Antiques That Hold Their Spirits-The Ghost That Has Long Haunted Me

ANTIQUES THAT HOLD THEIR SPIRITS - I'VE HAD A FEW OVER THE YEARS

THE GHOST OF TORRANCE TERRACE HAS LONG HAUNTED ME

Even as a kid, trundling home from school, there were things I found along the way, that I couldn't resist scooping up as found-treasure. I'd arrive home to our Burlington apartment, with pockets full of this and that, leaving my mother Merle to figure out, when I wasn't looking, how to free our abode of toads, grasshoppers, old bits of metal, some shiny rocks, and chestnuts in various stages of decomposition. She threw out three quarters of everything I collected, from broken hockey sticks, to neat old bottles found down in the thickly overgrown ravine of Ramble Creek.

I was attracted to certain things by forces unknown. At least that's what Merle used to tell the neighbors, when she saw me coming up Harris Crescent with pockets bulging and overflowing, while swinging a ball bat, or old hockey stick I found alongside the road. Strangely though, she was right about some things, regarding those early acts of acquisition. There was something that "made me do it," and it wasn't a voice in my head, directing my actions. It was a feeling then, just as it has always been throughout my collecting life. I will encounter a relic, an antique or collectible in a shop, at a yard sale, or at an auction, that I'm drawn to for more than the capital value. As an antique dealer I do operate on a for-profit basis, even though my wife, the accountant, questions this frequently, when I come home with something else truly bizarre, to what we normally acquire to refurbish and re-sell.

One of my most poignant recollections, of a childhood experience, where I truly felt in the company of the spirits, came in a most casual, spontaneous way, making me feel on that particular day, as if I was being urged by something unknown, to visit an old house in the neighborhood,……then only a few days from being crushed by earth movers. It was to make way for the construction of a large apartment tower amidst some wonderful late Victorian architecture. The old estate, on Torrance Avenue, that looked so storied and charming amidst the wreath of venerable old hardwoods, and the ever-popular chestnut grove bordering the road, was facing its last few days as prominent architecture in our neighborhood of Burlington, Ontario. Which was a short hike to the shore of Lake Ontario, and a place that was often brushed by thick morning fog, and the muted sound of fog-horns from huge freighters passing somewhere on the bay. It was a little bit Hollywood, in scenery, perfect for a ghost story, but at this time of my young, impressionable life, I didn't have much knowledge of spirits or their ilk. I was just a curious little snot, usually with the arse ripped out of his pants, and a tangle of torn knee patches on both legs, with pockets-full of interesting livestock etc. I was an "eyes wide open" kid. I was an antique hunter in training, long before i knew what an antique was all about.

On this one afternoon, coming home from Lakeshore Public School, my chums and I paused to look at the sad old relic, awaiting the final blows of the wrecking ball, to bring it all down to earth. It had been left this way, for some time, and it didn't take too much chiding, back pushing, and triple-daring before we decided to pool our collective bravado, and the thin, still growing, shreds of our male hubris, to challenge what our parents had instilled, rather burdened upon us, about invading private property. They taught us to respect signs that stated "no trespassing." Have you ever broken trust before? Found a way to circumnavigate some unfair imposition? We wanted to see the heart of this house before it was no more. I had been fighting this urge for weeks, and there wasn't a time, as I walked by, when "old house" and "kid" didn't subtly exchange glances, that I didn't feel the tug on the old heart-strings, a pull on my wanderlust, to just make a friendly visit. Even just a head-poke, through the half-open front door, to glance both ways, around the corner. What harm could that do? As a career antique dealer, this has been the most often repeated question, and the common thread of a great deal of unravelling.

Of course, I was a collector, even as a kid, so I imagined there would be all sorts of stuff strewn about, to haul home for Merle to then throw out. You know, I sort of suspected she was culling my stuff, but I wanted to believe she was removing it from my room, to pack away in those old trunks I knew she stored in the basement. What a fool I was! My wife has been known to exercise similar culls but I'm seasoned to the ways of neat freaks, and intercept the garbage before it is gone forever. On more than just a few occasions, I've had to pull a collectible from a garbage hauler's clutches, before it wound up in the crusher in the back of that truck.

The house invited us. We all felt it. We all knew, well in advance, we were going to trespass, consequences be damned! But it was the mysterious allure the house possessed, much as if someone quite invisible, was beckoning from the half-wrecked doorway, to come inside for a wee peak. There isn't an inquisitive child alive who could resist the allure. What was left inside? Scrounger's rights! Finders keepers! I could find all kinds of justification, for defying every rule, civil and otherwise, to work my mates into a frenzy of self righteousness. God wanted us to enter that old house.

Once inside the door, which of course involved a typical amount of pushing and "you go first" challenges, it was definitely a treat for the senses. It was quite dilapidated by this point of its forced-decline, and there had been doors and built-in cabinets ripped from the walls, corner cupboards unfastened, leaving ugly holes in the wall. Even the mantle was gone and everywhere there was evidence of home-wreckers, having swung their hammers and prying bars. There were broken Christmas ornaments strewn on the floor, and pages from old magazines and newspapers crumpled in corners and in doorless closets. There were dishes on an old table, and drinking glasses on the remnants of a kitchen counter. As we chums wandered slowly, in awe, from room to room, we picked up little keepsakes from the floor, that attracted our darting and weaving span of attention, in the lowly lit environs of what had once been, a truly magnificent home. I remember the curious way light shone through the stained glass on some of the old windows.

What we all experienced on that afternoon, exploring the soon-to-be-toppled house, was strangely significant to the area of the building we travelled. I can remember rooms on the main floor that were bright and cheerful, even with diffused light from outside. At times we'd feel giddy and giggle, just to hear the echo through the empty rooms. Then without any provocation or inspired fear, of being detected, wandering through the old house, I'd be consumed by a feeling of dread, a sudden sadness, and without warning, my heart would begin to race. Much as if my soul had encountered something ominous, I was yet to be fully aware. Each passage-way, every room, each light from a window, made the house look cheery then profoundly eerie, within a very short footfall. I had little idea what it meant to be "haunted" or to be in a haunted house, except what I may have felt on Hallowe'en, dressed up in a sheet, with two eye-holes cut out…..or what I could have watched on the television, that presented something malevolent as subject matter. This was a feeling poignantly strange, and it sank into my mind with great ease, that I was walking through a place that was still very much occupied by entities, I really needed to understand. The more intense the feeling, the more I wanted to explore the rooms. I wasn't frightened, and I don't think the feelings I had experienced, were shared by the other three chums. At least they never admitted to anything, or any fears other than facing a police officer, or our parents, should we be found out. But there were reasons for sensing my surroundings in this way. I knew we were being watched by something. I've had this sensation many times in the past, and it has always linked to some paranormal encounter…..always as inadvertent as it was then…..right in the middle of a great and memorable childhood adventure. Ghosts hadn't been on our minds. I know I was imposed upon that day but it had nothing to do with fear or loathing of spirit-kind. It was as if I was being asked for help save this doomed Victorian estate. I felt as if I was being exposed to a message that wasn't quite connecting. I still miss more of these than I pick-up, on my modern day adventures.

Even to this day, I get clear and profound impressions of houses, and their occupants, many from past lives, by just walking up to the front door of a home. I'm not clairvoyant and have no aspirations to hang out a shingle that I'm the new medium on the block. But since that exploratory mission, into that old Burlington estate, my senses have been ever-activated. Admittedly, some houses seem to repel me, more than welcome my visitation. I respect this. I'm not scared of these experiences but there's no way I will ever stop feeling the presence of occupants…….that aren't really there….at least in a mortal coil sort of way. Critics will argue that we all pick up the aura of an occupied house, and should feel a sense of loss, walking through a vacant abode, especially like the one I've described above. Possibly then, we are, by this measure, reacting instinctively to the aura, the remnant patina of the human / architectural relationship, forged beneath these old timbers. Sensory attempts to warn and advise us, about the prevailing circumstance, of what has happened in the past.

I feel the same about certain items of antique furniture, from old steamer trunks to cradles, dressers, flat-to-the-wall cupboards, especially those that have been handcrafted in pioneer workshops. I must admit, I have less reaction to factory manufactured pieces, admittedly with less interest by the attending carpenter,….in comparison to a handcrafted pine cradle for example, made by a doting father, full of expectation about a family on the way. The intensity of study on the piece, starts at this stage, and only grows greater over the years of its use, and situation with its owner family…..and all the other owner /users from that time forward. Now consider the child spirit in the cradle and all the life and death occurrences following, and you have an intensity that is as much a part of the patina, as the color and wear of the aging wood and paint.

When I left that Burlington home, feeling satisfied that I'd seen the house from basement to attic, there was no doubt in my mind, leaving that tired and broken building, that it was still very much an inhabited estate, and that my mates and I had, in some small way, stirred up the invisible residents on a sort of farewell tour. I grabbed a number of souvenirs from that trip, and I don't remember just what was in my hand while exiting, but the most important aspect of the afternoon, was that I learned something about strong feelings, history, and connectedness from one generation to another…..seen and unseen. In fact, for 56 years, 35 in professional authordom, I have kept that fledgling, exciting, insightful experience close to my heart; such that in one way or another, it has been used as inspiration a thousand times or more, in a wide variety of writing projects.

