Muskoka Antiques; Kill The Silent Auctions, Two Great Paintings and a Rink Rat At The Burlington Arena

Two signed oil paintings of Muskoka or Algonquin circa 1961 by C.F. Baker

ON THE ROAD AGAIN - DESPITE THE WEATHER, WE'RE ENJOYING ANTIQUE TRAVELS

WINTER NOT GOING TO GET US DOWN -

     ON OUR ANTIQUE ADVENTURE, ON SUNDAY, WE RETURNED HOME A LITTLE LIGHTER IN POCKET, BUT WITH THE KIND OF SATISFACTION THAT INSPIRES THE VERY NEXT TRIP, AND THE ONE AFTER THAT. IF YOU COLLECT, THEN YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. IT'S THE TREASURE HUNTER SYNDROME....AND WE LIKE IT! PHOTOGRAPHED ABOVE, ARE TWO SMALL WELL EXECUTED PAINTINGS, SIGNED BY C.F. BAKER, DATED 1960, NOTED FROM THE GIFT INSCRIPTION PRINTED ON THE FRAME. THE PROVENANCE IS A LITTLE WEAK, BUT THEY ARE SAID TO HAVE A MUSKOKA OR ALGONQUIN CONNECTION, AND WERE GIVEN AS A GIFT, POSSIBLY TO ANOTHER COTTAGER. THEY LOOK A LITTLE MORE LIKE SCENES FROM ALGONQUIN OR HALIBURTON, THAN MUSKOKA, BUT THAT'S AS FAR AS WE'VE FIGURED OUT. BAKER ISN'T A TRADED ARTIST (WITHOUT AUCTIN VALUES) BUT THIS INDIVIDUAL KNEW HOW TO PAINT....AND CHANCES ARE, THERE ARE QUITE A FEW OTHER PANELS BY THE SAME ARTIST, HANGING IN COTTAGES, AND HOMES, IN THIS PART OF ONTARIO. I LIVE FOR THESE KIND OF FINDS. THEY WERE PURCHASED FROM AN ANTIQUE SHOP IN ORILLIA. THEY ARE PERFECT FOR OUR CLIENTELE....WHICH IN PART, REPRESENTS THE LAKESIDE COMMUNITY.

     MY SECOND GREAT FIND, WAS A 1913 REVISED EDITION, VOLUME ONE, OF A BIOGRAPHY OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR'S, "STONEWALL JACKSON," ONE OF THE CONFEDERATE ARMY'S LEGENDARY GENERALS. WHAT EXCITED ME ABOUT THE BOOK, WAS THE FACT IT APPEARED TO BE SIGNED BY "LT. COLONEL, W.J. GREEN, OF THE 25TH REGIMENT," WHICH WAS PART OF THE "VIRGINIANS" SERVING UNDER GENERAL JACKSON. WE HAVE ACCURATELY SITUATED LT.COLONEL GREEN (THERE WAS ANOTHER LT. COLONEL W.J. GREEN, WITH THE CONFEDERATE ARMY), AS PART THE 25TH REGIMENT, AFTER PRELIMINARY RESEARCH, AND THERE ARE REFERENCES TO HIS RESERVE POSTING, DURING ONE LARGE-SCALE BATTLE...WHICH IS KIND OF AWESOME. THE BOOK ALSO APPEARS TO BE SIGNED, BY A SON OF LT. COLONEL GREEN, ALSO ON THE INSIDE COVER PAGE. WHAT WE HAVEN'T PROVEN YET, IS IF THE SIGNATURE ABOVE, CAME FROM HIS HAND.....AND THAT CAN ONLY BE DETERMINED, BY FINDING THE ACTUAL DATE OF GREEN'S DEATH. HE WOULD HAVE BEEN VERY ELDERLY IN 1913, WHEN THIS REVISED EDITION WAS RELEASED. THIS IS OUR NEXT STEP OF RESEARCH. WHAT A BLAST IT IS. EVEN IF IT PROVES THAT SOMEONE ELSE MAY HAVE PENNED HIS NAME....AS DOES HAPPEN, SUCH AS IN THE CASE OF A GIFT FROM AN AUTHOR, THE OPPORTUNITY TO SPECULATE, THAT A CIVIL WAR LEADER ONCE OWNED THIS SAME BOOK.....WOW, IT'S WHAT MAKES OUR BUSINESS SO DARN ALLURING.

     SUZANNE WAS ABLE TO PURCHASE ANOTHER TEN ELUSIVE VINTAGE COOKBOOKS YESTERDAY, AND PROBABLY TEN THOUSAND VINTAGE BUTTONS, WHICH SHE SORTS AND PACKAGES FOR OUR CRAFTER CUSTOMERS; ANDREW PICKED UP A VINTAGE AMP, FROM IRONSIDE ELECTRIC COMPANY, AND ROBERT LANDED SEVERAL THOUSAND 45 RPM RECORDS, FROM OUR FRIENDS AT CAROUSEL COLLECTABLES, IN ORILLIA; ONE OF OUR FAVORITE STOPS ALONG THE WAY. IT WAS A NICE SUNNY TRIP, AND THE PICKING WAS GOOD. WE HAD ANOTHER NICE LUNCH AT THE MARIPOSA MARKET, AND TALKED ABOUT OUR GREAT FINDS. WE WERE ABLE TO VISIT SIX SHOPS THAT CATER TO OUR NEEDS. WE WOULDN'T BE SHOPPING THERE UNLESS IT WAS AN AFFORDABLE LOCALE TO DO SO. IT IS. SO WHEN I WRITE ABOUT THE FACT THAT MANY COLLECTORS AND DEALERS ARE HEADING SOUTH, BECAUSE THEY'VE BEEN GIVEN FEW OTHER OPTIONS, IT SHOULD BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY BY THOSE SECOND HAND BUSINESSES THAT WE'VE BEEN SUPPORTING FOR A LONG TIME. WHEN WE SEE SO MANY OF OUR OWN TOWNSFOLK, SHOPPING IN THESE SAME VENUES, IN ORILLIA AND BARRIE, IT'S NOT A PROBLEM ON ITS OWN....BUT IT IS, IF THEY'VE GIVEN UP SHOPPING IN MUSKOKA AS A MAINSTAY. WHICH WE THINK IS A SHAME, BECAUSE WE ARE ALSO PART OF THE LOCAL ANTIQUE NETWORK. SO, TRUTH BE KNOWN, IT'S TOUGH TO WATCH OUR BUSINESS GOING SOUTH, BUT IT'S AN ACTUALITY, WE HAVE BECOME INTIMATE WITH, BY NECESSITY. I HAVE TALKED WITH MANY OF THESE SHOP MANAGERS, AND THERE'S NO WILL TO CHANGE THEIR POLICY. WELL SIR, THEY DON'T HAVE TO CHANGE IT JUST FOR US....BUT THEY SHOULD THINK ABOUT THE BIGGER PICTURE.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THE PRESENT PICTURE IN THE ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE COMMUNITY?

