A Memoir

The Canada of my childhood lived in the fading splendor of the Georgian Age, of Lord Peter Wimsey, of Upstairs, Downstairs, of Hercule Perot and Miss Marple, the sound of bagpipes, Scottish accents, tweeds and grey flannels. We lived in the Polish-Italian neighbourhood down by the steel mills. Old two story dull red brick houses lined both sides of the street, each house separated from the next by a driveway that led to the garages in the back.

The Krawchecks were on one side and the Martinellos on the other side. I never saw the Krawchecks, they were kind of invisible people, but we knew about the son, Freddie Krawcheck who was too old to be living at home; he was a little peculiar. The Martinellos were a robust clan of Southern Italians, expansive, loud, and full of life. I liked the Martinellos. Diagonally across the street was the home of Mrs. Elliot, a widow who had a soft spot for children. It was a very special treat to be invited up on Mrs. Elliot’s screened in porch to have a cup of Cambric Tea and cookies. Cambric Tea is weak tea with lots of sugar and milk. Just the right thing for little children.

The street was lined by tall Poplar Trees which always caused problems. Their roots sought water and broke into the water and sewer pipes and frequently and there was a digging project going on somewhere along the street. One of the more interesting tradesmen selling services was the rag man who went down the streets, crying, “Ragman, new rags for old. Ragman.” At other times he wheeled a large grindstone down the street, “Knives sharpened. Knives sharpened.” The milkman would come by in a cart pulled by an old nag. The snippy girl across the street ran under the old nag who promptly peed on her. We were six, we boys, and we thought that was neat.

There were two highlights. One was the bread man. He would come down the street in his horse drawn wagon, stopping at every house on his delivery route. Then he would come down the driveway of our house with his bread basket, white bread, whole wheat bread, crumpets and eccles cakes. Eccles cakes, puff pastry stuffed with currents and sprinkled liberally with sugar crystals. You never saw such eccles cakes. The other and most exciting delivery was the ice truck. Yes, an actual flatbed truck with large blocks of ice packed in straw. The ice man would go to the back of the truck, pull out a large block of ice, take his ice pick and with a few masterful strokes of his ice pick he would split the block into pieces that would fit the icebox in the kitchen. We kids would stand around with polite anticipation and the ice man would take shards of ice and pass them out to us. An icy crystal treat on a hot summer day.

In winter the snow would drift down from the grey skies and collect in large drifts on both sides of the street where it had been half-heartedly pushed by the plough.

In winter we boys had to wear knee breeches and long socks and we hated them because only little boys had to wear breeches. When you got a little older they would let you wear grey flannels which was a kind of reward for getting that old.

At the end of our street, Connaught Avenue, was King Street. King Street was one of two major streets that ran parallel to each other a number of blocks apart. Down King Street came the streetcar on its tracks, rumbling, bells ringing, carrying people up town and down. I went to a private day school on the north side of the city. Even though we had to wear breeches, we got to wear the school blazer with its bright green and white stripes and the fierce looking gold boar’s head crest on the pocket. I would board the street car and head uptown leaving Connaught Avenue behind and enter the world of the colonial English day school with its Masters, Prefects, Old Boys, and New Boys. Every New Boy can hardly wait until his second year when he got to be an Old Boy.

I was an indifferent student. My report cards always said things like, “Robin spends all his time looking out the window and day dreaming.” I guess that’s why I like writing stories. Chapel was an odd way to begin the day. We would file into the large auditorium and wait patiently until the Headmaster came in. There would be something incomprehensible, and never explained, read from Scripture. Someone would say a prayer. I don’t think they ever prayed the prayer, I might have noticed that. Then we would sing a hymn, something like, “And did those feet in ancient time walk upon England’s mountains green.”

I dreaded sports. Sports were obligatory, and the track and field events were a nightmare. It was humiliating to win the third place ribbon in the Consolation Race. That’s the race they made all the losers run in. There were only four of us. At least I got the white third place ribbon. I wonder how the fourth boy in the race felt. Did you know that cricket balls sting your hands if you made the mistake of trying to catch one. I figured out quickly that was a dumb thing to do.

When the day was over with its mixed mystery and misery I would board the street car and head back down King Street, through the center of the city, and back to Connaught Avenue. It was always good to be back home.