I could never, no matter how many words expended, detail with any precision or corresponding common sense, how this old, soon-to-be-gone house, became my sort-of muse for all these years; that you too might honestly share the sense of union I felt, amongst those wafting memories and unspecified regrets; ghosts maybe, that haunted those rooms until the walls finally tumbled down. They apparently found a home in my subconscious, where we've been revisiting the old haunt regularly, always finding that place and time in my personal history, something worth maintaining and a story eagerly retold. A parallel experience, might be if you were to suddenly appear at a former abode, you spent your childhood, and sense part of your spirit still dwelling within…..the ghosts of your past wandering through the same rooms and halls, up and down the stairs, as if nothing at all was different…..except of course, the belongings now, laid-out beneath this roof, from another resident family reminding, eerily, sadly, that time has passed…..but not been forgotten. It has been said that a little of our soul is spread over the places we have lived and miles we have travelled, and that when our spirit finally leaves our human life, it re-traces all of these places we once occupied…..even for a short while, as a sort of paranormal retrospective.

I would like to, in some future blogs, illustrate this point more clearly, by profiling some experiences I've had over the decades, as an antique dealer, frequently attracted to pieces that may or may not be haunted…..somewhat as I felt strangely compelled to enter an old house, on the off chance, of finding something neat to scoff. While it's a stretch, obviously, to compare an old cedar trunk, with provenance, to an historic estate, my exposure to the sensation of occupation, as a child, has inspired a great awareness as a collector…..that some pieces, strange or not, have an attraction that goes well beyond the patina of the wood, or the feel of the fabric. Truth is, I can feel something extra, as if the essence of the item's builder, or former owner….a child, possibly, is still somehow connected. There are many stories told of cradles rocking without an occupant or attendant, rocking chairs moving of their own accord, and organs playing without the slightest touch of mortal hand. My stories aren't quite so compelling and interesting, but we've had a few unusual events attached to certain acquired pieces. Nothing fearful or disturbing. Just curious in a paranormal context.

Maybe you have felt the same at times. Feeling it necessary to stop at an antique sale, to examine a piece that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't think twice about acquiring. What made you stop for a second look? Did your grandmother have something similar? Could it be a sign from someone who has crossed, trying to remind you about a favorite quilt or cushion, old rocking horse or cradle, that you used to play with when visiting. For those who validate the existence, in spirit form, of those who have crossed over, few would deny the possibility, that sentiment and emotion are routinely tweaked by forces unknown, to make us aware of our past…..and our future; if we only had a few moments to ponder the associations, and signs apparent. I wander around, most of the time, with this openness to suggestion….willingness to entertain even the slightest remembrance, that puts me in mind of those friends and family, who were so important to my well being. When my wife hears me laughing at something, while on an antique shop walk-about, she recognizes immediately, Ted's had a poignant reminiscence…..quite out of the blue. Always in the strangest, and most obscure of places in the shop, it seems. But I know, as soon as I enter, like my feeling of all buildings, something is going to tap me on the shoulder, or peak my curiosity, and moreso than a for-profit purchase, I will likely be hauling something home that, I love saying to my wife, "spoke to me!"

I don't see dead people as such. I feel them though. I sense them, and quite enjoy the feeling and enthralling allure of a limitless universe of possibility, where there are no rules of engagement. As some folks say, "you just go with the flow."

I will leave today's blog, with one final story that I have never come to understand, or identify as having been true, or simply a figment of an over-active child's imagination. It was after school one afternoon, that I was wandering along the rocky, overgrown shore of Ramble Creek, not too far from Lakeshore Boulevard, and the bridge just before the wider view of Lake Ontario. I came through a clearing and could hear a rhythmic creaking of what sounded like a swing set. I came out into a small clearing along the embankment of the creek, and I could see a girl swinging back and forth in the yard of a house I hadn't seen before. I didn't know the girl, and even though I'd come this far many times before, this house was new to me. When the girl, about my age at the time….seven or eight, spotted me, she jumped off the swing and beckoned me to cross over the limestone pads that formed a bridge. I did so, and she took my hand immediately, to lead me back to the swing set. I can so clearly remember swinging side by side that sunny spring afternoon. When the sun started to weaken, I told her it was time for me to leave, for the hike back home. She took my hand again, and walked me to the shore, and the trail of stones across the fast, shallow water. When I looked at her, I saw tears streaking down her pale face. She did not want me to leave. She insisted I return again, to play on the swings, just as we had that afternoon. I felt heartsick about leaving her. I wanted to race back over those limestone pads and hug her. It was as if I'd known this girl from another life, as we had such a strange connection I didn't understand. I couldn't have understood at that age.

I made many trips back along that winding Ramble Creek, and never saw her again. Nobody I asked knew who she was, yet there was a swing set, out in the yard, exactly where it had been on that day. I remember her telling me, this was her house, and that she went to the same school as I did…….but apparently, not on the same plane as I occupied. Had I been swinging with a ghost? As a matter of irony, it was adjacent to the old house I have been writing about, on Torrance Avenue. I can still hear that swing, as if it was at my side this very moment….just as I can see her tear stained face, and the blue eyes that begged me to stay. What if I had remained? Might I also, have become a ghost of Ramble Creek?

Why Collect Things In The First Place?

WHY COLLECT THINGS IN THE FIRST PLACE? WAS I NUTS FROM BIRTH - BECAUSE IT WASN'T LONG AFTER DIAPERS, BEFORE I WAS PLAYING "FINDERS KEEPERS"

FOR ME, IT CAME NATURALLY, SCROUNGING AND HOARDING FOR FUN AND PROFIT

     MAYBE I'LL GET A GUEST SPOT ON THE DR.PHIL SHOW, WHEN THEY DO A FUTURE SEGMENT ON COLLECTORS, AND THEIR WILD-EYED ILK……AND HOW EXCESSES, FROM A YOUNG AGE, TURN US ANTIQUE-TYPES INTO COMPULSIVE BUYERS, AND STORY BOOK-STYLE "HOARDERS."

     AND EVENTUALLY, IF WE DO OUR JOBS CORRECTLY, ON TO THE LOFTY HEIGHT OF TELEVISION-SHOW-WORTHY, LIKE "HONEY BOO BOO,"…..WHERE WE BECOME ALMOST FICTIONAL……"SUPREME HOARDERS," WHO HAVE TO USE A LIFT TRUCK TO MOVE JUNK, JUST TO GO TO THE BATHROOM. OVER MY YEARS AS AN ANTIQUE HUNTER, LET ME TELL YOU, I'VE BEEN CALLED ALL KINDS OF INTERESTING NAMES, AND A FEW HAVE EVEN BEEN RATHER FLATTERING. WHEN I USED TO TRAVEL WITH OUR BOYS, FROM SECOND HAND SHOP TO ANTIQUE MALL, THROUGHOUT THE REGION, WE WERE KNOWN, BY VENDORS, AS "HERE COMES SANFORD AND SONS." THIS OF COURSE, WAS ONCE A SITUATION COMEDY, STARRING RED FOXX, AND WAS ABOUT A FAMILY-RUN JUNK YARD, WHERE FOXX RAN A "BUY AND SELL OPERATION," WITH HIS SON, LAMONT. I'VE BEEN CALLED CHARACTER-NAMES, FROM OUT OF THE LITERARY WORKS, OF INTERNATIONALLY ACCLAIMED WRITERS, SUCH AS CHARLES DICKENS; LIKE "OLD JOE," IN "A CHRISTMAS CAROL;" AND HAD FRIENDS, WITH SOME LITERARY BACKGROUND, REFER TO ME AS "QUILP," FROM "THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP," AMONGST NAMES LIKE "FAGAN," FROM "OLIVER TWIST," AND EVEN "SCROOGE," AS I'M PERCEIVED ON MY ROUNDS, FOR ALWAYS HUSTLING UP THINGS OF VINTAGE, WHILE APPEARING MEAN AND MISERLY. SCROOGE, YOU SEE, AS A MISER, EAGERLY CONSUMED THE ESTATE OF HIS OLD BUSINESS PARTNER, JACOB MARLEY, AFTER HIS DEATH, IN "A CHRISTMAS CAROL." I AM RESERVEDLY FLATTERED, THAT MY LIFE HAS BECOME SOMEWHAT FICTIONAL, SUCH THAT I MIGHT ONE DAY FIND MYSELF CHARACTERIZED IN A PLAY. MIGHT I BE ASKED TO PLAY MYSELF? MIGHT IT EVEN BE A LEAD ROLE? WOULDN'T THAT BE NEAT? "THE ANTIQUE GUY!"

