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| Photos by Suzanne Currie |
WHAT HAS BEEN EXPERIENCED IN CHILDHOOD OF COURSE IMPRINTS ADULTHOOD, AND OF THIS I AM THE POSTER BOY FOR CONTEMPORARY GOOD OLD DAYS
A PREAMBLE TO TODAY’S POST
BY TED CURRIE
Outside of an old story teller’s tales of yore, and this might surprise some readers considering my staunch loyalty to the past, I have not ventured to take either of my sons on a magical mystery tour of my old hometown, Burlington, Ontario. I really can’t explain why, other than to suggest that my other hometowns of Bracebridge, 1966 to 1988, and Gravenhurst, 1988 to the 2022 (coming soon), have been fine for recollective tall tales and sordid other stories. But Burlington has, at the same time, always been a keen past tense, that I have never really let go of, and for less than obvious reasons. I never really considered Burlington home, for one thing. I can’t really explain it, other than to suggest I was born to live in a small town, and in the early 1960’s it was starting to bloom outward as a soon to be city-of-note, with a great many assets for investors to exploit. I have always believed somewhat in pre-destiny, even as a child, and that may have had something to do with having survived a near drowning incident in my favorite neighborhood creek, and then pulling through a several week illness that I was told later, by my mother, that may have been life threatening, which made it so profound thusly, when I had my so called “angel dream,” on the very evening that my fever mysteriously broke, and my near constant cough ceased, and normal life resumed for a seven year old rambunctious kid. But there was always something surreal about my relationship with that most accommodating city, that by the way, was very fair to our family all-told, but something nagged at me, the old soul that I was even in childhood, that made me believe I was a very temporary resident.
I loved my relationship with the Harris Crescent, Torrance Avenue hillside, that looked down on the Ramble Creek ravine, where us kids used to play from morning until at least sunset even on winter days, and this was my home place, where I felt most comfortable and accepted as an ever wandering kid looking for recreations. I didn’t want anything else. I appreciated Lions Club Park, only a block away, and I had just begun visiting the Brant Street business corridor only a few months before we moved to the Mountain Gardens area of town, which I did not care for, simply because it lacked Ramble Creek, my closest non human ally. I didn’t mind the hike to Lakeshore Public School through the hydro line of towers, and I enjoyed a few cross neighborhood junkets to visit my chums, like Bobby Crews, Ronny LaRose, Ray and Holly Green and of course Dick and Henry Boosevelt, my hockey team mates. But truth be known, and memory serves, I was a lover of small and neighborly, and I’m not a lot different today. I adore Gravenhurst for what it doesn’t have, and I know that is changing rapidly as forest are axed and new subdivisions erected in months, not years. I can’t stop progress in terms of urban sprawl, because I’ve burned out trying to keep a small town sensibly proportioned. But between the Main Street, where our shop is located, and here at Birch Hollow, small and sensibly proportioned, is still intact, and it suits me fine. Just like the Burlington of old, that allowed me my pocket of urban wilds, and a living arrangement that was less populated, with fewer sky scrapers, and condo jungles that increase density in the city ideal. I am a diving breed of local, I suppose, who can live happily without the apparent joy of citydom, and all its inherent problems. I suppose with my boys, I worry that I could not return to Burlington and, at the same time, have my stories make much sense; because they are, and have always been about small town living in the centre of an ever expanding city. I just blocked out the city aspect, and lived the life I wanted. Even Lakeshore Public School had a minor enrollment back in the early 1960’s which was about the same student population as Bracebridge Public School when we arrived here some years later. I am probably scared myself, about returning, thinking then that it must all have been a dream; how else could I explain, even intimately to myself, why so much has grown inward as well as outward, compromising the wonderful ravine area and tumbling beautiful creek, that gave me so much stir of imagination; that it could only mean a shattering awakening to how old I am, and how unconnected I’ve been to the real world, when it comes to the expectation that this special place should have been preserved a living diorama of the way it was for wee Teddy Currie back in 1962; when I would build an ten foot wide raft to sail along a six foot wide creek, to Lake Ontario a block away. Unrealistic. Sure I was, and I can blame that on childhood. But this part of childhood is sacred, and I have been able to paint this picture for both boys. I just don’t want that to be prejudiced at this time. I suppose, when I have left this mortal coil, they might wish to see where good old dad used to play and dream and built unrealistically big rafts that never quite made it down stream in one piece. This will be their choice to visit, but it will not be my final request that they do so, to send me off to my eternal reward. What a strange fellow I am, wouldn’t you say?
