Arse over Teakettle: An Irreverent Story of Coming of Age During the 1940S in Toronto

Copyright © 2010 by Doug Taylor

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-0531-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-0529-0 (hc)

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iUniverse rev. date: 10/26/2010

Contents

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Author’s Notes

Many of the lessons of childhood transcend culture and time. In Cleopatra’s Egypt, Caesar’s Rome, and Pericles’ Athens, children discovered similar truths as they trod the pathways of youth. Our parents and grandparents explored these same avenues. The insights they gained turned their young lives inside out and upside down—arse over teakettle

Preface

We likely all know someone who has bragged that in the old days, every woman was a virgin until married. In those innocent times, untruths never graced the lips of a gentleman, although there were a few exceptions, such as when a man’s wife solicited his opinion of her new chapeau or asked him to estimate the size of her mother’s rear end. In those decades, vile cursing never exceeded beyond damn or hell. Everyone succeeded in life without government assistance, or anyone else’s help, for that matter. Bless their independent little hearts.

In those fabled times of long ago, graffiti simply stated Kilroy was here or Samuel loves Betty. Today wall scribblings have become more hurtful and certainly cruder. The f word dominates wall messages and informs us: Marie loves Mary or Harold is a homo. Despite today’s fascination with reality and instantaneous electronic information, some things in life should remain unknown. In this respect, perhaps the old days were golden.

This tale takes place in those golden days of old—a story of a boy growing up in Toronto. His name is Tom Hudson. The narrative commences during the brutal days of the Great Depression, continues through the Second World War, and concludes in Canada’s early post-war years.

During the war years, life marched to a different beat. Favourite patriotic anthems were God Save the King, The Maple Leaf Forever, and Rule Britannia. Tom’s dad jokingly suggested that a song entitled Who Nicked Queen Mary’s Knickers? would be a real roof raiser at nationalistic rallies. Popular music was upbeat and included songs like My Blue Heaven and You Are My Sunshine. Tom’s dad invented an additional title, I Love My Moonshine. With a wink and a grin, he said that the best aria for the labour movement was the song Queen Antoinette warbled during the French Revolution, Peasants Can Eat Bread, but My Cupcakes Belong to the King. As a child, Tom did not always understand his dad’s odd sense of humour.

When Tom was a boy, Toronto was gentler, less hurried and less consumer oriented than today. His environmental footsteps, and those of his friends, trod more softly along the tree-lined avenues and forested valleys of Toronto. The air was cleaner and traffic less hectic. The Humber and Don rivers, as well as the sandy beaches of Centre Island, were unpolluted. Summer’s sunshine was endless, autumn days more mellow, and winter’s temperatures beyond the endurance of the proverbial brass monkey. Springs were earlier, fresher, and greener. Few of these recollections were true, but in his memory, they certainly appeared to be that way.

Tom’s aunts, uncles, and cousins resided within close proximity. He simply walked to purchase penny candy at the corner store, to attend a movie theatre, or to visit relatives. To journey to church, he boarded a streetcar, which in winter was heated by a coal stove. The family’s favourite summer retreats were Sunnyside Beach beside Lake Ontario, the Toronto Islands, High Park, the tranquil Humber Valley, the ambient parklands at Riverdale Zoo, and their own home’s front verandah. Sunday was peaceful—no sports, movies, or shopping. In later years, Tom learned that a few other activities did occur, as there was a constant growth in population, not solely due to immigration.

The Saturday afternoon matinee at the local movie theatre was the highlight of the week and a place where serials required neither sugar nor cream. Serials were adventure films shown in ten-minute segments, requiring four or five weeks before the ending of the story was revealed. Some adults referred to them as cliff hangers, as at the end of a sequence, the hero was often left hanging from a cliff by the fingernails. Tom’s mother listened to soap operas on the radio, so called because they marketed soap: Ivory, Sunlight, Lifebuoy, Oxydol, or Lux. Blackberries and apples originated from the garden or a green grocer, not an electronics supermart.

There was also a less gentle side to life during these years. Gossip gleaned over back fences travelled faster than the capabilities of modern electronic devices. Unfortunately, the snippets of information were not always well intentioned. Racial and religious prejudice were common. The creeds of the denominations were rigid, each faith claiming to possess a monopoly on the truth. Parents often disowned offspring who married outside the family’s faith. Similar to today, Catholics and Protestants attended different school systems, thus discouraging social interaction among their children.