    

     WE HAD DRIVEN FOR LESS THAN FIVE MINUTES, ON HIGHWAY 11 SOUTH, ON SUNDAY MORNING, WHEN THE SNOW FLURRIES CEASED. I WARNED EVERYONE IN ADVANCE, THAT IF THE SNOWFALL, WE WERE EXPERIENCING IN GRAVENHURST, WAS HAPPENING TO THE SOUTH, WE'D HAVE TO SETTLE FOR A STAY-AT-HOME DAY. FOR AN ANTIQUE DEALER, IT WOULD BE A HORROR TO DENY ONESELF SUCH A TREASURE HUNTING ADVENTURE. TWICE A MONTH, DURING THE WINTER SEASON, WE INSIST OF OURSELVES, TO BE IN A "TRAVELLING" FRAME OF MIND....(WHICH IN ESSENCE, IS PRETTY MUCH ALL THE TIME).... WHICH TAKES VERY LITTLE ENCOURAGEMENT. AS I'VE MENTIONED PREVIOUSLY, WE ARE SPENDING MUCH MORE TIME, POKING ABOUT THE SHOPS OF ORILLIA, BECAUSE IT'S WHERE OUR HUNTING AND GATHERING TURNS UP THE BEST FINDS. IT WOULD BE THE SAME IF WE WERE ANGLERS. YOU GO WHERE THE FISH ARE PLENTIFUL AND BITING. I'M NOT WORKING FOR THE ORILLIA CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, BUT AS ANTIQUE DEALERS, WE HAVE TO GO WHERE THE BEST BUYS ARE TO BE FOUND, AND PRESENTLY, OUR BUSINESS DEPENDS ON THE SUPPLY CHAIN SOUTH OF MUSKOKA. HERE'S WHY.

     FROM A BUSINESS POINT OF VIEW, AS WE NEED HO0METOWN LOYALTY, WE HAVE ALWAYS SUPPORTED OUR TOWN AND REGION. ALL OUR MAJOR PURCHASES FROM VEHICLES TO APPLIANCES, AND INCLUDING GROCERIES, ARE MADE IN OUR TOWN. I MIGHT BUY COLLECTABLE FINDS OUT ON THE ROAD, BUT WE KNOW HOW IMPORTANT IT IS, TO INVEST MONEY IN OUR AREA OF THE PROVINCE. BUT IN THE PAST TWO YEARS, ANTIQUE DEALERS AND COLLECTORS, HAVE BEEN TARGETED BY SOME OF OUR LOCAL SECOND HAND SHOPS, THAT INSIST ON HOLDING REGULAR SILENT AUCTIONS. AS A GENERAL RULE, WE DON'T PARTICIPATE IN THESE SALES, BECAUSE OF NEGATIVE EXPERIENCES IN THE PAST. I DON'T FIND IT CONVENIENT TO LINE-UP, AND RE-LINE-UP A HALF DOZEN TIMES, AS SOME BIDDERS DO, JUST FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF SPENDING MONEY. SOME OF THE PRICES ATTAINED BY THESE SILENT AUCTIONS ARE SUBSTANTIAL, SO I KNOW WHY THEY HAVE THEM. IN FACT, I'VE SEEN PRICES ESCALATE ON ANTIQUE ITEMS, THAT WERE LAUGHABLE, BECAUSE THEY EXCEEDED THE MARKET VALUE, SOMETIMES BY A HUNDRED PERCENT. IF THE SUCCESSFUL BIDDER, CAME INTO A SHOP, AND SAW THE ASKING PRICE ON THE SAME PIECE, PARALLEL TO WHAT THEY BID IN THE AUCTION, THEY WOULD UNDOUBTEDLY THINK THE PRICE WAS WAY TOO HIGH, AND REFUSE TO BUY IT. THESE BUSINESSES ARE CAPITALIZING ON THE QUALITY OF HUMAN NATURE, THAT MAKES LIFE ITSELF AN EXTREME COMPETITION. IT HAPPENS AT ACTUAL ANTIQUE AUCTIONS AS WELL, WHERE BIDDERS ARE SHOWING OFF, BY IGNORING MARKET VALUES....JUST TO SHOW THEIR BIDDING PROWESS. I'VE DONE THIS, AND HAD MANY REGRETS. I GAVE UP ON TRYING TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE OTHERS, BY BEING AN ASS AND OVER-BIDDING TO DRAW ATTENTION TO MYSELF. I THEN ENTERED THE ERA, OF NOT WANTING TO DRAW ATTENTION TO MYSELF, BECAUSE IT IS THE BEST WAY TO BID....THE STEALTH PART.

     VERY FEW ANTIQUE DEALERS, CAN COMPETE IN THESE SILENT AUCTIONS. UNLESS IT'S ON A "SLEEPER" PAINTING, OR A MISUNDERSTOOD AND POORLY RESEARCHED PIECE OF PRIMITIVE, QUEBEC, OR COLONIAL FURNITURE, (OF WHICH WE ARE ALWAYS LOOKING FOR), BUYING FOR RE-SALE IS PRETTY TOUGH. SO WHAT THESE SHOPS HAVE BEEN DOING, AND I WOULD SAY, WITH A VERY NAIVE PERSPECTIVE, IS REMOVING ALL THE PIECES WE'D BE INTERESTED IN PURCHASING, AND PLACING THEM IN THE SILENT AUCTIONS. WHEN YOU TAKE ANTIQUES AND COLLECTABLES AWAY FROM THE ANTIQUE DEALERS, WELL SIR, ALL YOU'VE DONE AS A BUSINESS STRATEGY, IS TO "ROB PETER TO PAY PAUL." WE'VE ALL BECOME TARGETS, BECAUSE IT IS ASSUMED WE PREY ON THE LESS THAN SAVVY SECOND HAND BUSINESSES, TO GET OUR WARES....WHICH WE THEN GOOSE INTO THE NOSE-BLEED SECTION. THERE ARE A LOT OF MISCONCEPTIONS ABOUT ANTIQUE DEALERS THESE DAYS.....MORE THAN I CAN RECALL OVER THE PAST THIRTY-FIVE YEARS. THERE ARE THOSE WHO BELIEVE ANTIQUE DEALERS ARE ALL MULTI-MILLIONAIRES, BECAUSE OF THE PRICES THEY ASK FOR THEIR MERCHANDISE. THEY DON'T INVESTIGATE JUST HOW MANY ANTIQUE SHOPS FAIL, AND HOW MANY MALL BOOTHS TURN-OVER EVERY YEAR, BECAUSE OF LOW VOLUME SALES. THESE PEOPLE, AND A LOT OF SECOND HAND SHOP MANAGERS, BELIEVE THEY CAN REPLACE THE ANTIQUE DEALER, BY GOOSING THE PRICESTHEMSELVES.....THUSLY, LOSING THE MIDDLE MAN. ANTIQUE HUNTERS DON'T NEED TO GO TO ANTIQUE SHOPS ANY MORE......BECAUSE SECOND HAND AND CHARITY ENTERPRISES HAVE TAKEN UP THE SLACK. THEY'VE JUST DONE A CRAPPY JOB OF IT, AND YES IT DOES SHOW, ESPECIALLY TO US. SO HERE'S THE THING!