WHAT DID YOU LEARN FROM LIVING IN YOUR OLD NEIGHBORHOOD - URBAN OR RURAL? HOW MIGHT IT HAVE INFLUENCED COLLECTING INTERESTS?
I WAS FASCINATED BY EVERYTHING THAT WAS GOING ON, AT HOME, AND ON OUR NOSTALGIC JUNKETS TO NOWHERE IN PARTICULAR
I had a red tin and assorted metal, peddle car, circa 1958, that may have been in the design of a fire engine. I don't have any photographs to back-up that claim, and no one left in my family who could say for sure, it was "Teddy's ride!" I loved that little car, although I do remember getting my feet, ankles and shins cut up pretty good, when I'd accidentally hit the sidewalk curb, and send my body hurtling down and forward into the inner workings. If one of my shoes popped off, there was a good chance of getting something pinched down there. Of course, this came before my rather large tricycle, so it's likely my parents made the trade-up with someone else in the neighborhood with kids. I got a lot of second hand stuff back in those days, but what the hell. At least I had things. I know that when we moved to the Mountain Gardens area of Burlington, in about 1964, I didn't have possession of what I think was the "Fire Chief's" vehicle in miniature.
I was a very mobile chap in those days, and whether it was in this tin peddle car, on my tricycle, or on foot, I saw it all. I was the kind of nosey kid who was always watching your property, and your comings and goings, never failing to show up, when a delivery truck pulled-up out front. I was curious. I wanted to know everything about every one, and I hated the thought of something major happening, while I was at school, watching television, or sound asleep. For example, I was absolutely fascinated by the corner homestead, on Harris Crescent and Torrance Avenue, owned then by Mrs. White; because it was so mysteriously appointed, with lots of vegetation around, including apple and cherry trees, and the fact rumour had it, she used to eat children for dinner. You see, there were several large sheds on her property, if memory serves, and because we couldn't see inside, it was naturally assumed by over-active imagination, it was where she fattened up her prey, tied-up and struggling inside. You know, the danger we assumed was always lurking, of being on or near her property, should have been enough to keep us away out of fear. It did the exact opposite. We were drawn to the old house and these buildings, as a moth dashes itself into a light. We were always getting caught by Anne Nagy, trying to get over her fence from the side yard of the apartment. By the way, Mrs. White was a charming elderly woman, who wouldn't hurt a fly, let alone a child, but you know how these situations get blown out of proportion. She didn't want us on the property, for fear we might get hurt; not because she didn't want us to see how she was fattening her young prisoners in those sheds. Mrs. Bell, an elderly woman who lived on the other side of the Nagy apartment, just above the ravine of Ramble Creek, was far more visible around her property, and spent a lot of time screaming directives out, about staying off her lawn "or else!" Mr. Creighton, owner of the apartments, adjacent to Mrs. Bell's, was also a fellow who took exception to our trespassing, which was pretty much constant. I never worried too much about these happenstance warnings, and took more interest in the very next project, even if it meant trespassing once again, in order to make it all come together.
Remember the bells of the "Goodie Man," coming up the street, on a hot summer day? I will never forget that dazzling little truck, painted brightly with character depictions, (that well, with the fog of age), I don't quite remember, clanging up Torrance Avenue, and heading for both ends of the cul-de-sac of Harris Crescent, where there were profitable pockets of hot kids in need of refreshment. In our section of Harris Crescent, there were three significant apartment blocks (and some multi-family units), including the Nagy Apartments, where we lived, and two others I believe, owned by the Creighton family. Dave Creighton, as I remember, was a former National Hockey League player, but we didn't see him around much, as it was his father in those days, who managed the buildings. Or at least, this is how I remember the setting of Harris Crescent back in the late 1950's, and very early 60's. What is crystal clear, is the vision of that ice cream truck, rounding the corner of Torrance, and Lakeshore, with its bells ringing, while trundling-up the hillside, to Harris Crescent. I do remember another ice cream truck, possibly later on, that played children's songs like "Pop Goes the Weasel," and "Farmer in Dell." It would usually hit our balliwick at about two o'clock. I was never afforded an allowance in those days, so it meant I had to hustle around the building to find my mother, if she wasn't working that day, and beg a dime for a pre-packaged ice cream cone, with chocolate and nuts preferably. It must have been profitable for the operator of the truck, because there was always a crowd on July and August afternoons, when he showed up full of good cheer and playful anecdotes. I've often wondered if any doting parent, ever snapped a photograph of this stunningly nostalgic scene, of kids gathered around the vendor's truck, that was so brightly adorned with tantalizing colors (to make us spend) and curious other images, possibly of clowns or something similar. I expect that I was able to buy a treat once or twice for every five trips he made to that Burlington neighborhood.