     MY BOYS JUST CALL ME "DAD," AND SUZANNE CALLS ME "TED," OR, "COME ON, YOU OLD FART, WE'LL BE LATE." BEING REFERENCED TO LITERARY AND HISTORIC CHARACTERS COMES FROM MY LONG TIME OVERLAPPING PROFESSIONS, OF BOTH WRITER AND REGIONAL HISTORIAN…..AND LATELY, ARTIST BIOGRAPHER. AFTER SUZANNE AND I RAN WOODCHESTER VILLA AND MUSEUM FOR FIVE OR SO YEARS, AND THEN THE BRACEBRIDGE SPORTS HALL OF FAME, I WAS FREQUENTLY CALLED "THE CURATOR." WHEN I WAS ATTENDING REGULAR MUSKOKA AUCTIONS, NOT ONLY DID THE AUCTIONEERS HAVE NAMES FOR ME…..SOME WERE OKAY, OTHERS NOT SO MUCH,….. BUT FELLOW AUCTION-GOERS HAD TITLES FOR THIS WRITER / DEALER. IF I BOUGHT MORE QUILTS AT ONE AUCTION, THAN USUAL, I WAS KNOWN FOR THE REST OF THE SALE SEASON, AS "THE QUILT MAN." NO KIDDING. I ACTUALLY CONFIRMED THIS RECENTLY, WITH ONE OF THE LADIES I USED TO STAND BESIDE, AT THESE SAME AUCTIONS TWENTY OR MORE YEARS AGO. SHE CAME INTO OUR NEW SHOP, HERE IN GRAVENHURST, AND CONFESSED THAT SHE WAS, INDEED, ONE OF MANY, WHO HAD TITLES FOR THOSE WHO HAD HABITUAL BIDDING CHARACTERISTICS. WHEN I STARTED BUYING OLD CHAIRS TO RESTORE, SURE ENOUGH, I BECAME THE "CHAIR MAN OF THE BOARD." I WAS THE "TABLE MAN," WHEN I WAS CHASING PINE HARVEST TABLES, "THE BOOK MAN," WHEN BY OPPORTUNITY ALONE, I BEGAN BUYING BOOKS REGULARLY AT AUCTIONS. I'D KNOW WHAT THEY WERE CALLING ME, BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T WHISPER. WHEN I WON A BID, SOMEONE WOULD SAY, "OH, BY THE WAY, THE QUILT MAN JUST BOUGHT THEM ALL," REFERRING TO THE FACT THAT IF I BOUGHT ONE, I COULD JUST AS EASILY HAVE BOUGHT TEN. I VERY SELDOM LEFT ANY BEHIND OF A COLLECTION, BECAUSE SUZANNE AT THE TIME, WOULD SCRAP POOR CONDITION QUILTS, TO PROVIDE VINTAGE BLOCKS FOR OTHER ONES, IN NEED OF REPLACEMENT WORK. VINTAGE QUILTS, FROM THE SAME HOUSE, USUALLY HAVE A SIMILAR AGE AND PROVENANCE, MEANING THERE'S A GOOD CHANCE THERE WAS A FAMILY CONNECTION OF QUILTERS, AND AS WELL, FADING AND AGE OF THE FABRIC BLOCKS COULD BE ROUGHLY THE SAME. THIS IS OF COURSE, IMPORTANT FOR MATCHING REPLACEMENT PIECES, AND IT'S ALWAYS BETTER IF YOU CAN USE VINTAGE FABRIC VERSUS NEW. THE SAME CAN BE SAID FOR FURNITURE REPAIR. OLD WOOD USED AS REPLACEMENT FOR TABLE-TOPS AND DRAWERS, INSTEAD OF TRYING TO AGE NEW WOOD.

AN EARLY START AS A COLLECTOR MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE

     Some times, when I'm talking to a customer or friend about the antique profession, I get this biography in mind, and I vow, in silence, to organize my thoughts, one day, in manuscript format, about the pre-occupation I've had, since my early days; and bloody-well set down to write a book about it…..before I get so muddled-headed that I forget how it all began. It's what I want to tell people, in conversation, but it seems awkward to all of a sudden, interrupt the conversation, to tell the formerly eager listener, "say, you know what……I want to start from the beginning….you know…..how did I get sucked into this obsession with old-stuff and collecting it?" And then, as they roll their eyes, I might ask them, "so, how much time have you got……because it's a long story?" By the way, I don't do this, as a rule, because if I did, I would suck all the air out of the room, and without intending to…..sound ridiculously pompous….more than usual; and seem as if I'm trying to dodge the question, of whether or not, I could be described as an "out of control collector," or gads, the worse case scenario….."A hoarder." But there's no way of explaining how I got to this stage, in the antique trade, without offering some insights on the way it all began for me. It wasn't the result of trauma, a drop on the head, an unusually long period wearing sleepers, and believing in the Easter Bunny, or having domineering parents who wouldn't let me have stuff. Truthfully, I was born this way. I had a perfectly normal upbringing, first in Toronto, then Burlington, Ontario, and further north, by my early teens, to the District of Muskoka. Hometown then, was Bracebridge, Ontario. I liked everywhere we lived, although I don't remember much about my Toronto stint, as you might expect of a two year old's ability to retain these household scenes. Teachers thought I was shy, and withdrawn, and reluctant to participate. If they had been asking who wanted to go out in a canoe, or on a hike, or to go over to the arena and play three periods of shinny, I was always ready to fly-out of the classroom, like a liberated bird from a cage. If I was given an opportunity to participate in group work, crap, that didn't inspire me at all. Accept, I footnote, if there was a girl in the group I had a crush on, and back in those years, if it wasn't for the frequent crushes, I'd have quit school in Grade five. It kept me going when nothing else did. I hated school for every year I was enrolled, and then married a teacher. Talk about your strange coincidences.

     I have little idea what emotional / mental stimulus occurred, on the first day, on the way to Lakeshore Public School, in Burlington, that inspired me to pick up old metal, and heavy iron chunks, nuts and bolts, pieces of chrome bumpers from old accident scenes, and shiny rocks, I found in the Ramble Creek frolic, whenever I had free time in those halcyon days of childhood. I used to come home, after school, with my pants half-pulled down (by weight not fashion), with pockets loaded, and sometimes even with found livestock, like crickets and other curious bugs, along with some frogs and toads, found in the tall grasses of the creek valley. Merle would meet me at the door, if she happened to be home, and I had to stand out on the lawn, and empty my pockets……like it was a police check. My mother had a "no wildlife" policy in the house, but I did get through the check-point with limestone slabs with fossil imprints of ferns, etc., and some shiny stones. The metal pieces never got into my room, unless she was working, which then, was at a bank in Hamilton. My second mother, and babysitter supreme, was Ann Nagy, who was the landlord of the Harris Crescent apartment block, where we lived, and she would shake me down roughly the same. "Teddy, don't make me turn you upside down, to shake out those pockets," she'd say, while gesturing, a sort of airborne cleansing ritual. They both addressed the "coming home with junk" syndrome, by making sure I was frisked, but it didn't stop me from doing the same thing the next day, and all the days after that…..right up to the present.

     Of all the names I've ever been called, "Scrounger," was the most appropriate……and the one I felt was least offensive, to what I actually did on a day to day basis, whether at school, at the local arena, ball field, or playing in the woodlands; or just riding our bikes along the streets of town. If I spotted something that clearly (in my mind) didn't have an owner, I could dismount off the bike, like a rodeo star, and scoop up the ball, bat, car part, or empty pop bottle, without missing much travel-time with my mates. At that time, If someone had interviewed me, asking why I pursue this "hunt and gather" recreation, I would have just looked at them, and assumed they were talking to someone else, beside me, behind me, or anywhere else around me. I didn't think that what I was doing, was significant enough to even have a point. I do recall however, this insatiable feeling of a subject piece's "worth," and not in monetary terms. That came later. Possession of an item, was like a small pirate booty. I watched a lot of pirate themed movies as a kid. And westerns with gold and bank heists as themes. I wasn't a criminal apprentice, or a tomb raider emerging, but a kid who found a lot of things worth possessing. I'm not sure if I thought they were status items. I don't think so, except the "sliver" and broken shafted hockey sticks from the arena, that I cherished as a kid. We used to play with those half-busted sticks, because we usually didn't have ones ourselves. Times were lean, and we lived in a modestly appointed, affordable rent neighborhood. So the only stick I had, was the one I could find, tossed over the boards, that may have had a tiny bit of blade left, or a third of its shaft remaining…..which was good for driveway shinny. I also went nuts for pucks over the boards, and in fact, the first name I was called, as a collector-hanger-on, was at the Burlington Arena, when a staff member pointed at me, one morning, suggesting another kid missing a toque, go and as the "Rink Rat," over there, if he's seen it. Again, as it happened many times, I looked around me to see who he was calling "Rink Rat." Well sir, I must have been a full fledged rink rat, according to this guy's standard, because I did have the kid's toque stuffed into my pocket. "Finder's Keepers," I wanted to say, because it was a Maple Leafs toque, and I didn't have one. Well I did temporarily, but I gave it back to the kid. He'd left it on a bleacher seat, and I was just cleaning up as usual.