     I'VE MET SOME OF THE MANAGERS OF THESE BUSINESSES, AND LISTENED TO THEIR OVERVIEWS OF HOW TO MAKE MONEY FLOGGING ANTIQUES. THEY WILL GO ON AND ON ABOUT HOW GREAT THESE SILENT AUCTIONS ARE, AND HOW MUCH MONEY THEY'VE BEEN MAKING ON EACH MULTI-WEEK OR MONTH-LONG SALE. WHAT THEY WON'T READILY ADMIT, UNLESS I GET ASKED TO VIEW SOMETHING IN THE BACK ROOM, IS THAT MANY ITEMS IN THESE AUCTIONS NEVER GET A BID, OR EVEN WHEN THEY DO, THE TOP BIDDER REFUSES TO PAY-UP. THAT'S RIGHT, THERE ARE A LOT OF DEAD-BEATS WHO ARE BIDDING UP ITEMS, WHO NEVER ACTUALLY BUY ANY OF THE ITEMS. WHAT WOULD BE CALLED "SHILLING" AT A NORMAL AUCTION, WHICH MEANS INFLATING BIDS WITHOUT INTENTION OF ACTUALLY BUYING ANYTHING, IS TOLERATED, EVEN WHEN THESE STORES KNOW THAT IF A CERTAIN BIDDER WAS TO WIN, THEY WON'T PAY-UP WHEN NOTIFIED. YET THOSE BIDS CREATE THE AUCTION BUZZ, AND WILL INFLATE THE AMOUNT OF THE WINNING BID SUBSTANTIALLY. I DO HAVE INSIDE KNOWLEDGE OF THIS, AND IT SHOULD, AT THE VERY LEAST, FORCE MANAGERS TO BAN CERTAIN BIDDERS FROM PARTICIPATING....AND IN MY EXPERIENCE, IT IS VERY MUCH TOLERATED. THE WHOLE BIDDING PROCESS IS ASKEW WHEN THIS IS DONE, AND AT LEAST, AT A REAL-TIME, OLD FASHIONED AUCTION, YOU CAN EASILY IDENTIFY THOSE WHO ARE SCREWING AROUND WITH THEIR BIDS; JUST TO ELEVATE SALE PRICES. ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE DEALERS, HAVE ONE WHOLE CHAPTER IN THEIR HANDBOOKS, ABOUT DEALING WITH THESE FOLKS; AND STICKING THEM WITH UNWANTED ITEMS, AS A LITTLE PAY-BACK. I HAVE BEEN AT AUCTIONS WHERE FAMILY MEMBERS OF THE AUCTIONEER, WERE BIDDING UP ITEMS....BUT C0INCIDENTALLY, NEVER ACTUALLY WINNING A BID. WHILE AN AUCTIONEER CAN PERMIT, BY OPENING DECLARATION, THAT AUCTION HELPERS AND FAMILY CAN LEGALLY BID ON SALE ITEMS, IT IS UP TO US, IN THE AUDIENCE, TO MAKE SURE THAT THEY'RE BIDDING FOR THE RIGHT REASON....AND NOT JUST INFLATING THE PRICES. I HAD THIS HAPPEN DOZENS OF TIMES, AND I ALSO MADE SURE TO CORRECT THE SITUATION.....FIRST BY SETTING UP THE "SHILL" AND THEN FALLING BEHIND AT THE LAST MOMENT, LETTING HIM PURCHASE WHAT HE WAS BIDDING ON. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT, PROVED MY POINT. AT THE END OF THE AUCTION, THESE SAME PIECES WOULD COME FOR SALE AGAIN.....THE AUCTIONEER CLAIMING THE HIGHEST BIDDER HAD REFUSED TO TAKE POSSESSION. THAT WAS MY CUE TO MAKE A POINT. WELL, I HAVE EXPERIENCED SOMEWHAT THE SAME SCENARIO IN SILENT AUCTIONS.

     I DON'T LIKE THE FACT STAFF WILL BID ON THESE ITEMS, AND IN ONCE INSTANCE, I KNEW ABOUT A STAFFER WHO WAS USING A FAKE IDENTITY TO REGISTER HIS BIDS.....AND I HAVE TO TELL YOU, I WAS PISSED WHEN INFORMED. HE INFORMED ME HIMSELF, FEELING HE HAD DONE NOTHING WRONG, WHICH NECESSITATED ME EXPLAINING THE RULES OF CONDUCT TO HIM.....TO AVOID A COMPLAINT TO UPPER MANAGEMENT. I KNOW OF OTHER BUSINESSES WHERE THIS IS NOT ONLY TOLERATED BUT ENCOURAGED, AND IT'S WHY I DON'T FEEL COMFORTABLE PLAYING THE GAME. I'VE WATCHED A LOT OF NICE PIECES GET AUCTIONED OFF, THAT I JUST COULDN'T JUSTIFY BIDDING ON, BECAUSE OF THE WAY THE AUCTIONS WERE BEING HANDLED. BUT HERE'S THE SHARP POINT OF THE ARGUMENT.

     HERE'S AN INSIGHT FOR YOU, IF YOU DIDN'T ALREADY KNOW IT......ANTIQUE DEALERS BUY OFF ANTIQUE DEALERS. SO IF WE CAN AFFORD TO BUY OFF DEALERS, WE KNOW VERY WELL, WHAT THE MARKET CONDITIONS WILL SUPPORT IN OUR RESPECTIVE REGIONS. WE'RE NOT AFRAID OF INVESTING A LITTLE COIN TO GET WHAT WE WANT FOR OUR CUSTOMERS....BUT WE KNOW OUR LIMITS. MOST TIMES, FOR THE SAME PIECES, SILENT AUCTIONS PUT US OUT OF THE RUNNING. ANTIQUE DEALERS KNOW WHAT THEY CAN AFFORD TO PAY, FOR PIECES THEY DESIRE, AND WE CAN ALWAYS COME UP WITH A BALL PARK ESTIMATE, OF WHAT OUR "SHOP VALUE" WILL BE, BEFORE WE DECIDE TO MAKE A PURCHASE. WE DON'T HAVE TO BUY THE PIECE AND THEN SEEK AN EVALUATION, AT AN ANTIQUE APPRAISAL EVENT. WE CAN GET PRETTY CLOSE, TO A VALUATION, BY USING OUR EXPERIENCE IN THE TRADE. SIMPLE ENOUGH. SO WE CAN EASILY DETERMINE, WHAT OUR HIGHEST AMOUNT CAN BE, TO ACQUIRE A PIECE, BY PROJECTING WHAT IT COULD BE SOLD FOR IN OUR RESPECTIVE ANTIQUE SHOPS. THAT SHOULD TAKE ABOUT TWO MINUTES. MY POINT IS, THAT IF THEY PUT HIGHER PRICES ON THE ANTIQUES, THEY NOW HOARD INTO THEIR SILENT AUCTIONS, WE COULD GET A CHANCE TO BUY THEM OFF THE FLOOR INSTEAD; IF THEY MEET ALL THE CRITERIA OF SALABLE MERCHANDISE. MOST OF US WOULD AGREE TO PAYING A HIGHER PRICE FOR THESE COLLECTABLE AND ANTIQUE PIECES, IF THEY WERE BEING OFFERED ON THE FLOOR, INSTEAD OF AT THESE SILENT AUCTION VENUES. RIGHT NOW, BECAUSE ALL THE BEST PIECES THEY HAVE RECEIVED, ARE TURNING UP IN THESE AUCTIONS, IT HAS REDUCED THE REASON FOR US ATTENDING THEIR SHOPS IN THE FIRST PLACE. IT HAS HAPPENED THIS WAY, FOR FIVE OF THE LOCAL BUSINESSES WE HAVE BEEN VISITING FOR MANY YEARS, AS ANTIQUE DEALERS AND COLLECTORS. IN CASE YOU'RE THINKING WE'RE A BUNCH OF WHINY SORE-LOSERS, YOU'D BE SHOCKED TO FIND OUT HOW MUCH MONEY WE SPEND AT THESE SAME SHOPS EVERY YEAR. ONE BUSINESS IN PARTICULAR, RECEIVED CLOSE TO FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS, FROM OUR FAMILY BUSINESS LAST YEAR; AND NOW, WELL, IF I WAS TO FORECAST A YEAR IN ADVANCE, (BASED ON THEIR NEW RELIANCE ON SILENT AUCTIONS), I'D SUGGEST IT WILL BE HARD FOR US TO SPEND FIVE HUNDRED. NO ACCOUNTANT WANTS TO FIND THIS OUT. WE WOULD BE SICK TO DEATH, IF OUR GOOD CUSTOMERS FELT THIS WAY ABOUT US. SO WE DO EVERYTHING POSSIBLE TO AVOID SCREWING UP, BY MISJUDGING THE PATIENCE AND GOODWILL OF OUR CUSTOMERS. WHILE I WANT TO SPEND LOCALLY, WE ARE FINDING IT ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE, AS FAR AS BUYING FOR PURPOSES OF OUR BUSINESS. HEY, IT'S NO HARDSHIP DRIVING A FEW MILES SOUTH, BECAUSE IT'S WHERE WE CAN MAKE BETTER PURCHASES FOR LESS.....AND NOT HAVE TO STARE AT ALL THE GOOD STUFF, STUCK IN THE LIMBO OF SILENT AUCTIONS.