Anti-Semitism was common. People derogatorily referred to recent immigrants as DPs (displaced persons). Most of these refugees were from the war-torn countries of Europe and often arrived with little more than the clothes on their backs. Jokes at Italian people’s expense were common and invariably cruel. Many viewed Chinese as being capable only of operating laundries and restaurants. It was common for people to ridicule cultures and ethnic groups that were different from their own. Lifestyles that did not adhere to the norm were considered suspicious. That word had no defined meaning and endless interpretations.

Family members often ostracized women who had children out of wedlock and those who were divorced. They usually blamed marital breakdowns on the wives. Women were viewed as the weaker sex and considered to be the less capable members of society. Stating that married women were barefoot, pregnant, and tied to the stove contained an element of truth. This changed drastically during the war years, when women entered the workforce and assumed the jobs of the men who were overseas in the armed services.

The newspapers reported violence daily, but sexual matters remained unmentioned. Movie stars’ careers were severely jeopardized if the public discovered that they had engaged in premarital relations or extramarital affairs. Unmarried couples who cohabitated were shunned. The word homosexual never appeared in the newspapers, and the term gay meant happy or flamboyant. They referred to a relationship between partners of the same gender as the love that dare not speak its name.

Today we can smile about this terminology, as no-name products are very popular. Contraceptives were referred to as rubbers, so at school, if Tom asked to borrow a rubber, the older boys snickered as they handed him an eraser. There was no sex education taught in schools. Tom learned about such matters behind the garden fence, from schoolyard gossip, and in the back rows of the movie houses. However, his innocent years were exciting, as he was constantly pushing beyond the boundaries of youth and delving into the adult world.

Those of us who remember the amusement park at Sunnyside, the department stores Eaton’s and Simpson’s, the Eaton’s College Street store, the CNE in its heyday, and the St. Lawrence and Kensington markets with live chickens and geese will be familiar with the city Tom knew. For those who never experienced these haunts, this narrative will be an exploration into Toronto’s past. The streets, laneways, and houses where the tale unfolds are real, as are the historical events. However, in narrating the tale, Tom frequently fails to separate reality from fiction.

Toronto has changed greatly since the 1940s, but the city described in these chapters remains beneath the surface of the modern urban scene. It only requires a stroll down the streets of an older neighbourhood to discover it again. This narrative unfolds in the avenues and laneways where Tom spent his youth.

Chapter One

When I was a child, I dreamt of travelling in time, back through the centuries, marching into battle alongside Roman soldiers, medieval knights, and Indian warriors. As I matured, I realized it was impossible to experience any moment other than the present. Recently, during the early hours of a summer morning, I discovered that my youthful fantasy was not beyond reach.

This insight occurred in the predawn of a summer morning. In the darkness, I was alone on the terrace of my downtown apartment, barely conscious of my surroundings. The profusion of potted plants and the two tall junipers on my terrace garden remained hidden in deep shadows. The gentle rustling of the trees in the park across the road was scarcely audible in the breath of the morn. I knew that the day ahead would be hot and humid, weather so familiar to Torontonians during the month of August.

The first rays of early morn edged above the horizon. I watched the sun inching upward, giving birth to the new day, its radiance fanning outward as it fired the eastern sky. The towering skyscrapers, castles of corporate power, were reluctantly surrendering the supremacy they had enjoyed during the darkened hours. The haughty CN Tower, a graceful space needle, dominated the scene, dwarfing any aspiring rivals below. Toronto’s rhythms had commenced the song of another day, although at this hour, the hum of the rush-hour traffic remained muted. As always, the crescendo would build as the morning progressed.

An introspective mood seized me. My awareness of time’s rapid passage intensified as the panoramic scene transformed before my eyes. Time! I confess that understanding it has always eluded me. It possesses an inherent dichotomy—an ever-changing concept that never changes. It moves deceptively fast in good times, and it interminably lingers in bad. The current day dissolves quickly into yesterday, and in retrospect, the accumulated years of the past condense into a fleeting moment. However, the future, when eagerly anticipated, seems never to arrive. During our youth, time is endless, but in later years, becomes frighteningly finite.

However, in reality, time never alters its pace. It relentlessly ticks away the seconds, minutes, and hours of our lives without any remorse or merriment. Time’s swift demise inspires endless clichés—time heals all wounds, time is the enemy of all, time flies, you can’t beat the clock. Perhaps the French composer Louis-Hector Berlioz wrote the cruellest critique of time: Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately, it kills all its pupils. However, despite being an intimate part of our lives, and an ever-present source of familiar adages, no one is able to comprehend it. Throughout all our days, time remains an enigma.

However, despite being unable to understand the concept of time, through the magic of memory, I discovered I could relive the past. It happened on this August morning.