We Curries didn't have a lot of money to spend on ice cream treats, unless it was from the grocery store, when pints were on sale. I guess the problem with our memories of the "Goodie Truck," or as well called him, "The Goodie Man," was that we may have come to associate him with our own misfortunes; watching the other better-off kids getting treats and then eating them in front of us. I did hate that. Gosh, I've been repressing my feelings about the Goodie Man since the early sixties, and never knew it! It divided the "haves" and the "have nots," which I suppose, is the reason I wouldn't want to write a book about ice cream trucks, and all their associated nostalgia. I'm still mad after all these years, that I was poor kid. I think, honestly, it was my first introduction to what social order was all about; and I was different from the others, other than my shoes full of holes, on those afternoons, when I was too broke to participate in this summer tradition. Ah well, it's not like I was denied a hundred percent of the time. Ray Green always had the ready cash, and I suppose it's why I didn't hate myself, for those occasions, when I hit the ice cream out of his hand onto the sidewalk. If I couldn't have it, the treat that is, he couldn't either. Although there was one time, when he did retrieve it, and ate around the chunks of embedded gravel and grass cuttings. This is why Gravenhurst councillors stay away from me, while eating popsicles. I have a reputation you see, going all the way back to childhood. It also explains somewhat, why my best buddy Ray and I were always wrestling over some found object, even the remainders of the ice cream cone, half on the grass, half on the sidewalk. (I have to footnote this little story, to credit the generous parents in our neighborhood, who often showed up at the truck, to buy treats for the whole gang, including those standing back watching the others lining up. God bless those kindly souls for helping out a kid down on his luck.)
Ray got even with me, when, while wrestling in our apartment, some years later, he fell onto my new Eagle table top hockey game, I had just got for Christmas, breaking the masonite surface, so the rods wouldn't slide easily ever after. He laughed and I cried. It had been reversed for long and long, when I used to topple his ice cream cone, simply because he didn't buy me one.
I also fondly remember the old Tinker, who used to show up occasionally, on his bike propelled wagon, to repair household utensils, pots and pans, that had developed holes from day to day use. By definition, the "Tinker" was a tin smith. I was compelled to come out on the street, to see him working on some damaged item, a resident had handed to him for on-site repair. Add to this the occasional "Sheeny Man," visit, which was quite entertaining. My mother used to tell lots of stories about the "Sheeny Man," who used to visit their house in Toronto, (also known as the rag man) when she was growing up, and how her mother used to check out what he was selling; often buying something small, just to help the peddler justify his travels, neighborhood after neighborhood. I guess, by definition, he was a mobile "junk" seller, with a wide array of household pieces hanging off his wagon or bike-pulled cart. Then there was the knife and scissor sharpener, who had the most elaborate bike and cart combination, and I used to like watching the sparks coming off one of his sharpening tasks, for one of our neighbors. My mother even took advantage of his services, for our butcher and steak knives, if that is, we had some extra cash. I don't think his sharpening service was very expensive. He had a grinding wheel he could propel by crank, and I loved to see the spray of sparks flying off into the daylight. Boy would that have looked neat at night.
Amongst the other visitors to our Harris Crescent neighborhood, were the breadman, milkman, postman, and the delivery men who worked the trucks for Eatons and Simpsons. I particularly remember their hats, which I have owned and re-sold over the years. I always daydreamed about what those trucks, visiting at that moment, were bringing for me; like the song from the movie "The Music Man," and the scene, about the Wells Fargo delivery. (the young fellow, waiting for "something special," was Ronnie Howard) I remember the drivers always looking so sharp with uniforms and caps; just like the postmen, who hauled around those huge black mail bags, strung over the neck, and the keys they had hooked on to their belts, that jingled when they walked. We had a community mail box, at the apartment, I seem to remember, that required one of these keys. There's was something fantastic, in terms of possibility, when the mailman rounded the corner of Harris Crescent, heading our way. Especially around Christmas, when he was loaded down with parcels. I'd watch him on his travels, and try to look into his pouch, to see perchance, if there was something with my name attached; or what other addresses were written onto parcels, just in case, it was Ray Green getting some mail order toy. I saw one once, addressed to me, from my grandmother, that I knew immediately I wanted to send right back where it came from, as having no particular value; just another wool sweater that would irritate my skin. I knew what those parcels looked like; as she always purchased them from Eatons and sent the box used for such things, which I could detect from a considerable distance away. I wanted toys not sweaters. I digress.