     AS FOR THE GENERAL ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE ENTHUSIASTS, I OFFER THE SAME ADVICE TO THESE SHOP MANAGERS.....KILL THE SILENT AUCTIONS. PRICE SENSIBLY INSTEAD. THE INVENTORY CAME FROM THE GENEROUS DONATIONS OF THE PUBLIC, SO THE BOTTOM LINE ISN'T AS RIGID AS IT IS FOR US, TRYING TO TURN A PROFIT. BUT IF YOU THINK I'M OUT OF LINE ABOUT THIS, ASK YOURSELF, HOW MANY NEW ITEMS MAKE IT TO THE SHOWCASES OF THESE SILENT AUCTIONS. SO WHAT I'M SUGGESTING, WITH A MODEST REFRAIN, IS THAT IT IS UNFAIR TO TARGET ANTIQUE ENTHUSIASTS...WHETHER THEY ARE DEALERS, COLLECTORS OR HOME DECORATORS. GIVE EVERYONE A SHOT AT OWNING THESE PIECES. IF THEY HAPPEN TO BE PRICED ACCORDINGLY, WE WILL EITHER SLAP DOWN OUR MONEY, OR WALK AWAY CONTENTED, THAT WE AT LEAST HAD A FAIR SHOT AT THE KEY COLLECTABLES....WITHOUT HAVING TO WAIT A MONTH FOR AN AUCTION TO WRAP-UP; OR DEALING WITH THE SHILLING THAT GOES ON, EACH AND EVERY SILENT AUCTION.

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 in a previous blog 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.

     As I got older, I wanted to spend more time at the arena. My parents had registered me for minor hockey, and I probably played for several seasons, starting as a tyke or novice. It was the beginning of a lengthy jag as a rink rat, which I carried on in Bracebridge, the home of Maple Leaf great, Irvin "Ace" Bailey, and of course, Detroit Red Wing All Star, Roger Crozier. I worked with Roger's Foundation in later years, and as an eventual curator of the Bracebridge Sports Hall of Fame exhibit. Not bad for a former rink rat. Now in case you don't know what a rink rat is, well, it means I hung around the rink until they told me to go home. In Bracebridge, a rink rat was not only a kid who had no better place to go, but who worked around the rink, shoveling the ice and cleaning, in return for snack bar rations. I was too young in Burlington to work at anything, so I was just a hanger-on. As with many activities in my youth, my side-kick Ray Green was with me for most of this arena time. One memory stands out, during this period of hockey discovery. We had heard that Detroit Red Wing star, Gordie Howe, was going to make an appearance at a special all-day (Saturday) tournament that was going on at the Burlington Arena. I told my mother I wanted to meet Mr. Howe, no matter how long the wait. She gave me some money to buy a hot dog and pop, which was very generous considering our financial limitations then, and Ray and I settled in for the long haul. By lunch, we both had two or three "sliver" and otherwise broken sticks, that had been thrown over the boards during the tournament games. A sliver stick by the way, has about an inch deep length of blade left on the bottom, which was perfect for shinny but dangerous as hell, if you got hit with it, as a high stick. We'd always have a couple of pucks in our pockets, we had chased down, when they were deflected over the end barriers. And we smelled like "Thrill" gum, which was some sort of grape concoction, that was more like cologne, but was trendy amongst the hockey players we admired.

     We waited at that rink for about six hours, and no Gordie Howe. People were still talking about it, and that he had been delayed, but that the visitation was still a "go." My dad came to the arena at one point, to see if Ray and I were okay. Late in the afternoon, I remember a mob of kids running to a rear exit, and Ray and I thought there must be a fight going on……because it was in a dark corner of the arena. Ray and I might have wrestled with each other, but we were not fighters. Not even on a dare. So we just kept an eye on the apparent donnybrook, from a safe distance. We were told, once the mob had dispersed, that Gordie Howe had been ushered in through a back door, but the kids rushed him, ripping his jacket nearly in half, and he had fled the building fearing for his safety. Gordie Howe…..the one and only, had graced our arena with his presence, only to be attacked by souvenir hunters, who apparently wanted a piece of him……and may have got portions of his Red Wings' jacket. Now I lived with this memory for most of my life. I've come to the conclusion that it must have been an urban legend, that this is what happened. First of all, I don't think, with the tough players Howe was used to elbowing face-first into the boards, he would have been intimidated by a small group of enthusiastic autograph seekers. I think this was the story used to get us to go home, after a long day, which may have been perpetuated, in part, by the arena staff. I never saw a swath of red fabric, or tuft of his hair, so I think now, it didn't happen the way Ray and I thought it had, on that long, long day, waiting to get our sliver sticks signed by the famous, legendary "Number 9."

     There was one significant rule in our apartment, that my dear mother imposed, based on all the other crap I had, with or without knowing it, got into over the first few years of my life. Like the time I downed most of a bottle of children's aspirin, because not only did they taste good, but I assessed that I would never be sick again, if I sucked back every tablet. I don't think there were a lot of tablets left in the bottle, and to the best of my knowledge, I didn't make a trip to the hospital because of this event of self medication. On another occasion, I fell off the kitchen counter backwards, but somehow I did so without injury. With my aching back today, and my noticeable limp, cripes, maybe it all dates back to the fall I concealed from Merle and Ed. I was a little Dickens, that's for sure. But the last straw for my mother, was if she believed I had crossed beneath the busy Lakeshore, in the Ramble Creek tunnel. Once past this point, I was really at the lake shore. Then we were involved in some seriously deep water, and I couldn't swim.