The rising sun before me faded from sight as the images within my inner eye came more clearly into focus. Scenes from the past flooded over me. I was a child again, in my bedroom, peering through the narrow opening beneath the window blind, bright sunlight heralding the beginning of another endless summer day. Each morning, after finishing breakfast in the kitchen of the old family house on Lauder Avenue, I raced outside to greet my friends.

The sounds and sights of yesterday’s seasons sprung to life. I felt the coolness of a spring morning and brushed my hand against my face, where the warmth of the rising sun before me caressed my cheek. Reality and memory blurred.

The humid heat of a Toronto summer afternoon of yesteryear wrapped around me. In the distance, I heard thunderclouds rumble, the sky darkening as they drew closer. Soon their sudden downpour brought relief to the parched vegetable garden in our backyard. I was sitting on the verandah, listening to the rain patter noisily on the roof. I became aware of the odour created by the cooling showers as they splashed on the hot pavement and evaporated.

In swift progression, autumn’s damp mist caressed my face, and once more, I experienced nature’s mellow season, when mahogany chestnuts and tight-capped acorns dropped to the leaf-strewn ground. Wild asters in the vacant lots near our home pushed their delicate heads skyward, adding their purple pastels to the sun-filled afternoons. As the fall season drew to a close, November’s dour days appeared, with heavy storm clouds scuttling across pewter skies. I heard the melancholy cry of a solitary bugler sound the Last Post in the Remembrance Day ceremony, held each year in the basement of our school. As the days of autumn ended, cold dominated the land, heralding the advent of a long Toronto winter. The frosts of December seized the land. On the snow-clad hills of Fairbank Park, I heard the laughter of friends as they tobogganed down the frozen slopes.

Contemplating nature’s panoramic collage, I realized that all life’s experiences—the good, the bland, and the dreadful—had blended into a scroll of tender recollections, the unpleasant having mercifully faded from memory. In mid-July, who can remember that January’s snowstorms exist?

The predominance of the seasons in my kaleidoscope of memories was natural. During my boyhood, the time of year governed the lives of my family. Unable to retreat from the past, people and events of bygone years unfolded. My father came clearly into focus. He departed this earth many years ago, but even today he remains a strong part of my sweet past. I smiled as I recalled that he had once said, If a man walks by himself with a grin on his face, he either has money in the bank or suffers from stomach gas.

This certainly did not apply to him, as he had neither money nor gas, yet he travelled through life with a smile. When people asked him why he was always happy, he replied, I’m too stupid to be otherwise. Perhaps he was one of Shakespeare’s wise fools.

Thomas Hudson Sr., my father, was blessed by the gods with eternal optimism. Born in the year 1900 in a small fishing village in Newfoundland, well prior to confederation with Canada, he received little formal education. However, at an early age, he demonstrated a talent for reading. My grandmother encouraged him, though few books were available other than the Bible.

During his boyhood years, idle hours were scarce, and they were even rarer when he became a teenager. As a young man, he worked long hours fishing to help support the family, labouring in a small craft called a skiff, hauling to the surface nets heavy with codfish. The choppy seas were unpredictable and dangerous. If a sudden storm descended, he knew he would likely drown before reaching the safety of the rocky shore. Too frequently, he witnessed the black ribbons of mourning fastened to the doors of the houses. The harsh life beside the sea offered few pleasures. However, he continued to read anything available, escaping into the realms of fiction offered by the few books that came his way.

Lacking both radio and daily newspapers, he remained blissfully unaware of the events in the world beyond his community. Though he suffered cruelly while fishing, he rarely complained. However, secretly, he yearned for a better life. He longed to escape the threatening seas, meagre food supply, and backbreaking labour.

Burin, Newfoundland, where Thomas Hudson Sr. was born.

In the spring of 1921, my dad and his brother, my uncle Fred, decided to immigrate to Canada. He never forgot the day that he sailed from Burin Bay. It was a cold morning in May, and chilling breezes whistled across the narrow harbour. The coastal steamer Glencoe, anchored offshore, swayed gently amid the choppy waves. My father’s thoughts, unlike the forlorn weather, were far from gloomy—being excited about the new life that awaited him on the mainland. His reverie was broken when my grandfather, standing beside him, placed his hand on his shoulder as my uncle Fred turned to face them.

My grandfather gazed at them intently. Me sons, he began, glancing around to ensure that my grandmother was not listening, I wish to bid the two of you farewell and impart some fatherly advice. A mischievous twinkle sparkled in his eyes.

He paused again, as if unsure of his decision to speak. His hesitancy puzzled my dad.

