid attention to these times with my father, and it did enhance my opinion of the effort my family went to, in order to give me something more than just a new toy, or a dinner treat at a restaurant. He put some real effort into pleasing me, and I appreciate that a lot. I hope my boys will feel somewhat the same, although I still expect them to agree, dad was a character with a lot of peculiarities. It's a family thing. Wouldn't change a think even if I could. Questioning it all, just muddies the water, and serves no real purpose. In the case of the Daytona 500, well, I had a hell of a vacation in Florida, even if I did get to see a race. I certainly don't feel hard-done-by.

That Old School of Mine - Lakshore Public

As for academics at Lakeshore Public School, cripes I sucked. I had attention deficit disorder before they knew what the hell it was. All I wanted was to be outdoors. Mucking along the banks of Ramble Creek, sending our hand crafted battleships off toward the lake. I had a million outdoor projects that were being delayed by school studies. The lesson I detested the most, was when the teacher, Mrs. Bielby, if memory serves, used to give us these crazy assignments to cut and paste. You had to cut from one page, to glue onto the other, matching up words with drawings. It's not that I didn't know the differences, between a cow and a freaking rabbit. I would just get all excited because everyone else would be half done, before I made my first cut-out. I had a way of getting glue all over myself, as I still do with fix-it projects here at home. Well, when you're working with paper cut-outs, it's definitely a disadvantage to have glued-up fingers. I'd get so angry, with pieces of paper attached to three to five fingers, that inevitably, I'd attach a cow where the rabbit was supposed to go. As the glue got a little gummy, when it was exposed to the air for more than a couple of minutes, there were no "do-overs" once the adhesive met paper. I can still recall the horror, of trying to get the paper square off the wrong category of beast, and looking at the clock to see, that once again, I was in an out of control spin of "stupid." How could you not feel like an idiot, covered in cut-out paper, even glue to my new sweater, and some on my pants. Every time the teacher gave me this assignment, the second verse was the same as the first. "How does this happen Teddy," she'd ask, with a look of shock on her face, that any student of hers could be such a klutz. Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. If I found myself having to do the same exercise today, and she had survived to see me get to this age, let me tell you, history would most certainly repeat. I'd just be older to watch myself crash and burn. The funny side of this, is that I did become fairly proficient in the art of cutting and pasting in the newspaper business, when I worked as an editor with Muskoka Publications. I just had the advantage of having lay-out artists and my beck and call. And no marks given.

     Of other memorable events, at Lakeshore Public School, included the time-honored, kid-adored "Field Days," where even the most athletically challenged kid, could win a ribbon as a participant. I got a lot of "Participant" ribbons back then. I wasn't a bad athlete, and I did get a lot better as time went by, but you see, they didn't have events I might have excelled in……like Ramble Creek jumping, and soaker-getting. I was an accomplished smelt fisherman, and I could catch Suckers with my bare hands. I could climb the trees in the ravine like a monkey, and when someone was chasing me, I could run like an Olympic sprinter. I could catch the "Goody Man's" truck when he turned up on Harris Crescent, even if I was at the lake-end of the creek. If they had conducted races like this, where there was a popsicle treat involved, I would have changed those participation ribbons, to ones of first place gold. But I enjoyed getting out of the school, and the only heartbreak, was when it started to rain before we got outside. If it started raining while we were outside, unless there was a thunderstorm brewing, we usually carried on with the event. So I became very hateful of nature for raining on my parade. I liked my education outdoors. This was a trait through my entire school career.

     Merle was a very defensive parent. She hated when any of my teachers would reference that "Teddy is very shy, and doesn't participate in classroom discussions." "Teddy is always looking out the window, and doesn't seem interested in what is going on in the class." I knew by the look on her face, while she was folding up the report card, that my teacher was going to get a surprise visit. I was never wrong about this either. I went with her once, for a parent-teacher meeting, and all my instructor could do was answer, "But, well, but, but, okay but, well, maybe but, yes Mrs. Currie." I was proud of her for standing up for me, because I was habitually shy. Still am. But Merle felt it was wrong for teachers to feel it was their incumbent duty, to break what I had been born with. "There are many successful people in this world, who have overcome shyness, in time, and never suffered any long lasting disadvantage, because of it." It was written onto an accompanying note, attached to the report card that I had to return to the school. Merle had actually run out of room, on the report card, where it allowed for parental response, and had to use extra note paper. She also chastised the teacher, about the comment she had made about my looking out the window, and not paying attention to the the lesson being taught. 'Well, maybe Teddy is telling you something about the way you're teaching the lessons……because he's interested in a lot of things, if he's presented them with enthusiasm." Merle, in the fog of war, as she saw it, had defended my honor, and privilege of being the kid I was. I have always been a dreamer; a shy kid who saw more potential in the field, with nature my instructor, than jammed into a classroom watching the clock define my day. As a writer, I still seek liberation from the same old, same old. So Merle was both timely and quite perceptive. And as I've also written a biography, of one of Ontario's well known Outdoor Educators, David Brown, of Hamilton, one of my closest friends, my destiny was to learn from paddling a canoe, and being immersed in the wilds……as I so dearly loved in the Ravine of old Ramble Creek. Dave Brown was a teacher, but his classroom was outdoors. This I could enjoy.

     My few years at Lakeshore Public School, were quite memorable, and once I stopped trying to escape, actually became quite enjoyable. There was a basement area, where they'd take us for art classes, and I can always remember the aroma of the watercolor powders, in big cans, and the must of a cool basement. I liked art because there were a lot fewer rules to follow. I was an expressionist painter right off the bat, and despite having to wear a smock, I painted myself handsomely, as well anyone who happened to be sitting beside. I was better than Jackson Pollock. I could paint a Campbell's Soup Can as well as any man, including Andy Warhol. Damn thing, I always got a crappy grade. It may have had something to do with the fact, the exercise wasn't supposed to promote abstraction, and there was never an option to paint a soup can. I always had such a vivid imagination, you see, that I just painted what seemed appropriate, including Ray Green's red hair, "blue." Looked good.

      The favorite part of my early school years' experience, without a doubt, were the "hunt and gather" walks to and from Lakeshore Public. I most often went the back-way, running past Dooley the Irish Setter (it was a good day when I didn't get nipped) through a laneway at the end of our cul-de-sac, which abutted a hydro right of way, with massive towers that I fantasized about climbing…….but only ever touched them, just to say I had! When I walked home along the busy Lakeshore, it was most often at the time when Chestnuts were falling. The first part of the Torrance hillside, heading up to Harris Crescent, had about four to six chestnut trees, and it was what all the neighborhood kids stuffed into their pockets, even with the thorny green husks. The real joy was cracking the brown (toe-like) nuts out of the thick covering, and a lot of my chums took them home, where their mothers helped them drill holes, and make them into long strands on string. You used to see them hanging over hydro lines, all up and down the Lakeshore. I really never understood this part of the chestnut-thing, but what I did appreciate is how bad they smelled, when I'd forget about them in a corner of my room, and they'd begin to grow into something other than a tree.

     But whether I was coming or going, my intent was to enjoy the walk, find interesting things to get-up-to along the way, and pocket what ever I found that seemed too good to throw away. Garbage day was my favorite. As I've written about many times before, I got my start in the antique trade, on these walks to and from Lakeshore Public School. Anne Nagy and my mother, always scanned me thoroughly, before I got to the apartment sidewalk, for undesirable items I might be concealing in my jacket, or trouser pockets. I could see no good reason to let a big iron hinge get thrown out, in someone's garbage, just because it was a little rusty. I knew what Alec Nagy did with spare parts, and how he used them to fix his lawn mower and other groundskeeping equipment. I looked for things to add to my bicycle, and a hinge might have looked neat. By time I'd round the corner off Torrance, they could tell by the droop of my pants, approximately what weight of garbage-picking treasures, I had on my person. I was pretty good at concealing even big pieces, like old hockey sticks I'd find, if I swung by the arena first. I was a junior hoarder. What I did sneak into the apartment….with some minor livestock (crickets and a couple of injured birds; maybe even a squirrel), Merle would begin tossing out, the moment I left for school the next day. If Anne Nagy wasn't careful to disguise the garbage, as only kitchen refuse, I'd have my head stuck in those metal pails every time. "Teddy's in the garbage again, Alec." Anne would yell from the front door. "Get out of there," someone would yell, and I'd be off in a flash. I used to find my own treasures Merle had chucked, so I'd haul them in a second and third time. It was all neat stuff, that would have been wasted at the dump…..when I had a use for it all. Or I thought I did, (the hoarder's credo) at the moment, rescuing some neat article, even clothing, from the wet coffee grounds, and grease covered newspapers. Someone was throwing out an Easy-Bake oven, complete with one cake mix. Geez, how neat was this. So I told Merle that I traded a kid a rusty metal hinge for the oven and cake mix. She actually seemed good with this, though she wasn't sure how Ed was going to react to his son having, what he would have called, "A toy for a little girl." I couldn't have argued about this, because that's how it was marketed on television and in the catalogues of department stores. So we just didn't dwell on the subject, and Merle helped me make the last cake. The light bulb didn't cut it, so I was disappointed. Merle took the still-wet mix, and stuck into her kitchen range, and within minutes, it was done. We both had slices. It tasted like it smelled, when I first took it out of the box for a peak. Well, if "musty" can actually translate into "a taste," then this would explain the most horrible cake ever! "Where did you get this Teddy," she demanded. "You didn't pull this out of the garbage, did you?" she asked, still spitting-out musty cake into the sink. I may have. And then I ran out of the apartment before she could grab one of my big ears.