     Merle was a sucker for a good story. The story teller that I am today, began back then, when I had to convince Merle nothing was wrong, out of the ordinary, or involved my misdemeanor. I played it like a good Euchre player, and I held back enough trump cards to "fix up" almost every situation, I found myself embroiled. She was right to fear that I might drown. I had a lot of close calls, even on a school trip once, when we overturned a canoe in deep water. I never told her this one either. But the Lake Ontario had a fishy smell, and she had the capability of "smelling where I had been," an hour or more before coming home for lunch or dinner. I don't know how many kids got the "sniff test," arriving home from play, but Merle could tell how close I'd been, on that day, to the tunnel. The closer I got, the more my sweaters absorbed the aroma of dead fish. Truth is, Ray and I managed to sneak through the tunnel about a thousand times, and she only caught me on a hundred of those occasions. The water was deep under the road, and yes, we both could have perished long before hitting the actual rock shoreline of the lake. There were two-foot-wide ledges, one on either side, to walk along to the other side of the road, so unless we really screwed up, or were racing across, we covered all the safety bases to stay out of the water. For Ray and I, the thrill wasn't making it to the lake. We just wanted to pass back and forth in the tunnel, and that was the real extent of our civil disobedience. We were quite happy in the relative seclusion of the Ramble Creek ravine. I never once admitted to my mother that I had gone through that tunnel. Even when it crossed my mind, in the days before her death, I decided to let well enough alone, and let her think until the end, she had foiled some of my greatest stunts…….because it just wasn't so. Like when I climbed up the open-sided, under construction, Torrance Terrace, where the wind blasting through the floors nearly swept me off the edge. "You're driving your father and I nuts," she'd yell, while banging the cupboard doors in our apartment kitchen. She liked doing that, and it's where we also made up, and I promised to never, ever, do that (whatever it was) again.

     Once again, I wish to thank my online correspondent, Tracy McKelvey, of Burlington, for linking me to my roots, and to my alternate parents, Ann and Alec Nagy, and their daughter Mary Anne. Tracy found me during an online search, while researching some neighborhood history, of Harris Crescent, and I'm so grateful we connected. It has inspired me to write these most recent biographical notes, and in the process of remembering my childhood days, in Burlington, so many other details and occurrences have been jarred loose from the archives of my mind. Like the sound, I can still so clearly remember, of my grandfather, Stanley Jackson, in his land-whale of a car, pulling up against the curb outside the Nagy apartments. It wasn't the sound of my grandfather's car, but rather the spring sound, when his "curb finders" (spring-like devices. mounted on the wheel-well, or adjacent to the mud flap, that indicated, by sound, if the car was close to the curb) began rubbing against the sidewalk. That's when he knew the beast had landed safely at our place of residence. With fedora on his head, with no slant to either side, Stan would get out of the car, and judge just how proficient he had been, to placing the car precisely six inches from the curb. It pleased him, at his elder age, and with weakening eye sight, that he could still park a car, like he did when he was a kid. Thanks in part to the curb finders.

     Thank you so much for joining today's chapter five, of seven in this short biography, of a kid's life, in a nice town. Please join me tomorrow, for chapter 6. And think about making some copious notes about your own life and times. Bet they make mine look like a kiddy's book. Give it a try and we'll compare notes some time.

Memories of a Hometown Once; The Making of a Compulsive Seeker of History

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.

     Thank you for joining today's biographical journey, back to Burlington, Ontario. Tomorrow I will present my own final chapter, of this seven part series, so please join me once again. I want to thank Tracy McKelvey, once again, for reminding me of my own unfinished story, I had always intended to record, for posterity, about the wonderful years I lived at the Nagy Apartments, from the late 1950's to about 1964. Tracy has kindly provided me with the photographs that have companioned this brief biography. She helped link me back to my past, and of this I am eternally grateful. I'm told Ann Nagy just had a birthday. I wish I'd been there for the party. She might have said something like this…."Teddy Currie. What have I told you about touching those knives. Haven't you cut yourself enough already?" She used to like asking me about the big scar on my thumb, that I got during my first attempt at making my own roast beef sandwich, and cutting toward my hand, instead of the opposite. I'm much better now. Our trips to the hospital now are for strains and broken stuff.

      See you soon. 