Me sons, I will miss you. Me heart goes with you as you begin a new life. However, I must warn you about a few things. He fell silent again, glanced around, and finally continued speaking when he noticed that my grandmother was busy talking to a woman who was standing on the opposite side of the wharf.

With a hint of envy in his voice, he said, "Be careful of the wicked women of Toronto. Those big-city gals can eat a man alive. To them, you’re a tiny snack on the dinner table of life. I know of what I speak. Remember, I’ve sailed to the notorious isles of St. Pierre and Miquelon. However, the hungry women of those rum-soaked islands, I fear, are nothing compared to those who’ll lure you into sin in a big city like Toronto.

Whenever our schooner visited the French islands, your mother told me that she always prayed that I’d never engage in any deed that required penitence when the trip was over. In fact, she referred to them as voyages that ‘required prayer and penitence.’ Well, there was a good reason for her worries. The crew called them ‘panty and petticoat’ crossings. Need I say more? He chuckled quietly as he offered the final comment.

Suppressing a smile, my dad assured my grandfather that he’d be careful and said that he’d try to be as wise as my grandfather had been. My uncle Fred nodded in agreement, and knowing grins passed among them. My grandfather offered a few more words of advice, but they were unnecessary, as they had reached an understanding.

They shook hands and said their final farewells. My grandmother came over, hugged my dad and uncle Fred, and kissed their cheeks repeatedly, her concern evident. The boys reassured her that they would be all right. As they descended the ladder at the end of the wharf, in turn, they gazed back at my grandfather, who gave them a knowing wink. With the departure of my dad and Uncle Fred, there remained at home with my grandparents four of their brothers. Their oldest brother, my Uncle Jimmy, was already residing in Toronto.

They climbed into the swaying dory, and a member of the ship’s crew rowed them toward the steamer. My dad thought about my grandfather’s words and silently wondered about the mischief the older man had stumbled upon in the French islands. Boarding the Glencoe, the two young Hudson sons from Burin commenced the journey that they hoped would lead them into their own world of questionable indulgence.

When I became an adult and my dad told me about the words that my grandfather had spoken on that fateful morn, it was obvious that he remembered best the panty and petticoat trips. He admitted that at the time, he had thought that if the women of Toronto ate him alive, it was a better way to perish than being swallowed by the frigid waters of the North Atlantic. Besides, he thought, if I end up in hell due to my lack of morals, at least I’ll be warm.

However, he hadn’t realized how expert Toronto would be at inducting those who arrived within its precincts into the fascinatingly sinful ways of big-city life.

When I was seven years of age, my grandparents came to live within our household in Toronto, and I discovered for myself my grandfather’s delightfully roguish ways. Of all the adults I encountered when I was a boy, he was the most interesting scoundrel of them all. My dad was a close rival.

The moment my dad descended from the train at Toronto’s Union Station, he was amazed—clanging streetcars, noisy vehicle traffic, electric streetlights, and monstrously tall buildings. Pretty girls were everywhere, sporting shorter hemlines than he had ever seen. He considered the streets of Toronto to be paved with gold—golden views of feminine beauty.

In the days ahead, he struck more gold. He discovered the burlesque theatres—the gold and pink splendour of the Pantages, the glistening interior of Shea’s Hippodrome, and the ornate golden carvings inside Loews Downtown. On the stages of these venues were painted ladies, jugglers, magicians, and risqué comedians that assaulted his morals with dubious jokes. He also experienced telephones, moving picture shows, and huge department stores with their endless displays of goods.

When he attended his first professional baseball game at Hanlan’s Point, he thrilled to the exhilarating crack of the bat and the roar of the enthusiastic fans. The verbal pillorying of the umpire was immense fun, even though it seemed unjust. Big-city life was great. Within a few weeks of his arrival, he knew for certain that the most exciting stories in the books of his boyhood paled in comparison to his new life. Setting aside my grandfather’s warnings, his enchantment with the city quickly blossomed into a love affair that was to never end.

My dad was short in stature, but because of the slenderness of youth and his muscular body, developed during his arduous days in the fishing boats, he presented an attractive appearance—smooth skin; fine, handsome features; and dancing dark eyes. Women considered his quick sense of humour to be the icing on the cake. Though introspective, to those he met, he appeared constantly to view life as a comedy. Because of his positive outlook, jovial ways, and good looks, many a young woman succumbed to his charms.

For more than a decade, my father romanced a city that offered endless opportunities. He explored its libraries, with their rows of books that seemed to stretch to the horizon and soar to the heavens above. He hungrily read the daily newspapers and discussed with my uncle Fred the city’s numerous sporting events. The weekend comic section in the Star, colourful and action-packed, provided great delight—Barney Google, Tillie the Toiler, and Mutt and Jeff.