     

Lakeshore Public School-What Were You Like In The School Yard?

THE OLD COAL CHUTE AT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL -

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE IN THE SCHOOL YARD

     IT WAS A FOGGY  MORNING, OVER ON THE BOG, ACROSS FROM OUR HOME IN GRAVENHURST. AS I BEGAN WRITING ABOUT MY CHILDHOOD, LIVING IN BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, IT WAS WEATHER-APPROPRIATE. I WENT TO SCHOOL ON MANY MORNINGS IN SUBSTANTIAL FOG, AND IT WAS PART OF YOUR DAY, TO HEAR A DISTANT FOG HORN, FROM SOME PASSING SHIP OUT ON THE LAKE. I THINK THE FOG MADE MY CHILDHOOD SEEM FAR MORE MYSTERIOUS THAN IT ACTUALLY WAS, BECAUSE WHEN I TALK OR WRITE ABOUT IT TODAY, THESE CONDITIONS ALWAYS SEEP INTO THE DESCRIPTION. I HAVE TO DIG DEEP, TO RECALL WHAT IT WAS LIKE, LIVING IN BURLINGTON, AS IT WAS QUITE A FEW DECADES AGO. I MEASURE IT ALL BY THE SEASONS HERE IN MUSKOKA, AND WHEN WE FIRST ARRIVED HERE, THE DIFFERENCES WERE BRUTAL. I DON'T REMEMBER MANY FORTY BELOW DAYS IN BURLINGTON. BUT IN RETROSPECT, IT'S NOT LIKE I HAD TO WEAR A BEACON, OR CARRY A PORTABLE FOG HORN. I ALWAYS RUN CONDITIONS TOGETHER, BECAUSE CLIMBING UP TORRANCE HILL, ON AN AUTUMN DAY, YOU WOULD GET THE STRANGEST CONFLUENCE OF MIST AND SMOKE FROM BURNING LEAVES. THE MIST SMELLED A TAD FISHY, AND THE YARD FIRES WERE ALLURING IN A NOSTALGIC WAY……YET I WAS ONLY A KID. HOW DID I KNOW ABOUT NOSTALGIA? MY MOTHER TOLD ME I HAD AN OLD SOUL, SO POSSIBLY IT WAS THE REMEMBRANCE FROM A PAST EXISTENCE. AS FOR SMOKE FROM BURNING LEAVES, AND COINCIDENTAL FOG, I'M STILL MADLY ATTRACTED TO BOTH.

     I WAS SO AMAZED TO RECEIVE A PHOTOGRAPH, FROM MY NEW BURLINGTON CORRESPONDENT, TRACY MCKELVEY, THAT SHE HAD TAKEN OF THE CURRENT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL. THE SAME ONE I ATTENDED AS A STUDENT IN THE EARLY 1960'S. IT WAS QUITE OLD THEN. I MUST ADMIT FEELING, FOR THOSE FEW MOMENTS, A LITTLE WOBBLY KNEED ABOUT SEEING THE PLACE, ADMITTEDLY THAT ONCE SCARED THE HELL OUT OF ME. FIRST, AS A GRADE ONE STUDENT. I WAS A CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTOR. I HAD TWO HORRIBLE WEEKS, TO START OFF WITH, THAT FIRST YEAR, AND WANTED TO COME HOME ALMOST AS SOON AS I GOT INTO THE CLASSROOM. I PROBABLY DID A "RUNNER" THREE OF FOUR TIMES, UNTIL EVENTUALLY, WELL, I FOUND GIRLS! NO KIDDING. RIGHT UNTIL THE END OF UNIVERSITY, THE GIRLS IN CLASS GOT ME THROUGH THE RIGORS OF EDUCATION. WHEN I FOUND A FRIENDLY FACE, A SMILE OF WELCOME, FROM THE GIRL IN THE DESK BESIDE, I'D HAVE STAYED AT SCHOOL RIGHT THROUGH THE WEEKEND, IF THAT HAD BEEN THE PROTOCOL. I DIDN'T ENJOY THE BUSINESS PART OF SCHOOL QUITE AS SUCH. I WANTED TO LEARN, JUST NOT INDOORS. SO HAVING INTEREST IN THE YOUNG LADIES OF THE CLASS, GAVE ME THE REASON TO SHOW UP PROMPTLY EVERYDAY, BRUSH MY TEETH TWO MINUTES LONGER, EACH MORNING, AND TO GROOM MYSELF ACCORDINGLY. MERLE COULDN'T BELIEVE THE CHANGE IN HER SON, FROM ONE WHO LOOKED LIKE HE HAD JUST COME IN FROM THE OUTBACK, TO A DAPPER YOUNG FELLOW, WHO ACTUALLY LOOKED FORWARD TO GETTING AN EDUCATION. SO IT SHOULD NOT BE OF ANY SURPRISE THAT THE GIRL I EVENTUALLY MARRIED, WAS A CLASSMATE IN HIGH SCHOOL, WHO BECAME A TEACHER. I'M STILL BRINGING THE TEACHER AN APPLE EVERY DAY. I'M IN HER CLASS. SHE FEELS COMPELLED TO TEACH ME WHAT I APPARENTLY MISSED IN REGULAR CLASSES…… AND INSISTS I SHOULD KNOW FOR POSTERITY. FOR A KID WHO STARTED OFF HIS EDUCATIONAL JAG, HATING SCHOOL, I KIND OF MARRIED IT IN THE END.

     When it comes to writing a biography, it helps a lot if you can, at times, lighten up a bit, from the sentimental stuff that mists-up the old eyes. If you're are interested in writing a personal history, yourself, at some point, today's reminiscence of school days at Lakeshore Public, will undoubtedly bring back memories for you. Not because you attended the same school, or sat in front of me (did I pull your hair, and if I did, I'm sorry), but from the characterizations of situations, discipline and classmates. At the end of this chapter of biography, I think you will probably wish to re-visit your old school, and reacquaint with chums, that made the experience so interesting, challenging, and in the end, quite rewarding. Even though I had later school years. that were bully-full, and I've got lots of recollections of getting clobbered at recesses, I had too many positive moments, with great pals, to ever let the negatives outweigh the truly wonderful experiences of being a school kid, in a neat, responsive, historic school, like Lakeshore Public. So as you're reading along here, let yourself slip back in time, and for every kid I introduce to you, I'm willing to bet, there will be a parallel student and circumstance that you can relate. So if you get a few laughs at poor George's expense, well that's history for you. It's all there. The good, bad and the ugly. In George's case, I represent two out of the three. In his personal biography, the bully got it in the end. If you're feeling really inspired, start writing your own memories down. Your family will thank you, one day, for capturing something special, they had never known of you……..maybe the reality, they can't imagine you were ever…….ever,  a charter member, of the order of "the rapscallion." A scalawag, a rascal, a trouble-maker. Even if some called you a "goody two shoes," only you know, how wrong they were, to deny your more mischievous side. So here's my recollection of the school yard prank, that got us all busted down to private.

     Ray Green and I were like mafia "wise guys." We knew our ranking in the school yard, and which tough customers to avoid, and who was king of the mountain on any particular day. This was important. We seemed to be able to navigate sensibly, through the quagmire of bullies, and their belching hubris, to always appear supportive of the very next Tony Soprano. It was a survival skill I learned at Lakeshore Public School, in Burlington, in my early years of education. While it was important to make the grade in the classroom, it was of vital importance to survive recess. How tough were these kids? Well, during my years there, I heard a number of instances, where some youngster, who had experienced the misadventure of getting hurt in an accident, away from the school, got beaten-up when they finally returned to class. Apparently because of "Elmer The Safety Elephant," and all that it represented to a truly safe school. I've explained this in previous blogs, but the Ontario education, policing initiative, was to foster safety at home and school. Each school got points for every day the "Elmer the Safety Elephant Flag," flew in the breeze from a front lawn pole, next to one with the Canadian flag. When a school kid was injured in a home or play accident (not sports), or unfortunately hit by a car, the school would have to take good old Elmer down. Previous to this, there would be the credit bestowed upon the entire school, that Elmer had been flying "300 days without an accident," or some increasing number that was supposed to, by this accomplishment, make us operationally safer out in the community. It presumed, you see, that kids were hit by cars or trucks because of their error in judgement. Heaven forbid a motorist made the mistake, broke a traffic rule, and hit a kid crossing at a stop sign.

     We used to hear announcements about this all the time. How great it was that Elmer was still flying after almost a year of "safe" home and school days. So when the principle had to report that Elmer was on its way to the ground, because a kid had been hit by a car, the night before, well sir, it was as if someone had spit a huge gob at the school letters. Although I didn't see it, when the lad came back to school, after recovering from his injuries, it was like a mob-hit had been ordered. The safety freaks did catch him, at one point, and I heard they beat him bad, before a teacher could pull him free. I always wondered if that would have constituted the flag having to be dropped once again. I never liked Elmer after this. But I didn't go out and purposely get hit by a car, either, just to get even with the Board of Education that thought a safety goon-squad was a good idea…….because from what I knew then, getting hit by a car was short and sweet. The school yard bullies could hold a grudge for a whole school year.