Muskoka Antiques; Weird Stories, Message From The Grave; And My Once Upon A Time

WEIRD STORIES - A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD - IT'S WHAT WE'RE ALL ABOUT IN THIS BUSINESS

A LITTLE BOOK THAT REMINDS US ABOUT THE WEIRD CONNECTIONS INSPIRED BY ANTIQUES

     IN MY JAMMED-UP MUSKOKA ARCHIVES COLLECTION, I HAVE THOUSANDS OF INDIVIDUAL PIECES. EVEN SUZANNE, WITH ALL HER LIBRARY TRAINING, REFUSES TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH IT, BECAUSE SHE SAYS, I WON'T RESPECT IT; EVEN IF SHE DID A GOOD JOB OF SORTING AND FILING. WHAT SHE MEANS BY THIS, IS THAT I WILL, BY BAD HABIT, REFUSE TO PUT THINGS BACK IN ORDER, AFTER I'VE USED THEM. SOUNDS RIGHT. I HAVE A TERRIBLE TRACK-RECORD OF FILING MY RESEARCH MATERIALS. AND I USE MY PAPER HERITAGE ALMOST WEEKLY. IN FACT, LAST WEEK, A READER ASKED FOR HELP ON THE ISSUE OF "MUSKOKA'S WATER QUALITY," AND ITS HISTORY OF INFLUENCE, FROM THE BEGINNING OF LOCAL HABITATION AND INDUSTRY, RIGHT UP TO AND INCLUDING THE EFFECTS FROM ACID RAIN CONTAMINATION. IT WAS AN ISSUE I WROTE MANY FEATURE ARTICLES ABOUT BACK IN MY NEWSPAPER YEARS. I'M ALWAYS DIGGING MATERIAL UP TO REFRESH MY FAILING MEMORY. I JUST DON'T PUT IT BACK WHERE I FOUND IT.
     SO WHILE I TRY TO HAVE MY MOST ACTIVELY USED MATERIAL, WHERE IT IS ALL EASILY ACCESSIBLE, THERE ARE MANY OCCASIONS, WHEN I NEED SOMETHING URGENTLY, ONLY TO FIND IT WASN'T WHERE I LAST DEPOSITED IT....OR IN THE DRAWER I SUSPECTED. SOME TIMES, AFTER A PHONE ENQUIRY, ABOUT SOME MATTER OF LOCAL HERITAGE, I'D GET SO DARN MAD, NOT BEING ABLE TO FIND THE DOCUMENT I NEEDED, THAT AS A LAST RESORT, I'D ASK HELP FROM MY DECEASED ARCHIVIST FRIEND, DAVE BROWN. AS I BELIEVE IN BEING ABLE TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE DECEASED, AND HAVING NOTHING TO LOSE, I WOULD, AS A WEE LARK, ASK DAVE IF HE COULD HELP ME FIND THE MISSING BUNDLE OF PAPERS. THIS WAS NEVER AN IMMEDIATE SITUATION, WHERE SOME PARANORMAL FORCE, WOULD OPEN THE RIGHT BOX, OR DRAWER, AND LEVITATE THE INFORMATION INTO MY OPEN HAND. SOME TIME IN THE NEXT WEEK, A COINCIDENCE WOULD PRESENT THE MISSING DOCUMENT. THIS IS NOT AN ISOLATED SITUATION. I ASK FOR DAVE'S HELP ALL THE TIME. I OFTEN EVEN GET IT NOW WHEN I DON'T ASK FOR HELP. HE SEEMS TO BE ABLE TO READ MY MIND WELL IN ADVANCE OF ME ACTUALLY NEEDING SOMETHING. THE STORY BELOW SMACKS OF THAT DAVE BROWN CONNECTION. WHILE DAVE DOESN'T ASK ME QUESTIONS, IN AN AUDIBLE WAY, I KNOW ABOUT HIS APPROVAL OR DISAPPROVAL, ALMOST ALL THE TIME. JUST AS IN LIFE, DAVE WAS A STUBBORN AND INTRUSIVE FRIEND, BUT WHAT A SMART MAN. HE TAUGHT ME MOST OF WHAT I KNOW ABOUT OLD AND RARE BOOKS.
    SO FEELING A LITTLE LOST AFTER HIS DEATH, I JUST KEPT TALKING TO HIM, AS IF HE WAS ALIVE. AS I'VE ALWAYS BEEN MORE INTERESTED IN RESULTS, THAN CONSUMED BY THE METHODS OF GETTING THERE, I HAVE BEEN GREEDILY ACCEPTING DAVE'S SAGE ADVICE, AND BENEFITTING FROM HIS SIGNS FROM THE OTHER SIDE. I WOULDN'T KID YOU ABOUT THIS, AND SUZANNE, CONSERVATIVE IN EVERY WAY, HAS SEEN JUST AS MANY SIGNS AS I HAVE....THAT DAVE IS STILL INTERACTING WITH US, AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. HE STAYED MANY TIMES IN OUR HOUSE, ON HIS TRAVELS THROUGH THE REGION, AND HE LOVED SLEEPING IN MY ARCHIVES. I'LL ALWAYS REMEMBER, THE EVENING I WAS BOXING ALL MY ROUGH NOTES, AND INTERVIEWS, AFTER WRAPPING UP DAVE'S BIOGRAPHY. THE NEXT STEP WAS TO SEND OF THE MANUSCRIPT TO THE PRINTER, THE FOLLOWING MORNING. I WAS ALL ALONE IN MY ARCHIVES WHEN I SAID, "DAVE, I HOPE YOU'RE GOING TO LIKE THIS BOOK." I DIDN'T EXPECT DAVE'S GHOST TO MAGICALLY APPEAR, TO ANSWER THE QUESTION. IT WAS JUST MY VERBAL "SIGN OFF" ON THE BOOK, THAT I HAD DONE MY BEST TO REPRESENT HIS LIFE AND WORK AS AN OUTDOOR EDUCATION TEACHER.
    I TURNED TO CARRY THE MANUSCRIPT UPSTAIRS, AND JUST AS I TURNED AT MY DESK, I FELT A FULL SLAP ON MY RIGHT SHOULDER....THAT COULDN'T HAVE BEEN CONFUSED WITH A MUSCLE SPASM, OR A BIG SPIDER FALLING FROM THE CEILING. I STOPPED, STOOD STILL, LISTENED FOR A MOMENT, THEN SAID, "THANKS FOR HELPING ME DAVE.....IT WILL BE PRINTED THIS WEEK." BY THE WAY, DAVE ALWAYS SLAPPED ME ON THE BACK IN GREETING, AND DEPARTURE. I DIDN'T HAVE ONE DOUBT THAT EVENING, BROWNIE HAD BEEN WATCHING OVER MY SHOULDER....WHICH ALSO VALIDATED THE FEELING I HAD, THROUGH THE SIX MONTHS SPENT RESEARCHING THE BOOK, THAT HE HAD BEEN AT MY SIDE THE WHOLE TIME. THIS IS WHAT HAD BEEN INTENDED, YOU SEE, WHEN DAVE ASKED ME TO WRITE THE BOOK WITH HIM, A FEW MONTHS BEFORE HE WAS GIVEN A VERY NEGATIVE PROGNOSIS. HE NEVER TOLD ME HE WAS DIEING. BUT DAVE, TRUE TO HIS PROMISE, HELPED ME WRITE HIS BIOGRAPHY. THIS WASN'T A SPOOKY SITUATION. IT WASN'T ABOUT GHOSTS. IT WAS ABOUT COMMUNICATING, FROM ONE SIDE TO THE OTHER, AND THERE ISN'T A MACABRE QUALITY TO ANY OF IT....HONESTLY. IT'S JUST LIFE AND DEATH, THAT'S ALL!  AS FOR TALKING TO BROWNIE....IT'S LIKE THIS: JUST AS THE MOTHER, WHO HAD A SON, WHO THOUGHT HE WAS A CHICKEN, THE REASON SHE COULDN'T SEND HIM TO THE DOCTOR, WAS THAT SHE NEEDED THE EGGS. EVEN IF I DIDN'T BELIEVE IN THE PARANORMAL, I WOULD STILL NEED DAVE'S HELP. UNLESS ALL OF A SUDDEN I STOP LOSING THINGS, WHICH ISN'T LIKELY.
     AFTER LAST WEEKEND'S LITTLE DANCE WITH A LEAKING WATERPIPE, FEEDING THE HOT WATER TANK, I HAD TO MOVE SOME BOOKS THAT WERE STACKED IN THE VICINITY. I HAVE SORTED THE BOOKS DOWNSTAIRS, AT LEAST A DOZEN TIMES IN THE PAST FOUR MONTHS, AS I'VE BEEN TRYING TO CULL SOME OF MY PRIVATE STOCK. FROM THE SECOND STACK, A BOOK FELL TO THE FLOOR, AND ACTUALLY LANDED, FACE-UP, ON THE TOP OF MY SHOE. AROUND BIRCH HOLLOW, THIS STUFF HAPPENS WITH GREAT REGULARITY.....THE FALLING BOOKS PART. BUT WHEN SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPENS, WHAT MAKES IT OF THE "WEIRD" VARIETY, IS WHEN IT LANDS, AND OPENS TO A PAGE OF INTEREST, SUCH THAT YOUR CURIOSITY IS PEAKED. IT MEANS, AS A MATTER OF SUPERSTITION, THAT WE HAVE TO CHECK OUT THE TITLE. IT WAS ENTITLED, "WEIRD STORIES," PUBLISHED AS A SMALL COMPENDIUM BY ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPERS LTD., OF LONDON, ENGLAND, TAKEN FROM READER SUBMISSIONS, RELEASED INITIALLY IN A PUBLICATION KNOWN AS THE "TATLER." THE STORIES HAVE BEEN SUBMITTED BY READERS, UNDOUBTEDLY RESPONDING FROM MAGAZINE REQUESTS. WE ASSUME THE BOOK IS PROBABLY FROM THE 1920'S, BUT IT IS OTHERWISE UNDATED. THE FIRST STORY I CAME UPON, AFTER PICKING IT UP, WAS HEADED "A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD - A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD WHICH IS VOUCHED FOR BY THE RELATER OF THIS STORY."