My dad worked hard and on weekends enjoyed the companionship of the young women he encountered. He frequented the Toronto Islands—accessed by sailing across the inner harbour aboard a side-paddle ferry—the ornate Winter Garden Theatre, the Humber River valley, and Riverdale Zoo. Having left behind his harsh life in Burin, he was convinced that he had ascended the golden stairs into paradise.

One evening, returning home after taking a girl out on a date, as he entered the parlour of the boarding house, he threw his jacket across the chesterfield. My uncle Fred was relaxing with his feet up on a chair, reading the newspaper. Without lowering the newspaper, he casually inquired, How’d the date with Helen go?

With a sly grin, my dad replied, When I date a pretty gal, I treat her to a meal, and later, I hug her until I squeeze it out of her.

Sounds painful for the gal. It can’t be a pretty sight, my uncle Fred mocked, now gazing at his older brother over the top of the newspaper.

Well, in truth, the girl squeezes me as much as I squeeze her.

Yes, I’ve heard about your squeezing abilities. You’re as skilled as the python at the Riverdale Zoo and almost as attractive.

Better to have squeezed and lost than to never have squeezed at all. My dad was unconcerned at having mangled the poetic words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Where did you take Helen on this glorious date of yours?

I treated her to a sandwich and coffee at Bowles Diner and a movie that included a vaudeville show—at the Pantages.

Anyone I know in the stage lineup?

Yes! Your buddy Lorne Lawrence was the star comedian.

Oh! You mean old Horny Lornie?

Yup!

Did you hear any good jokes?

Yup!

Uncle Fred now placed the newspaper on his lap. For the next few minutes, my dad regaled his brother with the jokes he’d heard at the Pantages Theatre on Yonge Street.

"Horny Lornie began by gazing over the audience for a few moments. Then, he said, ‘I’m pleased to see that big-busted May West is in the audience.’ He paused, shook his head, and continued, ‘Sorry! I’m mistaken. It’s two bald-headed men sitting too close together. These two guys must be bosom pals.’

"Everyone applauded loudly. Helen laughed too and she usually doesn’t enjoy rough humour.

"Next, Horny Lornie said, ‘Did you hear about the old man who was tuning the radio? As he leaned over to reach the dial, he felt a sharp pain in his back. He told his wife that he was getting lumbago. His wife said that she didn’t like foreign stations.’

"Horny Lornie asked, ‘Will someone in the audience loan me a nickel to call a friend?’ A man in the audience yelled back, ‘I’ll give you ten cents so you can call all your friends.’

When the laughter died away, Horny Lornie said with a sneer, ‘The ten-cent jerk is as mean as the guy whose friend was bitten on the arse by a rattlesnake. The guy phoned the doctor, who told him that the only way to save his friend’s life was to cut a small incision where the bite was located and suck out the poison. When the stricken friend asked his buddy what the doctor had said, he replied, He said you’re going to die."’

"‘What a friend,’ Horny Lornie said sarcastically. ‘He’s as mean as our ten-cent friend here in the audience.’

Horny Lornie continued, ‘My friends, you’re a great audience, but this Toronto of yours is a one-horse town. Everyone agrees, except the guy who cleans up after the horse.’ There was more laughter and applause, though not as enthusiastic.

My uncle Fred now placed the newspaper over on a chair, giving full attention to my dad’s revelations. He said, It sounds as if the show was a dandy. The vaudeville stories are certainly more fun than the tales the old fishermen tell in the shed down on the wharf beside the harbour.

Yes, and the vaudeville shows are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to big-city fun. The pretty girls on the boardwalk at Sunnyside can pop the buttons on a man’s fly. When I’m downtown, my neck gets sore from gazing up at the fifteen-storey skyscrapers. The sight of Babe Ruth over at the Hanlan’s Point Baseball Stadium is a thrill beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. And of course, the pretty saleswomen at Eaton’s and Simpson’s stores display more petticoats and panties than our dad’s islands of paradise. Pity the undergarments are in glass display cases.

True, my uncle Fred agreed as he laughed. Any other good stories at the Pantages?

Not really. However, I heard a good joke from the old man in the United Tobacco Shop down at the corner. He told me a Pat and Mike story.

My father recounted it. "One evening, the two old Irish drinking buddies, Pat and Mike, had too much to drink. While Pat was relieving himself against a tree, he passed out dead drunk and fell down. Mike glanced over and saw that his buddy had fallen asleep under the tree, his manhood exposed to the world. Before he too passed out, he managed to tie a blue ribbon around it.