     I don't know what George's name was, but he was a nice kid. He wore thick glasses, and just enjoyed hanging around with a few kids in the school yard. He didn't have a lot of friends, and that put him at our disposal somewhat, because for the trace amount of "numbskull characteristic," we inherently possessed, George made a great third stooge. And you know what happens to three stooges, who are clumsy risk takers? The fact the principal ordered us to stay away from the coal chute, at the side of the school, was for rebels without a cause, reason enough to give it a whirl anyway. George wasn't a trouble maker, and I dare say, if a precise definition was required, he would be an "A" level pacifist. A lad headed for a Nobel Peace Prize one day. Until we got a hold of him. We screwed it all up for the poor kid. Somehow, we convinced George, that he could get into the school through the coal chute. That was our heating fuel back in those days. As it was winter, and Lakeshore Public was a substantial building, we probably went through a lot of coal. So there was still a pile at the opening of the chute. As I recall, the covering of the chute was missing. Opportunity presented. So who would want to go down a black hole, where there was not bottom visible, and no light at the end of the tunnel? Not us. But by golly, George would go where no other kid had dared to travel. I'm not saying if my footprint was on his head or not. He hung onto the sides, and we couldn't dislodge him, once he got into position to slide down. He backed down, but we were still gung-ho.

     While all the other boys (girls had recess on the other side of the building) were sliding on a length of ice they'd created with their boots, Ray, George and I, moved to get a closer look at the backdoor entrance to the school. I think we told George that at the bottom of the chute, was where teachers kept all the neat stuff they confiscated from kids, and that his retrieval of these items, like balls and yo-yos, would make him a school hero. I think he half believed us. So as we kept nudging him closer, and closer to the opening, the more evidence we were creating, (without knowing it) that would eventually incriminate us in the principal's office. Well, we couldn't get George through the chute, as we had hoped, but close enough you see, to have contaminated every part of our exterior apparel. Just as it was getting interesting, and George was bent over looking down the chute, the bell sounded the end of recess. We had only a few moments to get over to the line-up headed indoors. In this clever plan, we had forgotten to complete our due diligence. It would have been clear, on cursory investigation, coal dust is a beggar to clean off, without heavy duty scrubbing. When we arrived up the stairs, on the main floor, we had to run a gauntlet of teachers, watching for situations like this, and they must have got quite a laugh, when these three stooges showed up, as if they'd just been in a comedic explosion……all having black-faces. Every time we stepped on a layer of coal dust, it had puffed up like a spray, and it attached to our clothes and all exposed skin. We looked like three Al Jolsons, at post recess attendance. It was kind of redundant then, to ask where we were playing in the schoolyard. Geez, I don't know. It was my first time getting busted for insubordination, and trespassing. I thought about pinning it on my buddies. They were faster than me, because that's exactly what they tried to do.

     Poor George had it worse, because he had this fuzzy orange coat, with a hood, and it picked up every molecule of dust, and turned almost jet black by time we'd beat a hasty retreat from the chute area. As we were forbidden to be anywhere near that chute, we had violated school policy. While they didn't yank old Elmer down off the masthead, we were all hauled into the principal's office, and read the equivalent of the school "riot act." I had heard rumors of a leather strap, they employed for these kind of circumstances, so we all did what was appropriate at the time. We started crying before the desk drawer opened. We must have been quite a sight, because there was a lot of laughing going on, at our expense. I think we beat this rap, because we looked so funny, with tear tracks through the soot on our mugs, and looking very much like out of place coal miners. As we had reasonable track records, of being good students, overall, we got off pretty lightly. We were ordered, under a teacher's direction, to head to the washrooms, with rag and soap, to restore our student dignities. I think it took about an hour. A custodian took George's fake fur jacket, and could be seen outdoors, hitting it with an old hanger, to loosen the black from the orange. We felt pretty good by the end of the day. But I can't imagine what would have been the dire consequence, if George had actually made it down the chute. I think we just might have discovered, up close and personal, what leather smells like, after repeatedly hitting a fleshy hand.

     I wasn't really a bully. I came to be a victim, many times in later years. But at Lakeshore Public, I was happiest being a "wise guy" in reserve. I'd kind of go with the flow, and if a bully needed me to offer a little praise, I was good to go. I remained an unlikely pacifist. It seemed I was good at public relations, and talking my way out of scraps. I was a mouth beggar, at times, and sometimes the guy I was calling "stupid head" could run faster than me. Now here was the affliction that made me defensive, as a kid. My problem, like Elmer the Safety Elephant, was that I had his ears. For years I was known as having Elmer or better still, "Dumbo," ears. My mother Merle, used to tell me, it was because I'd slept with them folded over, as a baby, and they had simply grown outward, instead of close to the skull. "Pretty windy out Teddy; are you going to fly away," they'd direct my way, at recess, or "Can you fly with those suckers?" Up until High School, when they finally became a little less outward bound, I had to live with "Hey, big ears….., fly over here," and "Geez, where did you buy those wings."  So one Saturday, when George and I were chumming around, and happened to have taken a visit to the school yard, I finally let loose without warning. I don't remember how he worded it, but he suggested that getting our ball off the roof, shouldn't be any problem for a guy like me…..with huge, floppy, Bluenose, wind-catching ears. So without warning, or any time to protect himself, I drove the kid hard, with a fist to the stomach. I think it was something I'd learned from Alan Ladd, in his portrayal of "Shane" in the movie…..although, I soon found myself feeling anything but "Shane-like," as my friend doubled over in pain. I know this was the first time I had ever hit anyone, with a serious intent. It was probably circa Grade Three. I felt like crap, immediately after hitting George. And no matter how much I begged him to forgive me, and how sorry I was to have hit him with that kind of ill-intent, my friendship with George had ended. We never hung-out together after this nasty incident, and even Ray, the moderator, couldn't bring us back together. A perpetual good sport, and kind kid, my action had ruined a perfectly good friendship. As I watched him heading out of the school yard, still partly doubled over, I pondered you know, if God had been watching…..as my mother always warned. If he was, I quite expected the lightning bolt from heaven, and frankly, I wouldn't have been all that surprised. Maybe a little relieved. I knew you see, I would pay for this act of violence for the rest of my life. The fact that I'm writing this today, attests to the fact I was pretty much right on that count. I'm still apologizing to George, in my mind, almost a half century after the crime. I feel better confessing this, as you might appreciate.

     Generally, I was a gentle guy before, and after this, I became a hardcore pacifist. I even took blows from other bullies without retaliating. I think my resignation toward bullies in the future, was more in the spirit of Shane, because it was only after a pretty severe beating, that I would finally employ the fist, I had once used to double-up poor George. I should note, that I was never seriously bullied at either Lakeshore Public School, or during my several years at Mountain Gardens Public School, also in Burlington. Moving to Bracebridge was tough for a lot of reasons. Small town schools were tougher, in those days, and a number of city friends warned my parents about the urban to rural adjustments, "Teddy" would have to make. Let's just say, there were a lot fewer "Georges," and a lot more fist-wielding country kids, who were very territorial, and very suspicious of the new kids on the block.

     The teachers I remember from those days, included Mrs. Stilwell, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Bielby, and Principal Schantz. Outside of scanning through the old student lists to find my name, they would only have remembered me as the "black face kid," or, that odd looking boy with the "Dumbo Ears."

     One incident that did impact me quite profoundly, occurred during the lunch break, or so I believe. I didn't see the accident myself. I think Elmer the Safety Elephant did. The flag pole was close by, and he was likely flapping in the wind…..yea, like my ears. The school yard, at this time, didn't have much in the way of resources. I don't remember if we had swings, but compared to playgrounds today, it was a tad spartan. So in the winter, the older kids found a way, of creating an ice-strip by packing down an area of snow, and creating a sort of runway in front. They would work over many recesses, attempting to initially, slide on the hard-packed snow. Eventually, they would be able to slide over it enough, to create a fairly long length of black ice. It would have been about thirty feet long, by only several feet across. So the big thrill, was to get it to this level of perfected natural ice, and take a run at it, for a memorable and dangerous slide. You might find twenty or thirty kids lined up for the cheap thrill. It was generally in the same place, each winter, and the teachers on patrol passively tolerated our innocent fun. The problem, as it is for bored kids today, the sliding gig got stale quickly. As the slide was precariously close to a maple tree, or oak in that part of the yard (closest to the front of the school), a few kids got the idea, to jump while in the middle of the slide, and grasp an over-hanging tree limb, to swing from. I remember watching it, and thinking it was pretty neat, to be traveling ten to fifteen feet, at a break-neck speed, and then leaping to grab this overhanging branch. The kids got pretty good at it, but I was still too short to manage it, even with an exceptional leap in the air. (I know, I know, you're thinking about the ears, right).  Well, one day at lunch, after I'd come back to school, there was a lot of activity in this zone, and I'd seen an ambulance leaving the driveway. What I heard had happened, was that a kid had been whipping down that black length of ice, jumped for the branch, missed, fell flat on his back, and hit his head so hard on the ice, that his eye popped out of its socket. No kidding. It was just dangling there. Gross. What makes a kid go and stare at the sawdust layered on the blood, still laying on the ice. I had that stupid image in my mind for decades. It made me sick that day, like the twenty or thirty kids that had to go home ill, after the incident. The kid lived. He got his eye back in the socket. Elmer? Do you know, I can't remember what happened to the flag, on this occasion. I think it was already down because of the other kid's accident…..so maybe this kid got off easy…..other than the eye-popping incident.