     ON A CURSORY READ THROUGH, I WAS ASTONISHED TO FIND THAT IN ONE STORY, IT CONTAINED SO MUCH OF OUR ANTIQUE AND COLLECTABLE INTERESTS, AS WELL AS OUR BELIEF, THAT THE DECEASED CAN COMMUNICATE FROM THE OTHER SIDE. THIS COMES FROM OUR EXPERIENCES IN THE ANTIQUE FIELD, AND NOT FROM ANY PARTICULAR RELIGIOUS BELIEFS. LONG SERVING ANTIQUE DEALERS WILL PROBABLY HAVE LOTS OF STORIES ABOUT STRANGE ENCOUNTERS, AND MATTERS OF COINCIDENCE, FROM WORKING ON ESTATE DISPERSALS, AND IN HOMES, AND BUILDINGS, THAT MAY HAVE SOME FORMER RESIDENTS, WHO HAVE PASSED IN LIFE, BUT ARE STILL WALKING THE HALLS AND ROOMS OF THEIR OLD DIGS. I STOOD THERE, AT THE SIDE OF THE WATER-HEATER, AND READ THE WHOLE ACCOUNT OF THIS MESSAGING FROM THE DECEASED. IT WAS A STORY THAT SEEMED TO BE DIRECTED MY WAY....NOT SO MUCH AS BOOK TO READ, BUT AS SOME VALIDATION, ABOUT THE CAPABILITIES OF THOSE WHO HAVE CROSSED, BEING ABLE TO INTERACT WITH THE LIVING. THE COUCH WHERE I HAD BEEN PILING SOME OF THESE BOOKS, IS WHERE MY COLLECTOR FRIEND, DAVE BROWN, USED TO SLEEP, WHENEVER HE CAME FOR A VISIT. I WROTE HIS BIOGRAPHY FIVE FEET AWAY, ON THE BOOK-CLUTTERED DESK, FULL OF SOME OF THE OTHER MANUSCRIPTS WE'VE PUBLISHED FROM BIRCH HOLLOW. AS I'VE BEEN COMMUNICATING WITH DAVE, SINCE HIS DEATH, BEFORE THE TURN OF THIS PRESENT CENTURY, IT IS NOT AT ALL OUT OF CHARACTER, FOR HIM TO DIRECT MY ATTENTION TO SOMETHING HE FINDS SIGNIFICANT....REMINDING ME, THAT JUST BECAUSE HE'S NO LONGER IN OUR DIMENSION, IT DOESN'T MEAN HE HAS GIVEN UP HIS PASSION FOR GOOD BOOKS.
     HERE NOW IS A STORY, THAT REMINDS ME OF MANY EXPERIENCES, WE'VE HAD WITH THE PARANORMAL, AS ANTIQUE DEALERS; AND WE DON'T FIND IT AS HARD TO FATHOM, AS YOU MIGHT BELIEVE. WHAT YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER, IN THE ANTIQUE TRADE, IS THAT BY THE VERY NATURE OF OUR BUSINESS, WE ARE HANDLING THE POSSESSIONS FROM GENERATIONS OF DEAD PEOPLE. SOMETIMES SPIRITS JUST DON'T WANT TO LET GO, OR LEAVE WHAT THEY HAVE ADORED IN LIFE. WHICH CREATES INTERESTING SCENARIOS FOR THE LIVING. HERE'S AN EXAMPLE OF SUCH AN ENCOUNTER.
     "When the episode occurred related below, I had been for many years a student of subjects of a psychic and mystic character, and had developed clairvoyant and clairaudient powers, so that what follows, although interesting, did not come as a surprise to me. The scene was my drawing-room in a country village. A nephew who was staying with me happened to be playing the piano one morning; he was a wonderful pianist, and I was sitting listening to him while sewing, when an acquaintance from the village - a widow of the former rector - was announced. I had met this lady, Mrs. Carthew, twice, and had once been to her house, but only to the door with a note - these details are important.
     "I asked her to sit down, and she begged my nephew to continue his playing, as she was very fond of music. We were sitting listening to the music, I having resumed my sewing, when my attention was drawn to Mrs. Carthew, who was evidently in great enjoyment of the music. But what surprised me was to see standing behind her, a tall man, dressed as a clergyman - a clever, rather delicate face, and hair thin on top. He seemed very anxious to get my attention - but having only met Mrs. Carthew twice before, and never having mentioned psychic matters to her, I thought the situation a trifle complicated.
     The story continues, "So I decided to try and get into touch with him mentally, not addressing him out loud. I asked, 'Who are you? And what do you want here?' He replied at once, 'I am Catherine Carthew's husband, and I am most anxious to get a message through to her. Will you help me?' I told him I never worked for anyone I did not know something about, from my spirit guide, but that if he would give me some proof as to his identity, in connection with Mrs. Carthew, I should be very happy to help him. He was delighted and said, 'That is easily done, and my message got through to my wife at the same time, if you will sit quiet and allow me to show you a picture.' I consented, and waited. Then, in a few minutes, I saw a small room, on an upper landing, behind the door, which opened inwards. I saw a bookcase, containing four shelves quite full of books; in the second shelf, slightly pulled out from among the others, I saw a shabby book in a brown-paper cover. Nothing further came, so I asked the spirit form whether I had seen correctly? 'Yes,' he said, 'that's splendid; now will you tell Catherine presently to take out the book I have shown you, and in it she will find a marked passage, which will give her the answer to a question, she has more than once asked me.' He thanked me for helping and disappeared. Of course neither my nephew nor my friend had been in any way conscious of what had been transpiring around them.
     "I felt very diffident, as I walked towards her house with Mrs. Carthew, about relating what had just occurred, not knowing her at all well, and never having been inside her house. I felt the whole thing might be a fraud. I decided to risk it, and related the incident as we walked along. 'How perfectly thrilling,' said Mrs. Carthew.' 'I have been so anxious to find out something from my husband since he passed over, and have several times asked him to try and send me an answer to my question. You see,' she added. 'I believe in communication from those on the other side, and I often speak to my husband, but I could not tell whether he heard me. It would be wonderful if what you tell me was correct, but I don't believe I have got a bookcase in his study upstairs now, and I feel sure that if he did send me a message, it would be out of his 'Browning' that he loved; but that has not got a brown-paper cover - still I will go at once and make sure.'
     "Several days passed, and hearing nothing from Mrs. Carthew, I concluded the vision had been a fake. But about a week later, my friend came to see me. She had been called away from home and had not been able to send me word. She was most enthusiastic, and as she expressed it, 'thrilled beyond words.' She had gone upstairs to her husband's study, and found, to her surprise, that during the spring cleaning, the bookcase containing his books had been placed behind the door. Drawn out from the rest of the books, was a book in a brown-cover. 'Well,' she thought, 'all correct so far; if only it had been Roger's Browning.' She opened the book - it was the Browning, and opened at a marked passage, which gave her a direct answer to her eager question. Should any reader of this little experience care to verify the facts here related, both my friend and I would be pleased to do so."
     My belief in the paranormal began before I had any clue what the word actually meant. It was in Burlington, on the shore of Lake Ontario, that I had many mind-expanding adventures.....some natural and a few well, a tad supernatural. Like the time I fell off the kitchen counter, after consuming a whole bottle of children's aspirin. I can remember falling backwards, but in slow motion, as if someone, or something had caught me on the way down. Maybe it was my guardian angel, saving my life once more. I had only consumed ten aspirins, because it was all that had been left in the bottle. I told my mother that "I just wanted to keep healthy mom." I had to drink a lot of milk that day, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't taken to the hospital or doctor. But I have long wondered, about that slow motion fall to the kitchen floor; much like a feather hitting the ground lightly. Yet my mother ran to see what had happened, because she had been awakened by a thud; I wasn't hurt, and from that height, being about five years of age, I should have been. It may be, that during that part of my youth, I needed my guardian angel twice. Once when I was deathly ill....and potentially, after consuming way too many aspirins for my own good.
     Here are a few more memories of my early days in Burlington....a fine community that looked after me well.