When Pat awoke, he looked down and saw the blue ribbon wrapped around his ‘pride and joy.’ Though puzzled, he smugly declared, ‘I don’t know where you’ve been while I was asleep, but ye obviously won first prize.’

My dad and his brother laughed as if the tale was the greatest contribution to English literature since the days of Shakespeare. Actually, ever since the mid-nineteenth century, Pat and Mike stories had been almost as popular at the plays of the bard. Even in this decade, people considered Pat and Mike jokes the most famous export of Ireland—except, of course, for the wondrous whiskey from the Emerald Isle.

Today I remember that my mom was fond of saying that some mornings my dad couldn’t remember where he left his underwear the night before, but he never forgot a joke.

As a child, I was convinced that his stories were wonderfully risqué. I yearned to be older so he would include me in his joke-telling sessions.

For fourteen years, my dad continued to enjoy Toronto. He remained a bachelor warrior, fighting bravely against marital entanglements. However, in May of 1935, he lost the battle and married my mother. He was so much in love that he willingly left behind his single life of sin, even though most of it had been in his imagination.

My mom was several years younger than he was, with a unique sense of humour that rivalled his own. Though quieter than my father, she was more mischievous. Slender and full-figured, with light-brown hair, she possessed an attractive face and clear skin. He had adored her from the first moment they met. She was entranced by him, as well, and the love that developed between them never lessened throughout the years ahead. By marrying, my dad may have lost the battle of bachelorhood, but when he married my mother, he won the war.

They were married by a Salvation Army officer in a private ceremony and then journeyed downtown to the Bowles Diner at Queen and Bay streets. They splurged despite the difficult economic times, choosing the best dishes on the menu. The bill was slightly over one dollar. As they exited the restaurant, they gazed in admiration at the decorations around the entrance of City Hall.

My dad hugged my mom as he declared, Old King Georgie and Queen Mary have now reigned for twenty-five years, and your reign as the queen of my life has just begun. Long may you reign!

Don’t be so disrespectful, she replied with a grin. Besides, I doubt we’ll ever have enough money to live regally. But then again, true love has a value that is beyond price.

As they walked away, they felt as though they were among the richest people in the world.

Toronto’s Old City Hall, decorated for the celebration of the Silver Jubilee of King George V and Queen Mary on May 10, 1935.

City of Toronto Archives, Series 372, Sub series 41, Item 381

Their first home was a small rented apartment above a shoe repair shop, near the corner of Dufferin Street and Eglinton Avenue. The second-floor flat faced on Dufferin Street, which, unlike today, was not heavy with traffic; times were difficult, and few people owned automobiles.

The landlords were Mr. and Mrs. Cattell. Mrs. Cattell’s first name was Mary, and she was a Scot. Her husband, Charles, was English and the owner of the shoe repair shop occupying the first floor of the building. Due to the economic hardships of the Depression years, they lived at the rear of the store and rented their upstairs flat to my parents. Mr. and Mrs. Cattell were to become close friends of our family.

Though the Eglinton-Dufferin area was akin to a small community, my mom had great difficulty dealing with the harsh world of the big city. She had not been born in Canada, but in a small community in Newfoundland during the days prior to confederation. In her native village, neighbours trusted neighbours. People helped each other. Most residents earned their living from the sea, their meagre incomes augmented by their kitchen gardens. However, the austere conditions in Toronto that the Depression ushered in were beyond her worst nightmares. The adversities of Epworth had been tempered by the strong bonds of family life and the kindness of the villagers. Outside the family circle, she often felt alone. Mr. and Mrs. Cattell, though, helped dispel her sense of isolation.

Despite her worries, my mom remained cheerful. However, similar to the rocky isle from which she had descended, she possessed many contrasting traits.

Epworth, where she had been raised, was a mere mile across the water from my dad’s family homestead. However, as my dad was seven years older than she was, she had not known him. During her teenage years, she crossed the one-mile stretch of Burin Harbour to attend the Sunday evening services of the Salvation Army at Burin Bay Citadel. Eventually, she became a member of the congregation, and she remained a Salvationist for the remainder of her life.

After she immigrated to Toronto, she attended the Earlscourt Corps of the army (near Dufferin Street and St. Clair Avenue), and following a morning church service, she was invited to dinner at the home of my grandmother Hudson, who welcomed any Newfoundlander who was without a family in the city. My mother felt at sea, adrift in a vast metropolis, so was grateful for the invitation. There, she’d met my dad.