Alex Nagy Was A Mentor

PASSING OF AN OLD FRIEND REMINDS ME OF A FOG HORN, FARMER'S FIELDS, RAMBLE CREEK AND A GIANT LAWNMOWER

ALEX NAGY WAS A MENTOR - A SECOND FATHER - A WATCHER FROM AROUND THE CORNER

     EARLY LAST YEAR, A NEW FRIEND FROM AN OLD NEIGHBORHOOD OF MINE, CONTACTED ME ABOUT A BLOG I'D WRITTEN EARLIER IN THE YEAR, THAT MENTIONED ANN AND ALEX NAGY. THE NAGYS WERE THE LANDLORDS OF THE APARTMENT BUILDING OUR FAMILY USED TO LIVE IN, UP ON BURLINGTON'S HARRIS CRESCENT……JUST UP THE TORRANCE HILL, AND A SHORT DISTANCE FROM THE SHORE OF LAKE ONTARIO. MY FRIEND ASKED IF SHE COULD PRINT IT OUT FOR ANN NAGY, AND I OFFERED TO DO ONE BETTER. I HAD BEEN INTERESTED IN DOING A LONGER SERIES OF BLOGS, SOMETIME THIS YEAR, ABOUT MY EARLY DAYS GROWING UP IN BURLINGTON, BUT THIS NEW CIRCUMSTANCE WAS REASON ENOUGH TO PUT OFF SOME OTHER PROJECTS……AND "GO BACK HOME." I WAS PARTICULARLY ANXIOUS TO DO THIS SHORT EIGHT BLOG SERIES, BECAUSE I'D BEEN INFORMED ALEX WASN'T IN GOOD HEALTH. WHETHER HE KNEW IN LIFE, I WAS WRITING ABOUT HIM DIDN'T MATTER. BELIEVE ME, WE WERE SENDING EACH OTHER MESSAGES FROM BEGINNING TO END, AND I HAVE A STRANGE FEELING MY MOTHER MERLE HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT……FROM THE GREAT BEYOND. MERLE THOUGHT THE WORLD OF THE NAGYS, BUT IT WAS ONE OF THOSE THINGS SHE THOUGHT, BUT NEVER ACTED ON, TO RE-VISIT THE NAGYS WHILE SHE AND MY FATHER HAD GOOD HEALTH. NOW THEY'RE BOTH DECEASED, AND I LEARNED SEVERAL WEEKS BACK, THAT ALEX HAD ALSO SUCCUMBED TO HIS ILLNESS.

     IT'S FUNNY HOW THIS ALL COMES TOGETHER, AT THESE TIMES, WHEN COINCIDENCE SEEMS FAR MORE IMBEDDED THAN HAPPENSTANCE. CIRCUMSTANCES PREVAILED UPON ME, AT A CRITICAL TIME, TO TELL A STORY ABOUT THE FINE FOLKS I REMEMBER UP ON HARRIS CRESCENT. IT'S NOT JUST A STORY THAT RELATES TO MY CHILDHOOD, MY ACQUAINTANCES, MY EXPERIENCES. WE ALL SHARE SIMILAR SITUATIONS AND CURIOUS COINCIDENCES THAT MAKE US PAUSE FOR A MOMENT, AND WONDER IF IT ALL WASN'T PRE-DESTINED, AND YOUR PARTICIPATION ETHEREALLY INVIGORATED BY THOSE WHO HAVE CROSSED OVER. AS I WRITE ABOUT THE PARANORMAL A LOT, WELL, I COULD FILL A BOOK WITH SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES, WHERE I VERY MUCH SUSPECT DIVINE INTERVENTION HAD SOMETHING TO DO WITH MY PERSONAL INVOLVEMENT AT THE TIME. IN THIS CASE, A KINDLY EMAIL FROM A READER, AND INTUITION, LED ME TO COMPLETE A SMALL BUT SIGNIFICANT WRITING EXERCISE, I'VE BEEN PUTTING OFF FOR YEARS…….AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY. I JUST DON'T QUESTION THE COINCIDENCE, OR FIND IT ALL THAT UNUSUAL, BUT THE TRUTH IS, MOST OF THE TIME, IT IS AS IF I'VE BEEN PUT ON SOME SORT OF TRACK, WHERE THERE IS NO WAY OF GETTING OFF UNTIL THE VERY NEXT EVENT, OR SITUATION.

     ALEX NAGY HAD A POWERFUL AURA. HE WAS MY PROTECTOR AND GUARDIAN, AND HE TOOK HIS JOB SERIOUSLY. I WAS A LITTLE BUGGER, AND I WOULD HAVE KILLED MYSELF BY THE TIME I WAS FIVE, IF ALEX HADN'T BEEN THERE TO RESCUE ME FROM MISADVENTURE. ANN WAS MY BABYSITTER, BUT THAT'S TOO MODEST A TITLE, BECAUSE SHE WAS TOO MOTHERLY TO BE JUST A CHILD MINDER. SHE KEPT ME CLEAN, EXERCISED, FED, DISCIPLINED, AND WELL TRAVELLED. I OFTEN TRAVELLED WITH HER TO THE HOMES OF FRIENDS, AND I RATHER LIKED THE OPPORTUNITY. SHE FED ME CABBAGE ROLLS AND STEW THAT YOU HAD TO CUT WITH A KNIFE. ALEX TAUGHT ME TO ABANDON RESERVATION AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, AND HOW TO REACH WITH LIGHTNING SPEED FOR THE LAST DINNER ROLL. ALEX WASN'T MUCH FOR CONVERSATION WHEN ANN SET DOWN THE HOT FOOD. LIKE I SAID EARLIER. HE WAS MY MENTOR. AS A LOVER OF FOOD, I THINK I'VE CARRIED ON ALEX'S TEACHINGS TO THE PRESENT. ENJOY EACH MEAL AS IF IT'S YOUR LAST. ANN USED TO REMIND HIM ABOUT GIVING ME BAD HABITS. I DON'T THINK THEY WERE BAD HABITS. JUST AGGRESSIVE. IT HELPED ME A LOT WHEN I LANDED IN A BOARDING HOUSE, WHILE ATTENDING UNIVERSITY.

     Alex was a vibrant, life-loving, hard working, gentleman who would spare a grasshopper or snake on the lawn, while he and I did the weekly mowing. He'd show me the grasshopper in his hand, or point out the snake slithering toward the cover of the backyard fencing. He took the time to show me how the lawnmower worked, and he'd let me push the mower, under his control, if I'd stop bugging him about things I wanted from his storage shed…..like the old suitcase and the wire popcorn basket some tenant left behind when they moved. I eventually got both, after Alex asked my mother Merle for permission to do so. "If it keeps him contented for awhile, please let him have it." "Teddy's been bugging me for weeks," Alex would tell her. "He'd could go on for years," she reminded. "Sometimes it's just better to surrender with honor, and let him have what he wants." I keep telling this to Suzanne, but she doesn't even blink. But I'm persistent.Then you will appreciated how I forced Alex to hand-over that musty suitcase and rusted popcorn tray. I operated a one-man circus from that suitcase for about a week, until I found something else to hound about. My mother wouldn't let me bring either piece in the house because she said they were junk. It was no surprise to her that I became an antique dealer. I'm sure Alex would have assumed this was a logical transition from junk hoarder to antiques picker.

     We all know dear people like Alex Nagy. We know them from our childhood, our teenage years, or early adult foibles, and later life associations. We know them as good neighbors, and charitable characters, who are always willing to lend a hand, or be a mentor in the event of a crisis. They're supportive when needed, and they are willing to listen to someone else's point of view, without ever once, thinking that a good response would be to blurt, "I told you so." It's true, Alex Nagy scared the hell out of me. He was as big believer in the medicinal benefits of iodine on everything from a scratch to a major gouge in the side of a leg. If I fell off my bike, I wasn't half as scared to see the hole in my leg, as watching Alex pawing through his shed, at the side of 2138 Harris Crescent, looking for his first aid box. The bottle of iodine! I screamed every time he administered that brown antiseptic. But I never got an infection either. He'd pat me on the back, tell me to be more careful riding my bike, or playing with my peddle car, and he wouldn't need to bring out his trusty iodine ever again. Once the pain subsided, by golly, I'd be looking for creative ways of gouging out the rest of my flesh, on iron posts, rocks, wood stakes, wire fences and of course asphalt, which was my choice for getting the most thorough and extensive scraping, from forehead to toe. Bet you've done the tarmac skid yourself. You probably can feel the pain right now. Don't worry. There's no iodine involved.

     I was caught off guard, when we received word Alex had died. He didn't want me to cry as a kid, and I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted me to cry now, on the cusp of my own old age. I thought it would be better to put that energy into this small tribute to a fine chap, who with his wife and life partner Ann, made our family history a little richer, and our times spent together, so much more memorable. Just before my father died, we talked about Burlington and the Nagys, and you could tell, at that moment, he had serious regrets about not having gone back, and visited with the Nagys after moving north to Bracebridge back in the sixties. My parents were like that, you see. They had lots of regrets and they used to tell me about them……as if I would be the one to make amends for anything that had become disjointed or "out of sorts," as Merle used to say. I know there were regrets, and possibly a relationship snag I wasn't aware of……as I was a kid, and I thought the world had been made just for me.