     I remember, one evening, quite a few years back, Suzanne calling me to report my son's school indiscretions. Now Andrew was a good kid, and we never had any serious problems with his behavior…..except for the time he bit a fellow sand-box user, over a toy possession "difference of opinion;" then when he called another kid "bum head," because he had a physical deformity; and the time he hurled a snowball right in front of a high school teacher, no more than five minutes after the warning was issued….."those throwing snowballs would be suspended from school." On this occasion, back in about Grade four, he had come home with a number of items in his school bag that didn't belong to him. One item, was a large battery, from some device we knew nothing about. For more than two hours, we worked every angle, to try and ferret out the truth…..how he had come by these items, some more interesting and useful than others, when we knew, that we hadn't bought them for him. Finally, his brother Robert whispered in my ear, "Dad, he found them in the garbage at school." By golly, how does that song go…."Cats in the cradle…..?" Andrew was doing exactly what I had in the late 1950's and early 60's, first at Lakeshore Public School and beyond. The garbage was my favorite spot to hunt and gather. So here, after all those years of being habitual myself, my kid was working the angles himself, and raiding the trash bin, inside the classroom, in the hall, and outside. What we found in his bag, was just the catch of the day. "My boy had turned out just like me."

The Angel, The Kitchen, Ramble Creek and Harris Crescent

THE ANGEL, THE KITCHEN, RAMBLE CREEK, AND HARRIS CRESCENT

BURLINGTON AND GRAVENHURST - I LOVE THEM BOTH

     I CERTAINLY NEVER FELT COMFORTABLE, SITTING DOWN WITH MY HOCKEY BUDDIES AND TELLING THEM ABOUT THE "ANGEL DREAM," I HAD AS A KID. IF I HAD BROKEN OUT THIS LITTLE GEM OF PERSONAL HISTORY, IN FRONT OF SOME OF MY NEWSPAPER COLLEAGUES, IN THE PUB AFTER WORK, THEY'D HAVE MADE ME FEEL AWFULLY SILLY. IT WASN'T UNTIL A FEW YEARS AGO, THAT I EVEN FELT COMFORTABLE TELLING MY WIFE, SUZANNE, THAT I ONCE HAD A RELIGIOUSLY SIGNIFICANT DREAM. ALL SHE SAID TO ME WAS, "ONLY ONE!" AS IF ONE ANGEL DREAM ISN'T ENOUGH. OR THAT I SHOULD HAVE HAD MANY, MANY FOLLOW-UP VISITATIONS FROM A VARIETY OF RELIGIOUS FIGURES. I KNEW SHE WAS HAVING FUN WITH ME, BUT IT'S ONE OF THOSE SITUATIONS, THAT NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU TRY TO EXPLAIN IT, AND REMOVE THE MYSTERY, THERE'S SIMPLY NO DENYING IT AFFECTED MY YOUNG LIFE. HOW MANY OF YOU, READING THIS NOW, HAVE HAD A DREAM IN YOUR MIND FOR MORE THAN FIVE OR TEN YEARS? WHAT ABOUT TWENTY-FIVE? FORTY?  WELL, MINE HAS BEEN AS CLEAR AND POIGNANT FOR HALF A CENTURY. THAT'S WHAT I CALL RETENTION. SEEING AS I CAN'T REMEMBER THE DREAM I HAD FROM LAST NIGHT, BUT I WOKE UP THIS MORNING WITH IT FRESH ON MY MIND. BY THE TIME I'D WASHED MY FACE, IT WAS GONE. THE ANGEL IN MY DREAM, IN AND AROUND MY SEVENTH YEAR OF LIFE, IS STILL WHERE SHE WAS BEFORE, HOVERING THERE, IN THE CORNER OF A ROOM, WITH ENORMOUS WINGS, A SHADE OF WHITE I HAD NEVER BEFORE, OR AFTER, EXPERIENCED IN COGNIZANT EXISTENCE. THE SCENT IN THIS ANGEL'S PRESENCE, WAS LIKE NOTHING ON EARTH. SHE WAS SPEAKING TO ME, WITHOUT ANY MOVEMENT OF HER MOUTH, AND I WAS GETTING THE MESSAGE. IT WASN'T MY TIME.

     "ANYONE WHO EXPERIENCES THE ANGEL PRESENCE IS CHANGED BY IT AND BECOMES, IN A VERY REAL SENSE, PART OF IT." THIS IS NOTED IN THE 2004 BOOK, "AN EXTRAORDINARY GATHERING OF ANGELS," BY MARGARET BARKER. "ANGEL' MEANS MESSENGER, AND HUMANS EXPERIENCE ANGELS PRIMARILY AS MESSENGERS. BUT THIS IS NOT WHAT THEY 'ARE,' THIS IS WHAT THEY DO."

     IN THE CHAPTER, HEADED "PERCEIVING ANGLES," THE AUTHOR WRITES, "ANGELS CAN BE PERCEIVED BY ANY OF THE HUMAN SENSES, BUT ONLY WHEN THEY ENTER OUR STATE OF TIME AND MATTER, ARE THEY PERCEIVED AS DISTINCT BEINGS. A RECENT SURVEY SHOWED THAT MOST PEOPLE WHO EXPERIENCED AN ANGEL HAD NOT SEEN ANYTHING, BUT THERE ARE PRACTICAL DIFFICULTIES IN CONVEYING A SENSE OF PERFUME OR ETHEREAL SOUND, A WARM UNFOLDING PRESENCE, A PARTICULAR TASTE SENSATION, OR A MOMENT OF SPIRITUAL OR INTELLECTUAL ILLUMINATION." SHE ALSO NOTES THAT, "THE PERFUME OF ANGELS IS DESCRIBED IN VARIOUS WAYS; THE SCENT OF FLOWERS, PERHAPS, OF SWEET MYRRH." BUT IT IS THE ASSERTION, BY THE AUTHOR THAT, "THERE CAN BE NO OBJECTIVE KNOWLEDGE OF ANGELS, NO GLIMPSE OF THE STATE BEYOND THE VEIL THAT IS JUST INTELLECTUAL ENQUIRY. KNOWLEDGE OF THE ANGELS, BOTH KNOWING ANGELS AND KNOWING WHAT THEY KNOW, IS KNOWLEDGE OF A DIFFERENT ORDER. IT IS BEYOND HUMAN KNOWLEDGE, AND ONCE RECEIVED, SUPERSEDES ALL HUMAN KNOWLEDGE. IT CANNOT BE UNLEARNED; THERE IS NO GOING BACK." EXPLAINS RATHER BLUNTLY HOW LONG AN ANGEL DREAM CAN LAST.

     SOME TIME AFTER I HAD THIS INCREDIBLY CLEAR, INTER-ACTIVE DREAM, WHILE LIVING AT THE NAGY APARTMENTS, IN BURLINGTON, I ASKED MY MOTHER IF I COULD GO TO CHURCH. SHE WAS ABSOLUTELY STUNNED WHEN I ASKED THIS QUESTION. "WHY DO YOU WANT TO GO TO CHURCH TEDDY," SHE ASKED, AS IT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE FURTHEST THING FROM HER MIND, AT THAT POINT. I DIDN'T HAVE AN ANSWER AS TO WHY, AND I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO ADD FIFTY YEARS LATER. THE ONLY THING SHE ASKED, WAS THAT I GO TO THE BURLINGTON UNITED CHURCH, AS IT WAS APPROPRIATE WITH HER OWN RELIGIOUS BACKGROUND. AS A KID, GROWING UP IN A RELIGIOUS HOUSEHOLD, IN TORONTO, SHE USED TO GO TO CHURCH AT LEAST TWICE ON SUNDAYS, EVERY SINGLE WEEK. LATER IN LIFE, AND ONCE MARRIED, MY PARENTS DIDN'T GO TO CHURCH. MY MOTHER CONFESSED TO ME, ON OCCASION, THAT SHE THOUGHT I SHOULD GO TO CHURCH, BUT IT NEVER HAPPENED. UNTIL THE DAY I THOUGHT I SHOULD GIVE IT A TRY. MERLE FOUND OUT ABOUT SUNDAY SCHOOL CLASSES, AND I WAS INVITED TO ATTEND. I LASTED FOUR SUNDAYS. IT WASN'T FOR ME. BUT IT DIDN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH FAITH, AS I HAVE LONG BELIEVED IN GOD, AND THAT THERE IS AN AFTERLIFE. I HAVE TO ADMIT THIS NOW, THAT BEING IN CHURCH DIDN'T MAKE ME FEEL CLOSER TO GOD, OR MY GUARDIAN ANGEL. RECALLING MY DREAM, WHENEVER I HAVE FELT BLUE OR UNINSPIRED, HAS ALWAYS MADE ME FEEL A LOT CLOSER TO HEAVEN. IT HAS FOR ME, BEEN A FEELING OF SECURITY, AT TIMES OF WEAKNESS, AND A WARM SENSATION IN THE SOUL, WHEN I'VE BEEN ILL AND WONDERING IF MY TIME WAS COMING. THE ANGEL SPOKE TO ME, DURING MY CHURCH DAYS, AND MADE ME FEEL THAT FAITH WAS PERSONAL, AND THAT BELIEVING, IN MY CASE, WASN'T GOING TO BE ENHANCED AT ALL, BY GOING TO CHURCH TWICE ON SUNDAYS, OR JUST ONCE IN A BLUE MOON.