Epworth was nestled along the shores of a spoon-shaped harbour, protected from the waves of the open Atlantic by huge rocks, small islands, and steep cliffs. The Methodist faith dominated the lives of the people. The modest white church with its tall spire was perched on a hill overlooking the cove below. The Methodist Church prohibited the consumption of alcohol, dancing, and playing cards. If a person were to celebrate a birthday or some other important occasion, we can only wonder how they accomplished the feat.

My grandparents christened my mother Albertha Soundy, but she was always referred to as Bertha. Due to the influences of the community and her family, we might assume that she matured into a woman of unbending religious convictions. She did indeed hold firmly to the basic tenets of her faith, but not in the strict manner of her forebears. She did not view God as a judge who inflicted the torments of hell on sinners. She believed her creator was a loving, heavenly father who provided strength during difficult times. She thought that when she finally met her creator, he would smile, not present a disapproving frown. I am grateful for this attitude, as she imparted it to Ken and me.

Despite being an optimist in many ways, my mother was a worrier. The concerns of daily life troubled her, as it was her responsibility to stretch the family budget to secure food for the table and to pinch resources to pay the rent. My dad went to bed at night, forgot the day’s problems, and fell asleep. My mother was unable to do this. It was to cause her many difficulties during the years ahead.

My brother, Ken, was born on 29 June 1936. The daily temperatures for the month had been above normal, several days reaching thirty-eight degrees Celsius. However, no one was able to predict that the worst heat wave in the modern history of Canada would begin the following week. Before it ended, 1,180 people died of heat stroke and exhaustion, most of them the elderly and infants. Over four hundred people drowned while seeking relief from the extreme heat in public pools, lakes, rivers, and ponds.

In Toronto, on July 5, the temperatures commenced soaring. By July 8, the high climbed to 40.5 (105 Fahrenheit), and it continued to swelter for three consecutive days. In the 1930s, there was no air-conditioning, except for in a few homes in the wealthier neighbourhoods of the city and in movie theatres. People flocked to these venues, as well as to Sunnyside Beach beside the lake, the Don and Humber river valleys, and the Toronto Islands.

After dark, families spread blankets on lawns, in backyards, and in public parks. Single men slept on public benches. Vacant lots on city streets became makeshift campgrounds, which each morning folded away and disappeared until after sunset the following evening. Humidex readings, a Canadian invention, were not in use until 1965. The humidex calculates the amount of humidity in the air and combines it with the temperature readings. High humidity prevents moisture on one’s skin from evaporating, thus raising the body temperatures. A high humidex reading is very uncomfortable. No such statistics are available for 1936, but it is not difficult to imagine how uncomfortable the humidex readings would have been.

My dad’s concerns increased as the unbearable temperatures continued. My brother’s birth had been difficult and had weakened my mother. She was too frail to leave the upstairs flat, and they did not even own a fan to circulate the stifling air in the small room. Frightened that my infant brother might not survive the heat, my parents arranged for Mr. and Mrs. Cattell to take him with them to a vacant lot on Dufferin Street, south of the shoe store. There, along with many other neighbours, they passed the night on a blanket under the stars. When dawn broke across the sky, they returned my brother to my mother’s arms. Though Ken received the benefit of the Cattells’ kindness, each night my dad remained with my mom, fearing for her life. The economic hardship of the Depression was now compounded by the blistering temperatures.

Discouraged and feeling helpless, his optimistic outlook was severely tested. At one point, he thought that he should change his name to Job, the man in the Bible who suffered grievously at the hand of God.

Each day after a sweltering night, when the fiery sun ascended into the sky, the neighbourhood that greeted my dad was as cheerless as his nightly miseries. People were weary from lack of sleep. On Eglinton Avenue, streetcar tracks had twisted, and on Dufferin Street, the sidewalk had buckled in several places. The emerging fruit on the trees in backyards and laneways had shrivelled. An elderly woman clicked her tongue in frustration as she told my dad that the apples on her tree had been baked from the punishing rays of the sun.

Lawns throughout the neighbourhood had shed their green of summer and succumbed to the dead browns of dormancy. Bushes wilted, and deciduous trees shed many of their leaves to preserve the scarce water that remained buried deep beneath the parched soil. The city’s water supply was restricted. Vegetable gardens surrendered to the onslaught of heat and drought, their disheartened owners observing the terrible toll inflicted by the scorching sun.

One old-timer complained to my dad, Sitting on the hobs of hell would be no worse than walking the streets of the city during this heat wave. If I fried a chicken on the sidewalk, it’d burn to a crisp.

To place the 1936 heat wave into perspective, during the summer of 2003, when temperatures reached forty degrees in Europe, fifteen thousand died from heat stroke and exhaustion. In 1936, there were not many places to seek relief, and except for a few of the wealthy, no one possessed air-conditioning. Even electric fans were rare.