     We all know good folks like Ann and Alex Nagy, and we silently pray they will live-on forever, because it balances our world. It is selfish, and unattainable, but we just don't want to think of the world in which we live, void of these powerful souls, who influenced us for the better…..and directed us down the right path, when we thought the left turn was more interesting. I have told my family many stories about my childhood on Burlington's Harris Crescent, and I just want Ann to know, both my boys, Andrew and Robert, now young men themselves, grew up hearing my stories about Alex…..and our adventures in living the good life. I've lasted without tears until this point. I may have let Alex down, because he hated to see me with tears rolling down my rosy cheeks. I'm sorry for this Alex. This time it couldn't be stopped. It's just how I feel about a kid-adult relationship, all these years later, when I can honestly say, with pride, that I've got some Nagy traits……and values, that I will bestow upon anyone who will read or listen, about what good can be accomplished to an ailing world, by honest, hard working, caring folks……in every situation, every circumstance. It's taken me two weeks to find the words to write this little tribute piece, because I just couldn't stop blinding myself with tears. I have finally you see, arrived at the point, where I could tell my little story, and sense the calm and peace of my old friend's spirit……freed from a long and rewarding life, to an eternal contentment……where he may just spend his free time, giving sage advice to the wee scalawags, to keep them on the straight and narrow. Just no need for iodine up there!

     To Ann I extend our family's heartfelt sympathy, on losing a life partner. I hope she will take some comfort, knowing how I've felt all these years, about these wonderful memories that seem so vibrant today……as if I could walk up that tree lined Torrance hill, make a sharp left at the top, and see that familiar apartment tended by the Nagys. I want to see Alex out cutting the lawn. That's the way I saw him, the day we drove in a luggage-loaded car, to our new apartment across town. I didn't want to move. That day or any other. The Nagy apartment was home. All the other stops along the way, were just places to live.

Little Stops Along The Way-The Burlington I Remember

LITTLE STOPS ALONG THE WAY - THE BURLINGTON I REMEMBER

EVEN AS A KID, I ENJOYED SIMPLE PLEASURES - AND SPECIAL PLACES

     I THINK THAT MY YEARNING FOR THE PAST, HAS AS ITS HINGE, MY CONTEMPORARY, "WHIRLING DERVISH" INTEREST, TO KEEP HISTORY RELEVANT. I AM CONSTANTLY DRAWING ON THE PAST, TO FIND SOLUTIONS FOR PROBLEMS, I FIND MYSELF FACING TODAY. A LOT OF PEOPLE, I THINK, FEEL THAT EVERYTHING IN THE PAST, HAS BEEN IMPROVED-UPON EVER SINCE……SO OUTSIDE OF HIGHLIGHTING THE BIG INNOVATIONS, DISCOVERIES AND VICTORIES, IT SHOULD BE LEFT TO FILL THE SPACE BETWEEN THE COVERS OF HISTORY BOOKS. AND THEY LOOK VERY HANDSOME ON LIBRARY SHELVES. I VERY MUCH DISAGREE, AND ALTHOUGH I'M NOT A WIDELY READ HISTORIAN, AND I HAVE MOSTLY BEEN PUBLISHED IN THE REGIONAL PRESS, FOR THE PAST 35 YEARS, I HAVE STILL MADE IT A PASSIONATE MISSION, WHATEVER MY READERSHIP, TO PITCH HISTORY AS A DYNAMIC, ALWAYS AT YOUR BECK AND CALL, LIFE AND TIMES RESOURCE.

      YOU SEE, I WANT MY BURLINGTON YEARS TO BE RELEVANT. I WANT MY PARENTS' LIVES TO HAVE MEANT SOMETHING MORE THAN THE STATISTICS THAT THEY WERE BORN, GOT MARRIED, HAD A CHILD, VOTED, PAID TAXES, WORKED, AND THEN DIED. WHEN I HAVE SUGGESTED YOU THINK ABOUT YOUR OWN BIOGRAPHY, AS YOU'RE READING ABOUT MY EARLY YEARS IN BURLINGTON, IT'S BECAUSE PERSONAL VALIDATION IS ALWAYS IMPORTANT, BUT MOST OFTEN UNDER-RATED BY THE INDIVIDUAL..…..BECAUSE WE MISTAKENLY THINK IT'S NOT IMPORTANT TO ANYONE ELSE. HOW WRONG YOU ARE. AS A REGIONAL HISTORIAN, I WILL ALWAYS TAKE A FIRST PERSON ACCOUNT OF  A TIME AND EVENT, OVER SOMEONE ELSE'S RESEARCHED, DISTANT OVERVIEW. I CAN'T TELL YOU JUST HOW IMPORTANT IT IS, WHEN I HAVE ACCESS TO A HAND WRITTEN FARM JOURNAL, FROM THE PIONEER PERIOD, OR FROM THE YEARS OF THE GREAT DEPRESSION. TO SEE THROUGH THE WRITER'S EYES IS SOMETHING SPECTACULAR. I HAVE ENJOYED MANY OF THESE JOURNALS IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS, AND I'VE BECOME A BETTER, MORE THOROUGH HISTORIAN, BECAUSE OF THESE INSIGHTFUL PERSONAL ACCOUNTS. POSSIBLY THE PERSON WRITING IT AT THE TIME, MAY HAVE WONDERED WHAT PURPOSE IT WOULD SERVE, IN LATER YEARS, BUT THEN IT JUST SEEMED SATISFYING TO REPORT ON WHAT WAS HAPPENING AT THE FARM, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD, AND OUT IN THE COMMUNITY. SOME PEOPLE I KNOW, WOULD LOOK AT SUCH A JOURNAL, AND PUT IT BACK ON THE SHELF WITHOUT READING A PAGE. IN THEIR MINDS, IF IT WAS ANY GOOD AS A BOOK, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY A KNOWN AUTHOR, AND TURNED INTO A WORK OF FICTION. POSSIBLY A TV MOVIE. I PITY THEM. THEY WOULD PITY ME FOR BEING OBSESSED BY THE GRAVE. THIS IS HOW THEY SEE HISTORY. A CEMETERY! BOOKS ON HISTORY, ARE JUST PORTABLE TOMBS, THAT SHOULDN'T BE OPENED. FROM THESE PERSONAL JOURNALS, OUR LINK IS FOUND, TO THOSE WHO HAVE BROKEN TRAIL FOR US, TO LIVE AS WE DO TODAY. WE SHOULD TAKE THEIR ADVICE AND OBSERVATIONS SERIOUSLY, BECAUSE AS THEY SAY, HISTORY REPEATS. FOR THIS REASON, I HAVE, FOR YEARS, DOCUMENTED AS MUCH AS I COULD REMEMBER, AND ESPECIALLY, RECOLLECTIONS OF INTERESTING PEOPLE I HAVE HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF KNOWING. FOR ME, JUST HAVING A FEW SHORT YEARS OF CLOSE FRIENDSHIP WITH THE NAGY FAMILY, HAS IMPRINTED ON A LIFETIME'S CREATIVE ENTERPRISE, AND I DON'T THINK THERE'S A TIME WHEN I SIT DOWN FOR A LONG WRITING CHALLENGE, THAT I DON'T HAVE THEIR GOODWILL, TUCKED CLOSE TO MY HEART FOR REFERENCE. WHEN I GET DISCOURAGED, AND FEEL DISENCHANTED ABOUT SOME PROJECT, AND ITS FAILINGS, IT PAYS FOR A WRITER TO HAVE THESE LITTLE POINTS OF LIGHT, TO CALL UPON, TO RELIEVE A FUNK. I NEVER REMEMBER A RAINY DAY WHILE I LIVED IN BURLINGTON. LET ME EXPLAIN.

     WHEN I THINK BACK TO MY CHILDHOOD, SPENT IN BURLINGTON, ONTARIO, I REALIZE HOW MANY INFLUENCES HAVE TRAVELLED WITH ME FOR HALF A CENTURY. NEAT MEMORIES OF FASCINATING PLACES, AND EXPERIENCES THAT WERE EXCEPTIONAL BECAUSE OF THE PEOPLE WHO WERE AT OUR SIDES…..FOLKS WHO PARTNERED THROUGH A LOT OF OCCURRENCES, AND CAME OUT SMILING AT THE END. DO YOU KNOW, I CAN NOT, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, REMEMBER A RAINY DAY. IF IT WASN'T A THUNDER STORM, I WOULD HAVE UNDOUBTEDLY BEEN OUT IN IT REGARDLESS OF GETTING A LITTLE SOGGY. IT WOULD HAVE MATCHED THE SOAKERS I GOT DOWN AT RAMBLE CREEK. I DON'T THINK WE COULD HAVE MADE IT THROUGH THOSE YEARS WITHOUT A LITTLE INCLEMENT WEATHER, JUST THAT I DON'T REMEMBER THEM. I REMEMBER INCIDENTS OF RAIN ONLY BECAUSE IT WOULD HAVE CANCELLED A TRACK AND FIELD DAY AT LAKESHORE PUBLIC SCHOOL. IT LIKELY HAPPENED ONLY ONCE, THAT ONE OF THESE EVENTS, ALSO CALLED A "FIELD DAY," WAS RAINED OUT. MY POINT IS, WHEN I THINK BACK TO BURLINGTON, IT'S ALWAYS SUNNY. OR MISTY. THEN SUNNY LATER IN THE DAY.