     FOR THOSE READERS WHO AREN'T AWARE OF MY ANGEL ENCOUNTER, IT OCCURRED DURING A WICKED ILLNESS I HAD, BEFORE I GOT THE IDEA TO GO TO CHURCH; WHEN DOCTORS DEBATED WHETHER I HAD WHOOPING COUGH OR JUST A SERIOUS CHEST INFECTION. EVERY TIME I COUGHED, I WAS SICK TO MY STOMACH. I SAT UP IN A CHAIR FOR ABOUT A WEEK, AND HAD FEVERS ON AND OFF. EVERYTHING I TRIED TO EAT WOULDN'T STAY DOWN, SO I HAD LOST A LOT OF WEIGHT IN A SHORT PERIOD. I KNOW THE WAY MERLE AND ED WERE TALKING, THAT I WAS ON THE BRINK OF GOING TO THE HOSPITAL, BECAUSE I COULDN'T EVEN KEEP FLUIDS DOWN. IT WAS DURING A BAD BOUT OF FEVER, AND A FITFUL SLEEP, BETWEEN COUGHING JAGS, THAT I EXPERIENCED THIS ANGEL DREAM. I REALLY DIDN'T KNOW WHAT AN ANGEL WAS, EXCEPT WHAT WE HAD ON OUR CHRISTMAS TREE, AND AS I HAD NEVER BEEN TO CHURCH IN MY YOUNG LIFE, THE ONLY OTHER ANGEL I MIGHT HAVE SEEN, WOULD HAVE BEEN IN A MOVIE, POTENTIALLY. I DON'T KNOW IF I HAD, TO THAT POINT, EVER BEEN EXPOSED TO A VISUAL DEFINITION OF WHAT AN ANGEL LOOKED LIKE, BEFORE THIS DREAM GAVE ME ALL THE INFORMATION I REQUIRED. IF I WAS AN ARTIST, I COULD DRAW HER EXACTLY. EVEN TODAY. THE ODDEST PART OF COURSE, WAS THAT THE ANGEL APPEARED IN A CORNER OF THE APARTMENT LAUNDRY ROOM OF ALL PLACES. IN THE DREAM, I OPEN THE DOOR TO THE BIG OPEN ROOM, WALK DOWN THE FEW STAIRS ONTO THE CONCRETE FLOOR, AND TURN TO MY LEFT, AS SOMETHING HAD CAUGHT MY ATTENTION.

     Hovering in the corner, with large white wings, and a whiteness that was brilliantly bright,……an illumination, that should have been blinding but it wasn't. Even as a kid, without any real knowledge of what was earthly and what wasn't, the angel in front of me, was definitely not earthly. The knowledge transmitted, as I stood there, made it clear, this was beyond anything I could decipher as a mere mortal. This is exactly how I felt. Mortal. The angel was compelling me to pay attention, but in a loving, dominating way. I remember not being able to move at all. But it wasn't the case I wanted to leave. I wasn't scared, but I was enormously curious. I didn't even know what death was, and how a mortal becomes immortal. There was a sweet aroma, that I have never smelled again. There was a slight chill, but I wasn't cold. I felt as if I was floating, as she was, and there was no way of exiting this situation. There was a sound but it was as if something was "whirring," but in a deep, subtle vibration, and once I laid my eyes on the specter, it was as if my head was in a vice, and I could not look away. As I've noted before, she was telling me something, but there was no movement of her lips, yet the words were being received. I felt at great ease, and physically, it had been more than a week since I could sleep for more than an hour, without a fit of coughing, and wrenching into a container at the side of my chair. I felt at peace. Calm. There was no trepidation being in her presence. There was, however, a keen awareness at the time, this was an unusual circumstance from what I had come to know of life, thus far. I understood what was happening, and that the angel was letting me know I had many more years of life to enjoy. This sickness would pass. The look on her face was so peaceful and calming, that I would have chased death, to take hold of her wing, and fly away to heaven's gate. This was not my destiny. When I woke up, Merle was sitting beside me, half asleep, with a cloth in her hand, she had been using wet, to cool my temperature. She startled awake when I opened my eyes, and she immediately stood up and checked my temperature. She yelled to my father, slumbering in another chair, that the fever had broken. I didn't know what this meant exactly, but I felt much better. I never confessed the alleged meeting with my guardian angel. It wasn't important that she knew about this, because nothing was going to shake the belief I had, something wonderful had just occurred. I did get well, and in only a few days, I was back to Lakeshore Public School, and playing baseball again with Ray Green and the lads. Is it possible, this was a genuine meeting with the angel-kind? What are the odds? What has it meant for this writer, over a lifetime? Was I the benefactor of enlightenment, at this age? Have I been enlightened ever since? My mother told neighbor friends, one day when I was in the lower hall, eavesdropping, that "I was praying to God that Teddy would pull through." Geez, maybe I was in trouble that night. As far as enlightenment, well, that's for you to decide, based on what I've written. I feel enlightened, but that doesn't mean I am thusly endowed.

     For years now, I have been drawn to books about angels, china figures, carved wooden angels, pictures and paintings of angels, and just about anything else that reminds me of the strange meeting I had with a dream angel. The only book I have at my desk-side today, is the one I quoted from earlier, by Margaret Barker, because it contains the most information, of all the source books I've consulted, most relevant to my own experience. There are a few reprints of famous paintings, depicting an angel or cluster of God's messengers, that remind me, even in a small way, of the characteristics, and features, I witnessed during that dreamland encounter. I can start re-living the dream from just the slightest provocation or inspiration, of feeling, smelling, touching or seeing something that reminds me of the conditions of that meeting. It has, I suppose, been one of the things that has routinely kept this dream alive, for me, over this half century, when by all the precedents, it should have dissipated years ago. These points of light, jig me back, almost as an imposition of condition, that I not forget, that by the grace of God, I am still very much alive.

     You will understand then, how difficult it has been to admit the context, of what might only ever have been, a delusion brought on by fever. There are certain contemporaries who would think me quite a "nutter," if I was to admit such a belief in something that was, by my own admission, most likely, just a vivid dream. I don't think my revelation would hold up to scrutiny, by others, even if you now, were to consider aggressive dreams you've had, when terribly ill…..but never had a problem discerning a dream from the qualities and quantities of real life experience. If an angel was to come to you, while wide awake, and it was witnessed by several others, and you got a feather as evidence, that would be slightly more compelling, than me telling you, I had a visitation from a dream-angel. The only qualifier here, is that I did survive, as she told me I would; I did go to church to find out about angles, and their relationship to God, and I have never, in 50 years, been able to forget the dream to its finest sensory detail. It was an ethereal, beautiful experience, of peace and tranquility, and a feeling I hope to experience again. If this is what death represents, then we fear unnecessarily, what the after-life represents.

     I have often pondered, whether my great fondness for Burlington, and the Nagy Apartments, had something to do with this experience. Was it the reason that I paid much more attention to my surroundings, and feel today, as if part of my spirit remains there today, liberated, to carry on the play of once…..the adventures that didn't have an end……the times with friends who were blood buddies, to eternity?  I can retrace my steps, sitting nearly two hundred miles to the north, and feel the sensations of the Nagy's cool grass on my bare feet, smell the cherries from the old tree, the gas that Alec poured into the tank of his lawn mower, the blossoms on Mrs. White's fruit trees, and the glorious…..heavenly smells coming from Ann Nagy's kitchen, where her bread was cooling on a rack, and her famous apple pies, were just finishing-up in the oven. It is a sensory bombardment, if I wish, and over the past week, it has been so much fun, re-living those good old days, when my family and I resided at 2138 Harris Crescent.

     Ann Nagy had a masterful way of peeling an apple. She liked to be able to make one cut into the apple, and provide one long, spiraling peel at the end. It was like a challenge for her. My victory, was that I got to eat the peels, and the longer the better. I got to sample everything she cooked. Her culinary talent was beyond what one might call exceptional. Her food was the kind that satisfied every hunger pang you had. It was food for a lumberjack. It was hardy and nutritious, and for years and years I used to say to Merle….who was a mediocre cook at best….."this isn't as good as what Nagy made me." There was no way on earth, Merle or even Ed, who became a good cook in later years, could hold a candle to the master cook, Ann Nagy. Did I mention her cabbage rolls? I would have cut off my arm, for her cabbage rolls. Her hot buttered bread, was sinful. When Alec and I were called from the living room, to come to the kitchen table, we arrived with eyes wide-open…..a minor amount of drool at the corners of our mouths, and feeling our hearts palpitate in respective chests, as casserole dishes steamed, and soup runneth-over, and beautiful brown pie-crusts oozed apple syrup around the edges. When Alec dug-in, it was for the long-haul. He'd wink at me, like a sergeant, getting the platoon ready for a charge onto the battlefield. When he reached for the bread, and the butter knife, he was, you see, telling me, "be brave son, tear off a chunk…..today, is the first day of the rest of our lives." There was an aura of good living in that kitchen, I will never forget, or surrender to old age. I will always remember the smile of satisfaction on Alec's face, when he sat back in his chair, folded his hands across his full belly, and said, "Teddy, have you had enough to eat." If there is a definable heavenly smile, it was painted on my face. Because this was what any one would like of heaven, but this place was on earth.