I also have rather found recollections of the television and radio repairmen (and that amazing multi-level case they used to unfold in our livingroom), and I am sorry to say there were no women in the mix, except to open the doors when they came to fix what was broken. Of course it was all male dominated in those days, and it did have an impact on our psyches. I know if I had run across a female doing the milk, bread or repair runs, I would have remembered it as an event in neighborhood history. It didn't happen. In some places, in the early 1960's, I'm sure there were female drivers and delivery personnel, including for the post office, but it wasn't prevalent in Burlington, at least, in that era before the big changes to come. My father was for all intents and purposes, a male chauvinist, but he benefitted from the fact my mother could always land a job in the banking industry; but if she had come home and told us she was going to be walking the beat of the postman, I think my dad would have flipped-out, and said something silly like, "what will the neighbors think." As if that mattered. It did to him, because he always seemed particularly sensitive to the word on the street, if it was about our family. I found this out by the happenstance of making news, later in life, as a journalist with the same first name as my dear old dad. Let's just say there were a few points of opposition, especially when he was complimented or chastised for articles I had published. His lumber customers thought he was moonlighting as a reporter. My mother eventually broke free of his chauvinistic ways, when we moved north to Bracebridge, with the near revolutionary thinking, spawned by the coming of the 1970's, setting down a new awareness about gender equality. My father had a dinosaur's way of thinking about these things, but he gradually came around to this liberation reality.
The characteristics of my old neighborhood, just like the ones you recall from your own upbringing, did effect our future outlooks and interests to some degree. I admit being more influenced than some, because I was born a collector of things. I desired what neat stuff other people had, so I suppose, like the ice cream cones I desired (but didn't get), jealousy did enter into the equation of what made up the young Teddy Currie. I studied the welcome intrusions onto our street, and you bet, I was up close and personal to all the repairmen who showed up, to do a wide variety of restorations; whether to fix the horizontal hold on the television, new tubes for the radio, or install a new phone for one of our apartment mates. I knew the hard leather slap, on the hall floors, of the breadman, and the sound of his fibre basket when he set it down to sort product for customers, which included cookies; if I didn't see the truck pull up to the apartment, I surely knew his footfall. The tinkle of glass against a metal carrier, belonged to the milkman passing through the three hallways of the Nagy apartments, and the postman's jiggling keys gave him away every time. As I've mentioned before, I always had the distinct feeling, that what I was experiencing of these visiting folks, and a lot of the characteristics of our own neighborhood, were already nostalgic before they had any right to be; but I didn't know what this meant, other than to feel I was on the cusp of great change happening around me, tipping me off, that what I enjoyed would soon be gone forever. Outdated, and not needed any longer. Thus, the seed was implanted, that for whatever reason, made it very clear in the imaginative part of my immature brain, by the almost eerie pull of sentimentality, that I should pay close attention to it all, before it was gone for good. It's as if I knew that the future would dismantle all this amazing carnival of welcome intrusion, and we would rely on oldtimers ever after, to tell us what it was like to get milk delivered in bottles, lodged in a specially designed carrier brought full of product to your doorstep. Remember the milk boxes on the side of homes, with a little door, for the milkman's convenience? Gosh, here I am, doing this very thing, waxing nostalgic about the good old days, and wondering whether this was the whole pre-destined situation; that somehow God figured out, that I would be a decent spokesperson, some time in the future, to write about history with heartfelt passion. All I know, is that I had a forewarning about what was going to be important in my life, in later years, and by golly, it has come to be very providential to me now. As I've written about many times, this is a feeling I've had all my life. It doesn't mean I've ever accepted it as ordinary, and it does have its burdens. I have an acute awareness of the passing of time, and all the etching it leaves, that may one day disappear altogether, if I don't make mention of it for posterity. I like to think it's a shared posterity, because I'm not really doing it for myself alone. It has always seemed so important, to make sure these situations, in all their humanity, are preserved in some way or another; which folks, brings me to the heart and soul of the exposed collector, and why we try to preserve the past by hanging onto pieces, that remind us of the times we most enjoyed. Expensive proposition? You bet! It's why I invest far more writing about the past, because it is infinitely less expensive, than if I was to buy-up all the nostalgia I feel in love with, much as a wide-eyed kid full of envy; especially of those who got the treats when I didn't.
"They say that you can't go back - But hey, I never left!" ("Mobilia" magazine, October 1996). My point precisely! I'm here but I'm also still there!
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