     I LOVED GOING SHOPPING ON BRANT STREET, AND AT A LITTLE PLAZA, FURTHER UP THE STREET. I THINK THERE WAS A WOOLWORTHS STORE, BUT IT MAY NOT HAVE BEEN. WE STILL HAVE A NATIVITY SCENE, WE BOUGHT ONE CHRISTMAS, FROM THAT STORE. IT WAS IN A PLAZA WHERE MY DENTIST, DR. FITZGERALD HAD HIS OFFICE. I DIDN'T LIKE GOING THERE, BUT IF I WAS FORCED INTO THE CHAIR (WHICH IS USUALLY WHAT IT TOOK), I WOULD DEFINITELY HAVE MADE IT A CONDITION, OF PAIN, THAT I GET A TREAT FROM THIS SMALL DEPARTMENT STORE, IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE PROCEDURE. IT WAS AFTER THE BRANT STREET INTERSECTION WITH NEW STREET (OR CAROLINE)….., HEADING UP TOWARD MOUNTAIN GARDENS.  I REMEMBER AT ONE OF THE MAJOR INTERSECTIONS, THERE WAS A NEWER CONVENIENCE STORE, THAT WAS QUITE LARGE FOR THE TIME PERIOD, WHERE RAY GREEN AND I STARTED GETTING OUR CENT CANDY AND TRADING CARDS. I'M NOT SURE IF WALMSLEYS CLOSED WHEN THIS ONE OPENED OR NOT. AND RAMBLE CREEK AMBLED ALONG THE BACKS OF THE BRANT STREET STORES; I KNOW THAT FOR SURE. I ALSO RECOLLECT GOING WITH MY FATHER TO A BARBER SHOP, THAT I THINK WAS SITUATED IN THE BURLINGTON BUS STATION, JUST OFF LAKESHORE, NEAR BRANT, WHERE I REMEMBER THERE WAS A SHOE-SHINE CHAP WHO WOULD LOOK AFTER ED'S SHINED LEATHER. I HAD RUNNING SHOES. PF FLYERS AS I REMEMBER, WITH THE SIDES TORN OUT. THERE WAS ALSO A SHOP BETWEEN THE BRANT STREET INTERSECTION WITH THE LAKESHORE, AND TORRANCE, WHERE MY FATHER AND I WOULD SHOP FOR A MOTHER'S DAY GIFT, OR CHRISTMAS PRESENT, THAT SOLD CHINA CUPS AND SAUCERS. I REMEMBER GOING INTO THE SHOP, AND BEING BLOWN AWAY BY THE HUGE INVENTORY OF CHINA, TEA POTS, PITCHERS, PLATTERS, PLATES AND BOWLS, SUCH THAT A CLUMSY KID LIKE ME (A TRUE BULL IN A CHINA SHOP) SHOULD BE PROPERLY TETHERED OUTSIDE INSTEAD. WHEN SUZANNE AND I WERE CLEANING OUT MY PARENTS APARTMENT, AFTER ED PASSED AWAY (MERLE DIED A YEAR AND A HALF EARLIER), I'M PRETTY SURE THERE WERE CUPS AND SAUCERS, WE HAD PURCHASED, OVER QUITE A FEW SPECIAL OCCASIONS, FROM THAT SAME SHOP. MERLE LOVED HER TEA TIME, TWICE A DAY, THAT SHE HAD KNOWN GROWING UP HERSELF. OF COURSE MERLE ALSO WAS SCARED OF USING THEM, SAVING THEM INSTEAD FOR SOME IMPORTANT OCCASION, OR FOR A FUTURE DAUGHTER IN LAW. THE QUEEN NEVER ARRIVED FOR TEA. AND SHE NEVER GAVE SUZANNE THE CUPS AND SAUCERS, AND A LOT OF OTHER LITTLE CHINA ODDS AND SODS, THAT SHE HAD TOLD ME, FROM PUBLIC SCHOOL ON……"ONE DAY TEDDY, THESE ARE GOING TO BE GIVEN TO MY DAUGHTER-IN-LAW, SO I HAVE TO KEEP THEM NICE." SHE KEPT THEM NICE, BECAUSE MOST OF THEM NEVER HELD A DROP OF TEA. IT'S NOT THAT SHE DIDN'T LIKE SUZANNE, JUST THAT SHE HADN'T GIVEN UP ON THE QUEEN.

     I enjoyed the times Ed would take us to Dairy Queen, on the Lakeshore, for after-dinner soft ice cream cones with the chocolate dip. Kicking around the shoreline, while Ed and Merle got the ice create treats, I found huge gold fish in a small cove, of the lake, situated behind the restaurant. Every time I tried to show Merle and Ed the fish, they'd disappear. If I went down to the shore alone, they'd be there. Smiling at me. If I yelled for my parents to come and see the gold fish, they'd be gone in a flash. It went on for years. Other people had seen them, including Ray Green, but never his parents. I guess they were only visible to kids. I remember the Brant Inn, and Ed used to point out where the old Cannery was located, and a hotel / motel also situated between Brant Street and Torrance, on Lakeshore, that was quite elegant, and may have had live music. I'm reasonably sure Merle and Ed used to go there from time to time, on special occasions…….when I was somewhere else. It was called the "Estamine," or "Estaminet," something like this. Please correct me if you remember the proper name it went by, back then. I know it was situated on the lake side of the Lakeshore Road.

     Ed and Merle used to like Sunday drives, when we lived at Harris Crescent, so I became a regular at the Riverdale Zoo, Niagara Falls, Chippewa, Fort Erie, Buffalo, St. Catharines, and parks like Crystal Beach, Kelso Park (I believe, named after politician, Kelso Roberts), and historic sites like Fort Henry, Fort York, and the Queenston Heights battlefield. Ed used to take me on Friday nights to Flamboro Speedway or another race track in Hamilton, but I forget the name. All I know, is that there was a driver named Jack McCreedy, who used to drive what looked like a dune buggy with wings, and he became my favorite driver. I loved these events, and I never once came home, without wood splinters in my behind from the bleachers, and a burned tongue from the hot chocolate. I don't know why Ed started taking me to road racing events, but obviously it was a good father-son activity, because I still remember it, and the bloody cold nights we sat on those unforgiving wood bleachers. Merle wouldn't have anything to do with noisy cars, that might crash into the stands. She didn't like Ed taking me to these events, but she made a deal that he wouldn't sit on a corner bleacher, just in case. She figured that corners were the most likely accident locations, when in fact, the opposite often holds true.

    Many years later, our family used to go to Daytona Beach, Florida for winter vacations, (they would take me out of school), always at the time of the Daytona 500 Road Race, which involved a full week of events. Ed really wanted to go, but refused to pay the asking price for tickets, complaining they were way too expensive for just an afternoon of racing. Now the irony here, is that during this period in February each year, the influx of race-fans, always put a strain on accommodations, and presumably made everything just a tad more expensive. I think he liked the excitement of the race week, even though he wouldn't pay to see even one of the shorter races leading up to the Sunday finale, with drivers like Richard Petty, and Cale Yarborough.  What was kind of insulting was that he bought us Daytona 500 windbreakers, (when they were discounted after the race) but wouldn't cough up the ticket price for him and I to actually attend the NASCAR event. Merle would never have gone to the track. I think he may have even told people back home, that he had gone to the race…..justifying the jacket. I thought it was a little whacky. Obviously the Flamboro prices were a lot cheaper. It's funny, because I don't remember my father has being cheap, except when I think back about certain situations, and habits he had, especially when traveling. Like the steak house in St. Catharines. He wouldn't go anywhere else for a steak dinner, except the small restaurant in St. Catharines that "served the best damn steak in the world." I don't know if it was good or not, because I got a hamburger whether I wanted one or not.

     We had our first trip to Florida, while living at the Nagy Apartments. I don't know what kind of car we had for the trip, possibly an Austin, but it broke down twenty times or more, and sucked up most of the money we had taken for the two weeks' winter holiday. Ed bought some Chinese Food from a Burlington restaurant, for dinner the night before we left. I had shrimp for the first time in my life. My stomach didn't like it. I was sick every fifteen miles. It wasn't until we reached Georgia that I finally stopped yaking. Ed was a monster when it came to driving distances, and his outright refusal to stop for bathroom breaks, often had Merle and I gouging the upholstery. Until of course I started crying, and Merle screaming, "Teddy is going to pee in the car……you've got to stop. Now!" "There's a service station just down the road a bit. Tell him to wait just another few minutes," Ed would advise my mother, and even though I had heard what he said, very clearly, Merle repeated it to me. This would have been okay, if Ed hadn't been such a jerk, and whistled past that restaurant, simply because, "I didn't like the look of that one. There's another one coming up."

    Short trips were fine with Ed. Just nothing over two hours. He would be enveloped by this sense of mission, to get to our destination ahead of schedule. You'd have thought there was some benefit to this, or a prize, and at the very least a discount in our accommodations. All we managed to do was shave off a half day on the road, but the abuse of the long, long car ride, wasn't worth the time we saved. It took me thirty years to warm back up to battered shrimp, after this trip. I remember on the trip back home, that we ran so close with money, we only had enough small change for two roast beef sandwiches, from a gas station on the highway, with half a day left to travel. Ed saw this as magnificent efficiency, and a clear demonstration of holiday budgeting to the final nickel of fuel. He was an early model of the later Clark Griswald, from the movie, "Vacation" with Chevy Chase. The Gemini astronauts popped out of the space capsule, bobbing on the ocean, with more life than we had, tumbling out of our small car jammed with cheesy souvenirs and coconuts, none of us even liked. I loved my parents for their thoughtfulness overall, but honestly, I hated getting in that car, when my father had that long distance look in his eyes.