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

SOME BURLINGTON MEMORIES - I HOLD DEARLY TO THIS DAY

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

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

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

     A MONTH OR SO, AGO, THE TORONTO STAR PROVIDED A PERFECT EXAMPLE OF THIS, FOR READERS, WHEN THEY CLEARLY DEMONSTRATED HOW "ORDINARY" CAN BE QUITE "EXTRAORDINARY." THEY PRESENTED A TRULY MEANINGFUL, INSPIRATIONAL, WELL DOCUMENTED, INTIMATE BIOGRAPHY, OF AN "EVERYDAY PERSON." THE EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT, SET OUT TO PROVE THIS, "ORDINARY-EXTRAORDINARY" PROFILE, BY SELECTING A NAME FROM THE OBITUARY SECTION OF THE PAPER. IT WAS A RANDOM SELECTION, OF A WOMAN, WHO ADMITTEDLY DIED TOO YOUNG, AND SUDDENLY. THEY ASKED PERMISSION OF THE FAMILY, TO HIGHLIGHT THE WOMAN'S LIFE, HER FAMILY, CHILDHOOD, HEALTH CHALLENGES, LIVING ARRANGEMENTS, CAREER, FRIENDSHIPS, RECREATIONAL INTERESTS, SOCIAL ACTIVITIES, AND ENTERTAINMENT PASSIONS. IN ADDITION, THEY SOUGHT-OUT THE OPINIONS OF OTHERS, WHO WERE IN HER CLOSE CIRCLE OF COLLEAGUES, FRIENDS, NEIGHBORS, AND FAMILY MEMBERS. THEY FOUND, BY RANDOMLY SELECTING A NAME FROM THE DEATH NOTICES, A PERSON WHO WAS DEARLY LOVED, HIGHLY THOUGHT-OF BY WORK-MATES, AND NEIGHBORS, AND WHO INTERACTED DAILY WITH GENEROSITY AND KINDNESS; WHOSE SUDDEN DEATH, DEVASTATED FAMILY MEMBERS. THOSE WHO HAD DEPENDED ON HER LOVE AND RESILIENCE, TO GET THROUGH THEIR OWN LIFE CHALLENGES. WHAT APPEARED TO READERS, AS A MODEST, SHORT OBITUARY, WAS ONLY THE ENTRANCE-WAY TO A REMARKABLE BIOGRAPHY……AND PROOF, THAT WHILE WE ALL MAY NOT HAVE THAT HOLLYWOOD DRAMA, OR RAZZLE DAZZLE, TO JUSTIFY A FILM ON OUR LIVES, IT DOESN'T MEAN, THAT AS A SOURCE OF INSPIRATION, WE'RE NOT GOING TO HELP SOMEONE ELSE, WHO HAPPENS TO BE FEELING A LITTLE DOWN ON THEIR LUCK. THE TORONTO STAR FOLLOW-UP ON THIS WOMAN, GOT A HUGE FOLLOWING OF READERS, OVER SEVERAL ISSUES, AND THE FORAY HAD DEFINITELY PROVEN THE POINT…….ORDINARY IS PRETTY GOOD TOO.

     I HAVE HAD EXTRAORDINARY MOMENTS IN MY LIFE. I HAVE WORKED ALONGSIDE SOME GREAT MINDS, AND BENEFITTED FROM THEIR MENTORSHIP. I THINK OF THESE FOLKS REGULARLY, AND I MIGHT EXTEND THEM THE COURTESY OF A PASSING THANKS, OR NOD, ABOUT WHAT THEY HAVE CONTRIBUTED TO MY CONTENTED LIFE TODAY. BUT I AM STEADFASTLY PLEASED TO HAVE LIVED AN ORDINARY LIFE……BECAUSE, THERE WERE TIMES, I CAME WITHIN A HAIR'S BREADTH OF BEING SNUFFED OUT BY MISADVENTURE. MAYBE BY REPORTING THESE TALES OF YORE, MY FUTURE GRANDCHILDREN WILL LEARN FROM GRANDFATHER'S MISTAKES, AND TAKE FEWER RISKS WITH THEIR PERSONAL SAFETY. SO TO HARP-ON FOR JUST ONE MORE LINE, I DO THINK IT IS A GREAT BENEFIT TO HEART AND SOUL, TO VENTURE BACK AS A BIOGRAPHER, TO PAY HOMAGE TO ALL THE FOLKS WHO PUT-UP WITH YOU, AND NUDGED YOU ONWARD AND OUTWARD IN LIFE. WHILE MY SUCCESSES ARE MODEST IN COMPARISON TO COMPANION WRITERS, WHO HAVE BEST SELLERS, AND ARE LIVING IN EXOTIC, OPULENTLY APPOINTED RESIDENCES, I AM HAPPY IN OUR LITTLE BUNGALOW, LOOKING OVER THE WILD PLACE, WE CALL THE BOG, HERE IN GRAVENHURST. I OWE IT TO KIND AND CARING FOLKS LIKE ALEC AND ANNE NAGY, FOR INSPIRING ME AS A CHILD, TO WORK HARD, WORK LONG, AND MOST OF ALL……ENJOY ALL THE WORK YOU'RE DOING. I HAVE DONE THIS AS A WRITER AND AN ANTIQUE DEALER, AND OUR BOYS ARE DOING THIS AS OWNERS OF A GRAVENHURST MUSIC SHOP TODAY. THEY SPEND THEIR LEISURE TIME WORKING AS SOUND TECHNICIANS AT OUR OPERA HOUSE, AT A VENUE KNOWN AS PETER'S PLAYERS, AND FOR THE SUNDAY EVENING CONCERTS, ON THE BARGE, DOWN AT BEAUTIFUL GULL LAKE PARK. I PASSED WHAT I LEARNED FROM THE NAGYS, ON TO MY BOYS. MAKE WORK FUN. AS IT MAKES UP A BIG CHUNK OF LIFE AND TIMES, WHY SHOULDN'T YOU ENJOY WHAT YOU TOIL AT…….WHETHER THE PROFIT IS LARGE OR SMALL, OR NOT AT ALL. SOME OF THE MOST MEMORABLE WORK I'VE DONE IN THE PAST TEN YEARS, WAS VOLUNTARY. I WROTE THE BIOGRAPHY OF LANDSCAPE ARTIST, RICHARD KARON BECAUSE I FELT IT WAS IMPORTANT, AND NEEDED IN OUR COMMUNITY. REMUNERATION WASN'T A CONCERN. I WAS PROUD TO WRITE IT.  (YOU CAN ARCHIVE THIS SERIES ON MY BLOG, DATING BACK TO APRIL 15TH).

     I KNOW THIS IS A LENGTHY PITCH, TO ENCOURAGE YOU TO START WORK ON YOUR OWN BIOGRAPHY, BUT FROM EXPERIENCE, IT'S A PROFITABLE EXERCISE, PERSONALLY, AND FOR THOSE WHO ARE CLOSE TO YOU. AND IT DOESN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH MONEY.

     I WANT TO AGAIN THANK TRACY MCKELVEY, OF BURLINGTON, FOR PLAYING A ROLE, CONNECTING ME TO MY PAST……IN BURLINGTON, AND ALEC, ANNE AND MARY ANNE NAGY, WHO GAVE OUR FAMILY A NICE PLACE TO LIVE, AND A BILLION WONDERFUL MEMORIES. HERE ARE A FEW MORE, OFF THE TOP.

LIONS CLUB PARK AND THE SUMMER CARNIVALS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     Thank you so much for joining today's chapter four of seven, in this small collection of stories about growing up, on Harris Crescent, in Burlington, Ontario. Please join me again for Chapter five, tomorrow evening. Have you thought about your own biography. Bet your childhood stories are better than mine! Maybe your biography has the action of a Hollywood Movie. Funnier things have happened.