A Connection To Burlington After All These Years

I AM SO HAPPILY HAUNTED BY THE PAST - I GET A CHANCE TO SAY THANK YOU, GRAVENHURST TO BURLINGTON

MAKING A BURLINGTON CONNECTION AFTER ALL THESE YEARS - I AM INDEBTED TO THE ALCHEMY OF THE INTERNET

     For those who know me well…..maybe too well for their own good, they realize that when I tell them something we do together, will generate some unspecified psychic action and reaction, they will thusly appreciate the importance of making this latest connection, from my first true hometown, to most likely, my last. Suzanne came running to me last night, to pull me away from the CBC News, to tell me about an incredible email we'd just received……that was allegedly, going to make my year. Emails I get are usually short and sweet, and begin and end with the word "jerk." Other emailers typically want me to buy a skid of Viagra or baldness eliminator, which I respectfully decline. I just couldn't imagine what kind of electronic correspondence would quality as "incredible." Keeping in mind, my wife is a school librarian and measures her words and excitement about such things very carefully. This was a code blue for her. Well by golly, the content of the email, not only was a highlight of the year, but of more than three decades. You see, it was back in 1977, that I last visited with our family friend, Anne Nagy, of 2138 Harris Crescent, in Burlington, Ontario. Where I "cut" my teeth on outdoor adventures, and earned my stripes as a resident, and neighborhood trouble-maker. It was where I became both a collector and a future writer, and in many ways, Anne Nagy was an effervescent, unfailing source of direction and inspiration. She was my day-mother for quite some time, while my parents, Merle and Ed, worked through the week in either Hamilton or Toronto.

     The email was sent by a very kind lady, who happens to know the Nagy family well. In fact, Tracy McKelvey, lives in the same building, where our own small family used to reside, and often sits at the front of the building with Anne herself. They like to chat about the neighborhood and its history, and apparently Anne has quite a few stories about the good old days. I don't think my name came up, during their conversations, but Tracy decided to do a bit of online research, to see if there was any morsel of unknown history about this quaint bailiwick of residential Burlington……nestled so comfortably on the hillside above the expanse of Lake Ontario. This is where she found reference to Harris Crescent, and Anne Nagy. I had written a blog some time ago, about my rapscallion days growing up on this wonderful cul-de-sac. In fact, over the past six or seven months, I've written a dozen or so blogs about my early days growing up in this chestnut-tree lined neighborhood, rising up Torrance Avenue (I think it was), from the Lakeshore Road. I'm not sure if it was Lakeshore Avenue or Road. I just know I loved it there, with the sound of Ramble Creek gurgling in the abutting hollow, my mother called "the ravine." I went to school in Burlington listening to the fog horns of the freighters on the lake. I went to school in Muskoka, in later years, listening to loons. I liked both sounds.

     Tracy you see, offered, so kindly, to print-off a copy of today's blog, for Anne's benefit. While Anne was always a very astute and progressive contemporary lady, I couldn't imagine her hunkered down over a computer, like I am today. I was sorry to learn that her husband is in a retirement home, because Alec was my first close friend. You see, Alec and Anne, and their daughter Mary Anne, were the owners of the apartment building I have always remembered as "2138 Harris Crescent." It's what Merle had written onto the inside label of my windbreakers and snowsuits, so I'd get them back, when I dumped them because I got too hot playing. But it was always "Nagy's Apartment," and, if I was vain enough to write a proper biography, it would take up the first six chapters. I learned a lot in those few years, from the mid 1950's to just after the Assassination of John F. Kennedy. That's when my mother had to write a new label in my clothes. For several years our new address was "1321 Brant Street," in the Mountain Gardens area of Burlington. I didn't like that apartment, because it wasn't Nagy's. I never really understood why we moved in the first place. I was a happy camper sitting under the shade of Anne's beautiful cherry tree in the back yard. I was more than just a little contented to hover over the wire fence, that separated our apartment building from the enchanted Victorian home belonging to Mrs. White. She had some interesting fruit trees and mysterious out-buildings, that Alec warned me to stay away from……and Merle told me Mrs. White, God rest her soul, would turn me into a horny toad, if I crossed that threshold property-line. I did cross that line, ripped the arse out of my pants, getting back over, and had a hard time explaining to my mother, how I got a two foot long scratch down the inside of my leg, during one of the great escapes.

     Anne looked after me, and another child, by the name of Jeanie Sproule, and I think on several occasions we may have done somethings deemed "very bad"…….not sure what it was……possibly eating our silly putty, or something, but we had a fair number of time-outs. I used to take my soul-searching respites, huddled under the Nagy's beautiful piano, where I could not, for the the life of me, stop screwing with the pedals. Anne had a way of emphasizing my name, that was deep and stretched in speech, such that it sounded like, "Tedeeeeeeee!" When I was removed from that portal, I was told to sit on her leather couch, which contained an unspecified smell of preserved hide, that I can recall any time I want to reminisce. If I'd been particularly bad that day, I hid my face deep in the corner of that couch, to bury my shame for disrupting Anne's always busy schedule. I don't know if inhaling leather was a good thing or not, but I spent a lot of time riding that former cow. The scent always reminded me of walnuts. As I usually only sat on the couch when I was in trouble, I associated leather and walnuts as contrary articles to the person I was becoming.

     As I'm a devilish bugger even today, I was to the exponent of ten, back then. If my mother told me not to come home with a "soaker,' I would come home with two, the behind torn out of my pants, a cut on my forehead from some innocent rock throwing, and I might even have a couple of slippery smelts tucked into my pants. No really. Don't laugh. I'd even come home with frogs in there, and maybe once or twice, one of the big "Suckers" that used to thrive in the still, dark pools of Ramble Creek. So For Anne Nagy, I was a challenge. I was much more respectful of her, than my mother, because Anne could run like an Olympian hurdler, and catch me by the arm like she was in the throes of a relay race……Jeannie with the other. Alec was also surprisingly nimble when he heard a crash, and it's a wonder I didn't give him a heart attack…..because there was a lot of crashing attributed to "that Currie kid." I heard one lady remark, after I'd overturned a grocery cart in a store, by accident, that she could smell "sulphur." So I wanted to know what that meant, and what sulphur smelled like. "Like the devil," she said with a chuckle, picking up the broken eggs, and pieces of glass from the former pickle jar, shattered in the tipped-over cart.

     My greatest pleasure, as I have written about frequently, over the years, was when Anne was in her kitchen cooking, and I had to be kept under control. I wanted to be restrained, if it meant my time-out zone was her kitchen. I'd sit in the small room, watching her cook…..bake pies, cut up and peel apples. I got to eat the peels first and the fresh baked pie at lunch. Her culinary creations were to die-for, and Alec knew how good he had it…….and on a few occasions, he may have winked, when we'd come in the hallway door, and he start licking his lips in advance…….because he knew what each aroma represented that lunch or dinner. It was Alec Nagy, who taught me the old-school way, of dining in Anne's kitchen. You didn't worry about utensils. That's what the honking big slice of bread, dripping with butter was all about. He showed me how to "embrace the bread," as if it was man's best friend. It was what would sop-up the gravy in the stew, and curved into the shape of a scoop, to then bring forth the meat, potatoes and carrots, without the metal taste of a spoon. He showed me how to enjoy good food. I can always remember Alec in his trademark undershirt, with arms like Popeye, settled down over his meal like…..as if it might be his last; he was going to celebrate every bite. I watched him like a Hawk, because I was often experiencing menu-items I wasn't used to getting at home. I had the best of the best. Hot apple pies for desert. Home made by a heaven-sent cook, who liked nothing more than a guest who begged for seconds. Actually, Alec and I got to the point we just looked at her longingly, and we'd get a re-fill of whatever was being served. Her cabbage rolls were like a drug for me. Even as a teenager when one of my cronies would ask if I wanted some marijuana, and while it was kind of embarrassing, I'd mumble softly, that honestly, I'd sooner have a cabbage roll instead. It was Anne Nagy who honed my passion for culinary adventure, and Alec who showed me what a "boarding house reach," was. If I wasn't fast enough on the draw, with a long enough reach, he'd beat me for the last slice of bread, or the one hot muffin still on the table.