     Christmases were always enjoyable at the Nagy apartments, except for the fact, we never had one without the customary domestic situation. One year, Merle decided that we should have all new glass ornaments. She purchased about three dozen beautiful bulbs from Eatons, in Hamilton, as I recall, and all of a sudden, it became real important to get the right tree. We went to one of those lots, lit by strings of overhead bulbs, that with the prevailing snow, and poor illumination, meant by misadventure, we always bought the worse possible evergreen. It looked good on the lot, but crappy when we got it home. A third of the needles, no kidding, were gone before we got the tree to our apartment. My father was not particularly handy, and getting the stand on the tree always involved a rigorous amount of huffing and puffing, and many cigarettes. Possibly several bottles of beer, to chill the frustration. The darn thing never stood straight, during any Christmas, when I was growing up. Ed would finally decided it was "straight-enough," that he could begin stringing-on the lights. Which by the way never lit-up without thirty or forty bulbs having to be replaced. Talk about Christmas celebrations. There was more cussing around the ceremonial tree, than at a logging camp. Once the lights were finally on, (one bad bulb killed the whole string), Merle then took over, and began placing the new glass globes. The only job I had, was to hold the tinsel, in my hands, so that she could pick strands to drape on the branches, after the decorations were properly in place. She would only do one at a time. They all had to be hanging down properly. No angled icicles would do! Now imagine the kid…..you think I was, standing for an hour, with a handful of these foil icicles; Merle accusing me of tangling them, when I occasionally stretched my fingers, out of their claw-position. When she was finally satisfied the tree was perfect, and it was a fitting tribute to our family tradition, we'd sit down with a glass of eggnog, and extend a toast to St. Nick. Just as Ed's eyes were closing, thanks to the rum in the nog, the tree would lurch, stumble like a drunken soldier, (as a sailor, he hated to be called a drunken one) and come crashing down at his feet. Glass flying everywhere. Even if Ed had tied that tree-top to a nail in the wall, the tradition dictated,"The Currie tree must fall, at least three times, before Christmas Eve." I remember Merle crying about those shattered ornaments, that she would also have to tweezer out of my dad's toes, before all was said and done. It only took three years, for all our glass globes, for the celebratory Christmas tree, to be broken. Even when Ed finally opted to get an artificial tree, many years and ornaments later, the darn thing would fall, as if it was mandated by heaven or hell. Arguments. That was as much a part of Christmas as the candy canes and ginger bread. "Who are you calling stupid," Ed would retort, after my mother, in a clumsy and round-about way, of accusing him of incompetence, would say in a soft voice, "Maybe I should ask if Alec (Nagy) would come and fix the tree." That would always generate some restorative activity, Ed trying to prove to my Mother, he was just as handy as the landlord. Well, of course, he wasn't, and in fact, it would have saved a lot of agony, back then, if Alec had been summonsed, much earlier, to help the Currie family save Christmas……and each other's feeling, that always got knocked about this time of the rolling year.

     My first meeting of Santa, outside of a department store, was when the bearded chap came to our door, with a brand new hockey stick. I remember answering the door, and nearly fainting. I didn't even know Santa played hockey. So I stood there, speechless, with Santa hunched over with the stick, like he was preparing to take a face-off. Ed finally had to say, "Teddy, for God's sake, say hello to Santa. He's brought you a present." I hadn't thought of that. It looked as if he wanted me to drop the puck. I don't think, that any time, during our five minute meeting, in the doorway, that I said one word. I just stared at him, trying to debunk the story, in my own way, that Santa could have forgotten my stick when he came to our apartment earlier that Christmas morning. How do you forget a hockey stick? Something wasn't right about this guy, and he was wearing running shoes. Santa doesn't wear sports attire on his deliveries. My mother always accused me of ruining events like this, by over analyzing things….like me pointing out, in a whisper, that Santa smelled like the liquor Ed puts in his shot glasses. "That's just the smell of egg nog, Teddy, geez," she cautioned me, not wanting to offend, whoever was playing apartment-Santa that year.

     These were memorable family times because they were kind of off-kilter, a little left of centre, maybe even a touch crazy…..eccentric, that today, in retrospect, make them more endearing. If everything had been normal and calm through those years……the memories wouldn't keep jumping for attention today. We Curries had a way of raising excitement from even the calmest situations. Like the time Merle opened the back door of the apartment, and yelled at me, wading in my blow-up swimming pool, whether or not the little garter snake was gone from the backdoor. I think there were a few steps down to the door, and a covered concrete entrance, possibly with a drain. Once in awhile, a couple of backyard snakes would slither down there, possibly to feed on bugs, that had fallen after bumping the overhead light, the night before. I looked down the steps, and honest to God, I could not see them, coiled in the corner, apparently having a well-deserved nap. Even though she could see out, she missed them as well. She had a tray of drinks in her hand. So when Merle came out of that backdoor, two small snakes were waiting for her. Well let's just say the she shrieked with a hop, and so went the tray of drinks, and those poor little snakes shot out of that alcove like their tails were on fire. She wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the day. Hey, there were no injuries at least. Even the snakes were spared. Merle had a life-long phobia of snakes, and the ravine was full of them, so she simply stopped coming out the backdoor from that point.

     Long before there was a link made between sun exposure and skin cancer, Merle was hugely proactive about me in the sun. She insisted I wear a hat, even when I was in my pool. My blow-up pool had to be under the cherry tree, without even a trace of sun hitting the spot it was finally positioned. Now when the pool was full of water, from Nagy's hose, it had to be positioned in the sun, to warm it up adequately, before I could even stick my toe in……and then only when it had been pulled into the shade. It's no wonder I went through a lot of pools. It wasn't the easiest thing to do…..pulling a plastic pool with forty gallons of water sloshing about. What made me crazy about this, and stuck with me forever, was the smell of rotting cherries. As Ann knew the cherries had worms, which always freaked me out a little, most of the fruit just ripened, and then hit the ground when it was ready to seed. I absolutely detested, having my pool in a vicinity where I'd be stepping on rotting cherries, if I got out to get something. The cherries inevitably, wound up in the water, and I'd start gagging. I came to hate the smell of these rotting cherries. Before I'd agree to have the pool under the beautiful cherry tree, I had to clean up every last cherry on the ground, before I could even think about entering the recreation zone of that inflatable contraption. Folks, there's is nothing so horrible as rotting cherries between your toes…..and then have a cherry pie for dinner. (Store bought. Merle and Ed loved cherry pie for Sunday dinners.) I went for decades without touching anything cherry including gum. All I could think about was those awfully smelly things landing in my pool. And yes, because the birds loved that tree, and the cherries, I got some of their stuff in my water as well. Merle used to try and scoop it out, and convince me everything was hunky dory, but I didn't buy it.

     You know, none of this mattered, because it was all part of the life-experience, and was never about the parts, but very much the whole…..and that has been a lifetime of so many cheerful memories…..of days that never seemed to rain, and were always sunny and full of expectation and fulfillment. I drank it all in, and in my own way, celebrated everything opportunity afforded me…..they young voyeur. But I knew there would be a day, when all I would have, were these memories of Merle and Ed, Alec and Ann Nagy, Ray and Holly Green, and all my other cronies, I loved dearly as partners in that great little neighborhood, of Harris Crescent. I have haunted 2138 Harris Crescent ever since. The ghost of my childhood isn't anything to fear or loathe. It is the passion of a wee lad's spirit, to remain, in the place he once travelled, and got up to mischief, lived and loved, and found a safe haven in which to dwell. This trace spirit still wanders the halls, sits patiently in Ann Nagy's kitchen (watching as she prepares a meal), and then (if she still has it), plays with the floor pedals of the upright piano in the livingroom, where I used to hide when I had been naughty. In spirit I might wander the apartment lawns, waiting for Mr. Nagy to fire up the mower, or Ann to muck about in her gardens, that always looked so beautiful. And if you heard a tiny patter of running shoes on the stairs, but couldn't see anyone there, don't worry, it's just me retracing the million steps I took as a child, in one of the nicest, friendliest places anywhere on earth.

Environmental Realities Influence My Collecting

ENVIRONMENTAL REALITIES INFLUENCED ME CONSTANTLY AS A FLEDGLING COLLECTOR - JUST AS DID, THE INTERESTING PEOPLE MET ALONG THE WAY

IT STARTED IN BURLINGTON FOR ALL THE RIGHT REASONS - IT WOULDN'T BE AN ACCURATE BIOGRAPHY WITHOUT CREDIT GIVEN

     The material below, will read slightly disjointed today, the result of being pleasantly interrupted, almost on the half hour, all day, here at our Gravenhurst antique shop. I am all talked out, and for those who know me, this has only occurred a couple of times in my 59 years; and both times, I was trying to avoid getting the strap at school, for a crime I committed. But felt deserving of credit for all the other acts of benevolence I'd bestowed on classmates, except of course, the occasion when Ray Green and I, tossed poor old George down the coal chute at recess. So please forgive my inconsistencies today, but afterall, this "off the beaten path" stuff, is as much a part of my biography as everything else that is weird and wonderful. We have a social / cultural recreation here, at the shop, in the form of ongoing conversation, that never really ends at the end of one day; and resumes soon after the open sign, is turned the following morning. Let's just call it a maturing point of view, that even casual visitors, feel compelled to weigh-in, critically, or in full support of the prevailing opinion. It might be as simple as a political discussion, or as in most cases, it has something to do with music heritage, and who, pray-tell, was the best guitarist, or song-writer ever. There are no conclusions, but a lot of input, and that can eat into the daylight hours pretty severely. This is where I found myself contently engaged today, with a friend, and I was sorry we had to conclude because of waning business hours. I know we are in this business to make money, but gosh, wasn't it Old Fezziwig, of Charles Dickens' creation, who said, "there's more to life than money sir." Well, I concur.