     The Nagy's ran the nicest, cleanest, and friendliest apartment building anywhere on earth. I used to help her clean. My thrill was to get to use the giant mop-type contraption, she used on the apartment hallways, and the aromatic product, red and green, she used as a dust suppressor. Dustbain or something like that, but the smell is also one of those childhood senses that has survived, for me, into this new century. When Alec had a day off, from his manufacturing plant, which I always thought was International Harvester, I used to help him mow the lawn. He had this giant open bladed mower, like a hand-pushed model but with what sounded like a Harley-Davidson engine; that when he started it started up, got the attention of all the neighbors, including the evasive Mrs. White, who would show up on her covered verandah, wondering if an aircraft was going to crash. He kept it in a small white shed, with many intriguing doors, at the side of the building, and it always smelled of lawn care and gasoline. I didn't gain any mechanical skills from Alec, just some good cuss words when he pinched his finger in the lawnmower, or hit his thumb with a hammer. Once again Mrs. White might look over the fence to see what all the fuss was about. Alec would just smile and wish her a good day, and then return to cussing…..but not for my ears.

      Then there was the day I was riding my first two-wheeler, when I did a cartwheel in front of the apartment. Alec, who was no stranger to tending his own wounds, as a handyman, ran out of the side-yard like a superhero, pulled the bike off my head, and when he asked if I was okay, it was just seconds before he saw the huge gouge in my leg, caused by an errant pedal. So while I was dusting off my road-rashed ass, he kept me distracted, because I got faint at the sight of blood. I can see someone else's blood, just not my own. So before I freaked out about the big hole in my leg, Alec was already ushering me away from the middle of the road, and to his little shed where he kept a medical kit. At least this is how I remember it. 'It's okay Teddy, just a little cut." "Cut?" I answered. That was the magic word. "Am I going to die?" I blurted as I started to feel light-headed. I was on the verge of fainting, when something began searing at my flesh. Cripes, he'd dumped about a half bottle of iodine on the wound, and I swear to Christ there was smoke coming off it. I have feared iodine ever since. I'd have gladly bled to death, than have that horrible stuff on my cut. He actually had to hold me from strangling him, and I was only a kid. Strange thing about iodine. It has about a two minute horror threshold, before the pain subsides. I know it was the right treatment at the perfect time, and every time I look at the impression, still visible after all these years, I can't help think about the morning of the iodine incident. It sure as hell made me want to stay on my bike, after that. I've always been wary of medical kits however, and what antiseptic that can hurt me, is tucked inside.

     Alec didn't like repetitive chatter on my part. I think that's why he used to do the lawn so recently……that seemed like the whole time when he was home, and not eating or sleeping. I had two items I wanted from his collection of old stuff. I wanted a metal popcorn basket with a wire handle, that I think was used over an open fire, and an old suitcase he kept in his shed. So knowing he didn't like my badgering, I gave him both barrels. It took weeks. He even went to my mother and asked permission. "Teddy's driving me nuts Merle…..can he have this stuff," he begged. The popcorn popper was for no other purpose, than to prove I had what it took, as a kid, to get what I wanted. The suitcase? I was a big circus fan, and I had an idea that I was meant to be a performer in one. I often heard people in our neighborhood say things like, "That Currie kid belongs in a three ring circus," and "Does the circus know that kid escaped." So I thought it would be neat to put all my performance tools in the old musty smelling suitcase, that I could haul around the yard……ready to perform on a moment's notice. I used the empty suitcase as a small but adequate stage for my acts. I wasn't very good, or so folks told me by walking away briskly, and not looking back. So the circus phase was over quickly. Merle wouldn't let me keep the musty suitcase in the apartment, so guess where it wound up…….for the very next kid to find, while watching Alec working in his shed.

     Anne and my mother used to sit on the parking lot side of the apartment, adjacent to Mrs. Bell's multi-family house, just above the ravine, where Ramble Creek frothed over the flat limestone bridges. I remember the spring we had a nest of newly born bunnies. Rabbits. The mother had made a nest in a clump of spring flowers, in the side garden. Anne, by her own admission, had made the mistake of showing me the wee ones, when the mother had hopped away down the hillside. I was a bunny junkie. I could not stop watching and peaking at the young ones. Anne warned me a hundred times or more, not to disturb the nest or the mother rabbit would abandon them. Like Ringo touching the button on the Yellow Submarine, warnings didn't matter. I was persistent beyond comprehension. So when Anne and my mother weren't around, I had my head in the clump of flowers. I made the tragic mistake of touching them. I returned one day, after school, to find two of the bunnies were deceased. The third one was gone. Anne's kitchen window was right there, on then bottom floor of the apartment, and she knew what had happened. So I got one of the best life and death lectures of my life. She told me the mother rabbit had abandoned the nest because of the human scent I left, and the babies had starved. "But there were three babies," I exclaimed, believing it was possible, the mother had rescued one of her litter. "A fox got one," she said with what looked like a wink, so I was never sure if she was just being emphatic, and demonstrating the importance of listening to sage advice. I was a mess after this. I'd caused the death of three beautiful little bunnies. I destroyed a whole bunny family. "See what I told you," she said, my mother nodding in the background. 'When we tell you not to touch something, what do you think we mean by that?" Now this was a poignant recollection, and a story I used on my own boys here at Birch Hollow, where there are critters everywhere……and we're known as conservation activists. But I have this blemish, you see, and although I've repented for my sins, I'm stuck with that image. It's so traumatic, that I had to beat a hasty retreat out of the local grocery store, at Easter this year, when I saw a skinned rabbit at the butcher's counter. A life long trauma because I wouldn't listen to Anne Nagy.

     My first introduction to "The Beatles"……and I'm pretty sure of this, was when Mary-Ann showed me her collection of "Beatles Cards" she had purchased…..and I was really freaked-out that any one would have cards with bugs on them. I remember the sweet smell of chewing gum on the cards…..as this is how they were sold in those days. The gum was horrible but it smelled nice. Now if it wasn't the Beatles, it was something similar. She didn't have a lot of interest in the snotty-nosed Currie kid from upstairs. She was in high school then, I believe, and she was always on the go, if I remember correctly. I'd just sit beneath the piano, when I was bored, and play with the pedals, until I heard Anne's booming voice once again.

     As a career writer, who has always had more fun at the craft, than financial success, I have been drawing on all my fascinating connections, built-up over a lifetime……and Burlington still offers a big pool of past experiences to fill my bucket. I might be an historian by profession, but I'm a "memory keeper," by habit. I relate many contemporary realities and events, to my years growing up, and if I look at you strangely, I may be either connecting with your previous life, or you look similar to someone I knew in those neighborhood ambling days in Burlington…….creekside relics hanging out of my pockets, a snake or toad in my hand. I was a real treat coming home from school, with arm-loads of chestnuts, some still in the barbed green husks, others all shiny and oddly shaped in every pocket. I can remember occasions when Anne and my mother saw me coming around the corner, and I know they were hatching a plan to reduce my load before it made it through the apartment door. They got some of the contraband, but I became a capable smuggler.

     As I got a little more independent, Anne just became the somewhat invisible "watcher," to make sure I was safe, and held nothing in my possession that would either start a fire, or blow something up. My mate Ray Green was the trigger man in our operation. We would be standing there one moment, good as gold (as my mother used to quip), and then something large would fall over, or a neighborhood kid would come home screaming about the fact we had pulled his underwear so tight, in a see-saw motion, that it had completely disintegrated in a whisp of smoke. I won't lie. Ray and I were the devil's spawn in those days, and on many occasions I heard the angry footfall of a Nagy, either Anne or Alec, or both, running to see what the commotion was all about. Like the time Alec told me to stay away from my dad's old car. It was really old, as it was all he could afford. It was about a 1947 Pontiac. He had parked it out the front, after having just bought it at a local car lot, and I was particularly interested in how the trunk worked. Alec was at his work shed, at the side of the building, and every now and again, even without seeing me perpetrate the deed, he knew the trunk had been disengaged. After about four or five interventions, only to find that I had disappeared before he could catch me, the final act was precious for all those who felt I deserved a little something special. Yup, I slammed my hand in the trunk. I was stuck there, when Nagy came around the corner hell bent on catching me. It was real easy that time. "What did you do Teddy," he barked. I couldn't spit out the words to describe the pain I was in, as my fingers were wrapped around the frame of the trunk. He popped the truck, looked at my hand, cussed a little under his breath, and led me to his shed. I knew what that walk meant. My feet only lightly touched the ground. Out came the first aid box, and before I could object, I got the iodine treatment again. I was of course speechless, but I cried a lot. I always felt Alec thought, that even if I'd had a broken bone, there was nothing better for one's recovery, than a heaping helping of iodine. His heart was in the right place. My father treated all ailments, even my mother's initial stroke, with a glass of ginger ale. Every childhood illness I had, he'd order a bottle of Canada Dry to be delivered from the drug store. I survived all this illnesses. Maybe he was right. I not so sure about the iodine. I hated the smell. The pain wasn't so great either.

     So then there was the occasion when Anne, Alec and Merle told me to stay away from a metal vent pipe, or conduit for something, at the side of the building, near the doorway to the furnace room. I didn't know much about Mud Daubers…….still don't, other than what I learned that fateful day. It seems these wasp-like creatures make their hives out of gathered mud….or dirt that they somehow moisten with secretions. So at the end of this candy-cane style pipe, there was a clog-up of mud and these flying critters. I was told I could watch them from a safe distance. They didn't tell me, I couldn't send my friend Ray in for a closer look. In fact, they never once explained to me, how dangerous it could be, to suggest Ray actually sniff the mud, because I told him that these unusual, magical insects made it smell like honey. They certainly didn't warn me that while Ray was sniffing the Mud Dauber's den, that throwing a baseball at the base of the pipe was employing horrible judgement. Poor kid. Ray had his nose within an inch of the suckers, and I hit the pipe with the ball, and the kid's whole body was covered in these bandy legged wee beasties stinging the crap out of him. So I started screaming too, to diminish the likelihood I would be seen as the villain. I hadn't counted on witnesses who heard me instructing Ray to get a closer look. Well, the good news is, Ray recovered, but looked kind of funny in class the next day. I told those who were kidding him, to back off, or they'd deal with me. What are friends for? It wasn't like I'd been trying to kill him or anything, or at least this is what his mother wondered. Ray made up for this, on the winter afternoon when he suggested I should jump on thin ice, over a deep pool of Ramble Creek. I had a body-type snowsuit on, that when full of water, was like wearing several cement blocks around your neck. When I started screaming, in the chest deep water, Ray did what he thought was right. Buggered off. If it wasn't for a couple of girls playing in the driveway above, who heard my shouts, I would have been reduced to ghost status, to forever haunt the ravine. I think Merle was with Anne when they found me just about to slip below the ice, and it took a behemoth effort to pull me out of the water. Ray and I did this to each other until our late teens, and it is truly amazing that we survived as long as we did. Of course there was the time Ray and I and some of the local notables, dared each other into a frenzy, to climb through the levels in the still open structure of Torrance Terrace, in the middle of construction. We were about six floors up, I think, and were running all over the place, with nothing closed in, to stop us from plummeting over the side. I was pretty good at fobbing things off on someone else, as I do today, so on this Sunday afternoon, I was the only one not hauled home by the ear lobe home, courtesy the attending constable. Why did we do it? Well as a famous Mount Everest climber once answered, "Because it was there."

     I have so greatly benefitted, throughout my life, as a journalist, writer and historian, possessing so many recollections of the places I have lived before. There are few writing jags at this keyboard now, when I don't push back the chair for a brief hiatus from work, and think about the collective of positive influences I've enjoyed, and the truly wonderful characters I've known in these charming places I have dwelled. I will spend the rest of my life, feeling fortunate, to have had the good company of Anne and Alec Nagy, and their daughter Mary Ann, who tried everything possible, to keep me, as they say, on the straight and narrow. It might sound sappy, and sweetly nostalgic, and of this I can only offer the apology….."I'm sorry you weren't there with me…..we would have had a heck of a time."

     So here's one last little tidbit of recollection, about an event I kept secret from the Nagys and my parents. Despite all the warnings, and dire predictions, I was going to kill myself by excess…….as a rabid seven year old, (or in that general vicinity) there was the time I managed to ride my two wheeler down the street without crashing on my own. I was thinking about the iodine. I was riding on the sidewalk, and heading past the driveway of the Ratkowski (not sure of spelling) market garden, straight up Torrance, and I met a car that went through the intersection without stopping, and into the driveway of the farm warehousing. I got hit while on the sidewalk, and I know it wasn't my fault. The older gentleman hadn't seen me, but reacted quickly once he did. I was knocked over by the big chrome bumper of the car, and the bulge of the hood crushed my fingers against the handlebars. If he hadn't hit the brakes when he did, I would have been the dearly departed. I jumped back on my bike, and fled the scene. Even before the guy could get out of his car, I was gone like a shot. I had never been that frightened of anything….even the iodine. One of the reasons, is that if word had got out, and the fuzz had been called, I inevitably would have brought down our Elmer the Safety Elephant flag, at Lakeshore Public School. The last kid that was hit by a car, destroying a three hundred day incident-free period for our school body, had been beaten to a pulp by students, for his carelessness on the street. I could live without that! 

     Well, I could never tell my mother what happened that day. When Anne asked what was wrong with my hand, I admitted to falling off my bike, but not that I had just been hit by a car. My mother always figured that's how I would finally meet my maker. A car on top of me and my bike. I don't ride bikes any more, but I proved her wrong. I had the urge to tell her, shortly before she died, but I couldn't have faced my father either, as I had also been told about the "going to hell" part, if I told lies. I told my boys the same thing and they lied to me as well. It's kind of a requirement of youth, to bedazzle those who care for us, by always holding a little bit of the truth back, for an uncertain posterity, none of us really understands.

     I am a better person for having known the Nagys. I had the benefit of living in a safe building, with many on-duty parents "of the day," and Harris Crescent was one of the most comfortable places to reside in the whole community. It was my first and most important portal, to look out from, as a writer in training. I always remember one sad occasion, in retrospect, when Anne had once arranged, that I would stop for lunch at a friend's home, who lived near the base of Torrance at the Lakeshore. When I sat down for lunch, the charming host served me a large plate of golden brown french fries, which were my favorite. But to my chagrin, she only had cider vinegar. As the world was supposedly made for me, I put on quite a show that afternoon……the prince didn't get his white vinegar, and thus, no fries could be consumed. When Anne found out about this, I think for the first time, she may have felt I was possessed……the devil incarnate, or something like that. I was just fussy. Ask Suzanne, about the cider vinegar thing. I'm awful when it is a food related crisis.

     I can remember hearing about it, some years later, that the same woman's son, had been hit and killed by a car, that had accidentally mounted the curb near their lakeshore home. While I realized that eating my fries with cider vinegar wouldn't have made any difference to that particular outcome, I did feel bad about being a horrible house guest…..and ignoring the fact, I had been rude and inconsiderate……and well, the young mind does funny things this way, and it all just remained unresolved business of childhood.

     I hope Anne will recall some of these instances that were important and life-changing for me. I grew up with a good outlook, because of all the kindnesses I knew I had received during those formative years……while I was also hatching some contrary ideas in the minds of neighbors who watched me grow. I would like Alec to know how good a surrogate parent he was, to me, and as my protector, my healer, and my lawnmowing chum; and how his tutoring influenced how I dealt with my own boys, Andrew and Robert, now businessmen here in our town. And Alec taught me how to truly enjoy good food. As if we were both spellbound by culinary artistry. We both knew that the magic, was with the "preparer-of-these-foods", and that was Anne.

     Through good times and dark, joy and sadness, success and failure, I have always found sanctuary in those old dog-eared memories, of picnics beneath the old cherry tree in the backyard, and smelt fishing in the spring, and darting here and there in the tangle of jungle, we loved as the "wild" characteristic, of the overgrown Ramble Creek Ravine. But it is recollection of the people I knew once, that brings a smile to my face, no matter what the circumstance, or the pressing engagement at that precise moment. Just before my father, Ed, passed away, several years ago, he came out of his confusion one afternoon, and we had a great chat about those days at the Nagy apartment, and in fact, it was the last real conversation we had before the end. While Merle and Ed may never have told Anne and Alec how much they had needed their friendship, for those early years of parenthood, I know they cared very much……and it was always a positive reminiscence when we talked about the ups and downs we'd had as a family. You can then imagine how wonderful it was, to know Anne is still at 2138 Harris Crescent, and doing well.

     It's in the fall of the year, I get most nostalgic about this neighborhood, when I think about climbing up that chestnut lined avenue from the lake, and seeing, in all its melancholy grandeur, the old Victorian house on the hillside, where the apartment was eventually built, and watching my contemporaries playing in the piles of leaves being raked up…..and feeling as if my sensory perception might at once burst…….as it was all so memorably heartfelt and beautiful……and a scene that even could even impress a wild child of the 1960's.

     In many ways, I have never really separated from those sensory-powerful days, of youthfulness, and even here at Birch Hollow, just above the forest and lowland we call The Bog, Gravenhurst is very similar……and what I enjoyed as a wide-eyed child adventurer, I celebrate just as heartily, and spiritually, but here, now, in my present hometown…..where Suzanne and I have, quite contently, spent most of our adult lives……raising a family, and playing host to assorted abandoned cats and such, that also, with some affection, call this place home. I have always been an historian. When someone asks what my qualifications are…….I never offer my university degree, as proof I've earned the title. I will tell them about the past. I will represent it with respect. I will acknowledge the importance of remembering, and paying respect to times past, and people once known. To be proud of one's heritage……carrying the torch of legacy from one generation to the other. I will tell them with a wee, detectable grin, about the kind of life I've had….and the people I've remembered, and the foundation I've built……and suffice that this is all that can be expected of any historian……to have enjoyed the experience of living…….and when all is said and done, feeling the satisfaction of enlightenment…… history dutifully rewarding its survivors.

     I want to thank Tracy for putting us together, finally, after all these years. How neglectful I feel, that it wasn't so much sooner.

Little Stops Along The Way - The burlington I Remember

LITTLE STOPS ALONG THE WAY - THE BURLINGTON I REMEMBER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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