     I never took the risk of hitching a ride on the rails. Riding a box car wouldn't have suited my need for creature comforts, and although I've read many accounts of living out in the open, the memoirs of former (but reformed) hobos, it never had such an appeal, that I wanted to join the brethren criss-crossing this beautiful continent. I have enjoyed reading about the adventures of others, but alas, I am a craven coward, when it comes to "climbing the heights," "diving to the depths," "jumping from the heavens," or "living life on the wild side," as relates to any discernible hardship I might suffer in their pursuit. I am a mild risk taker. The only time I wasn't of that ilk, was as a youngster, with a penchant for trouble-making, trespassing, rabble-rousing, and a plethora of other anti-social initiatives, provoking such questions from neighbors as, "Who the hell is that kid, and why is he disconnecting that power cable?" Or, "Why is that Currie kid using the gas mower on the road," and "Isn't that my mower?" This was my risk factor. I gave all the physically risky enterprise up when I became an antique dealer. Then it was a whole different type of adventure, and a much more enhanced biography, yet having nothing to do with practical jokes, property damage, grand theft auto, or burglary. I never got caught for these affairs of youth, and if this is the kind of character material, you thought might be in this biography, I must disappoint you now before you read further. The adventures in the antique field, I suppose, are pretty mild, in comparison to my tally of accomplishments as a child. I think they're still kind of neat, despite the lack of gratuitous sexual content, related debauchery, and meaningful crumbs of international intrigue. No, to spice up my biography, I had to write about the great little neighborhood of Harris Crescent, back in the late 1950's and early 60's, that inspired me to carry on life as a wise-acre gad-about, who has always cherished the memories of the places I've lived and worked, experienced thus far along, in this marvellous mortal coil. And yet my biography may read profoundly different that others, in the antique profession, because I pay a lot of credit to the environment, that always nurtured my wanderlust as a hunter / gatherer. My mother, by insisting that "I go out and play," was feeding my addiction for open air, and the exploration of the neighborhood and beyond. It's why I got in crap regularly, for sneaking down the watershed of Ramble Creek, in that great and tropical ravine, to the rocky shore of Lake Ontario, which was the one thing that made my mother regret her liberalities. She let me have a lot of room to roam, but if I came back home, smelling like the Lake Ontario fish, that floated belly-up along the shore, I was temporarily grounded. Which meant, I was not allowed to enter the ravine until my penalty had been served. I loved everything that balliwick had to offer, from its cherry, apple and pear trees, to the magnificently quaint several acres, of historic Lions Club Park, where the water of Ramble Creek, frothed and gurgled over flat limestone, sparkling with the dashing of bleeding through sunlight, into the gentle depression, contrasting the shaded park lawn, where the concrete wading pool sat empty for long and long.

     As a collector, and a full fledged antique dealer, I have never lost the whimsy of casual childhood observation, and never once found myself entirely grown up, such that I couldn't afford myself the luxury, the classic romantic pleasure, of daydreaming and waxing poetic, about what nature inspired at that particular moment, or on that particular collecting adventure. Above all, I have an unspecified indebtedness you see, to the nature that partnered with me, through the years, without any expectation that I might one day, acknowledge the wealth of my now historic liaison, with the nature I have admired and adored, from the days of my childhood adventures. I have never once gone on an antique hunt, where nature was a lesser partner to the set-out mission of discovery. I enjoy my travels from point to point, and I allow the environs, I amble through, to play with my emotions. I am never sullen, or void of the sensory perception, I am plugged into this landscape through the seasons, through the prevailing weather event, storm or calm; and I can not dismiss casually, the ethereal experience of living life to the fullest, despite what some may overview as a strange, disjointed profession of buying and selling the possessions of dead people. My relationship with nature has always been my most important advantage as a collector, from long before I knew what being a "collector" meant. It invigorated me to explore further afield, and as any best friend, never betrayed me, by being uneventful, or passive to my need to be inspired. Thus, the environment has always been part of my ambition to hunt antiques and collectables, especially recognized by those childhood forays, in quest of buried pirate treasure, which took me through the wilds of our neighborhood, always with ripped paper map and child-sized shovel.

     I've read quite a few "antique dealer" biographies, from the expert perspective of those history professionals, who made profitable businesses from selling the best of the best in furniture, china, heritage glass, art and books. I've paid special attention, to those business owners, who like myself, have made a profession as generalist antique, and collectable dealers, having specialities, but never being so restrictive, not to take advantage of a big find completely out of their comfort zone. I want to know how they made good and prosperous lives for themselves, in a field that is never void of excitement, and untold adventure. It can be said with some accuracy, that the antique trade is always a gamble, and it overflows with temptation, subject at all times, to the influences of greed, and the realities of speculative successes, told over and over as industry legend. There is no stalwart antique dealer alive, who doesn't appreciate, just how tradition and legend play into this historic profession, from the passed down stories of hunting buried or sunken treasure, tomb raiding, art and antique heists, and the whole quest for the holy grail, beyond the Monty Python take, on its imminent discovery. The antique profession is a storied one, and it's what I have always enjoyed about it, truth be known. I like being a part of a profession that Charles Dickens thought worthy of writing about. Yet, when you read many of these biographies, you don't really get this impression, because frankly, the dealers never actually lighten-up enough, about some of their milestone adventures. Being way too modest and unnecessarily protective of their inner most thoughts about a business that is chock full of curious activities, and strange coincidences; even the paranormal has a place in the story collection of veteran dealers. An enterprise that by its inherent nature, draws all kinds of unique characters into the fold of day to day business, both as customers, buyers and sellers, and all associates in between. I once thought that being a writer was a razor's edge profession, especially when I was working as a staff writer for Muskoka Publications, reporting on everything from the police beat to local politics, which at times could earn some of those bold print, double-banked, front page headlines, every reporter celebrates with their coveted byline. I can't explain why antique dealer biographies are so conservative, other than to suggest, like the magician's code to never reveal the secrets of their trade, we may be a tad shy of releasing too much information about the way we acquire, or dispense of our respective inventories. Maybe it's the over-riding concern, that confessing too much inside technique would hurt upcoming generations of antique dealing. I don't know, but I can respect why some of these biographies, are respectful of the inner most workings, of how we go about hunting and gathering, in order to survive in a highly competitive field. It's just that I finish these biographies, and feel the best parts of the story were left off, for whatever reason. I don't have a hugely exciting biography, but then I'm still working on my career. I just wanted to start a biography while I could still remember somewhat of how it all began; and it did begin in those childhood ramblings, through the old Harris Crescent neighborhood, in Burlington, Ontario.

     The early goings of my collecting adventures, had everything to do with the environs of that wonderful little neighborhood, that was perfect for a never-say-never novice hunter-gatherer, who had a considerable amount of freedom, to survey the topography almost at will. My mother Merle wasn't particularly patient with me at this age. I wanted outside and she was good with this, and only too happily opened the door for my exit. We didn't do this with our boys, but for Merle it provided her with a small amount of time to regain her sanity, after a period of my confinement. I wasn't an over-active child, with any medical or emotional condition that influenced this behaviour, but I didn't see any value, other than having a roof over my head, and three square meals and snacks a day, to keep me indoors. Merle didn't like me watching television, and she accused me of all kinds of nonsense, on the brink of skullduggery, playing in the apartment; or even my room, which she thought of as my pirates' cove. She unloaded me on the neighborhood, and the plain truth; I was a scourge. I did get up to "no-good" frequently, if not hourly. Like the time I told my chum, Ray Green, to look up a vent pipe, at the side of the Nagy Apartment where we lived, just as I smashed down hard on the iron tube, which by the way, released about a hundred mud-dawbers, which I had an idea, would provide a rather nasty sting. Not just one sting either. I didn't feel very good about this, when I saw Ray running home, hitting himself, and occasionally dropping and rolling on the grass in between residences. Then the little bastards turned on me, and I was dropping and rolling all over the front lawn of 2138 Harris Crescent, when my mother found me welted-up. "Teddy Currie, what have you done?" A lot of neighbors saw me as the real-article, "Dennis the Menace," and may or may not have made the sign of the cross, when they saw my wavering silhouette against the bright morning sunlight, coming out of our apartment door. "Oh, Jesus, the Currie kids on the loose again."

     Here then, are a few more environmental-backed stories of my life on the prowl of that charming little neighborhood, where the echo of the fog-horns welcomed the spring shipping season, and summer-ripe cherries were the scent of harvest, the sound of something falling over, with a crash, usually having something to do with me! The collector in training.