On the seventeenth of July, the heat finally abated slightly. Though August remained hot, it was less severe. When September finally arrived, daily temperatures became seasonal, the breezes of late summer delivering welcomed relief. By this time, my brother was growing rapidly, and my mother had regained her strength and resumed her normal routines.

However, reminders of the heat wave remained. The corn and wheat crops across Canada had been destroyed by the drought and extreme temperatures. In the grocery stores, the price of many products had risen, with the increased price of bread causing the most distress. My parents felt that the summer had indeed been the summer of their discontent.

On Saturday, 12 September 1936, the Canadian National Exhibition was to close its gates for another season. Despite the stressed family budget, my dad decided that he and my mom badly needed a diversion and that they should attend the CNE. Unknown to her, he sold a few of the more-valuable postage stamps in his collection to a neighbour and received two dollars in return.

She was surprised when he informed her of his intentions and said, We can’t afford to spend money in such a frivolous manner.

I know, but the funds for the CNE I consider ‘found’ money, as I sold some stamps. You need a day away from the apartment. Mary Cattell has offered to look after Ken.

It sounds as if you had it all planned before you even consulted me.

True. I did the same thing the day I proposed to you. Frivolous events deserve more planning than serious ones.

The only thing frivolous about our marriage is you, my mother replied with a smirk. However, I am stuck, so I guess I’ll stick to my part of the bargain and stay with you.

My dad was amused but was not to be dissuaded. He continued his plea. The Ex has all the very-latest products and inventions on display—vacuums, toasters, fridges, and washing machines. All these are beyond our budget, but I want you to see the newly invented two-cent alarm clocks. Perhaps we can buy one of them.

Two-cent clocks? My mom eyed him suspiciously, as she suspected that something mischievous was pending.

He explained. It’s a candle that’s marked into sections that each require one hour to burn down. You turn over on your stomach and insert the candle up your rear end to the hour when you want to awaken. You have someone ignite the candle, and when it burns down to the designated hour, the flame burns your ass and awakes you.

My mom tried not to smile, but gazing at the impish grin on his face, she was unable to resist. She knew that he wanted to attend the CNE as much as a ten-year-old boy. How could she refuse?

All right, she relented. Get your frivolous rear end in gear, and we’ll go to the Ex. However, I warn you that when your son is of sufficient age to understand your silly jokes, you had better drop the dirty jokes.

My dad sighed. How a man must suffer for the sake of the next generation.

Bathurst streetcars arriving at the eastern entrance to the Canadian National Exhibition, September 1936.

City of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Sub series 71, Item 9906

When my parents arrived inside the CNE grounds, a wondrous sight unfolded before them. They had expected the grass and flowerbeds to be brown after the summer’s excessive heat and drought. However, due to the recent rains and the extra hosing they had received, the lawns were appealingly fresh and green. The buildings gleamed in the summer sun, the crowds were gaily attired, the colourful awnings of the food stands creating the final brushstrokes—a living, animated artist’s canvas. The Grand Old Lady of Toronto was ready to play host to her eager guests.

Although my mother usually disliked crowds, my dad’s enthusiasm soon engulfed her. The booths selling red hots (hot dogs) and those hawking the famous Honey Dew orange drink were numerous. Small train coaches, pulled by pint-size tractors, transported gawking visitors throughout the vast expanse of the grounds. Tents and kiosks had sprouted everywhere. Banners and flags fluttered in the soft breezes from the lake. It was akin to a medieval fair from the mythical days of King Arthur. She half expected the magic monarch of Camelot to gallop his mighty steed into the entrancing scene. The clanking crash of his armour would be lost amid the tide of euphoria that surged across the grounds on this warm September day.

Crowds at the CNE in September of 1936. The grandstand, built in 1907, is on the left-hand side of the photograph. It was destroyed by fire in 1946.

City of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Sub series 71, Item 11533

In the Electrical and Engineering Building, my mom listened to a radio broadcast hosted by Kate Aitken, who was expertly demonstrating ways to use leftover food for casseroles and soups. My mom was also interested in the superagitator washing machines, offered for the special exhibition price of $99.50, which included a free-rolling wringer with purchase. My dad was more intrigued by the flying boats of the future.

After exiting the building, my mom said teasingly, I didn’t see any of the two-cent alarm clocks.

My dad replied, The manufacturer had to recall them. They admitted that they were impractical, as if a person broke wind, the candle extinguished before the designated hour.

My mom punched my dad’s arm in a mock rebuke and then, gripping his arm again, laughed as they continued on their way.

Wandering around the 350-acre grounds, they visited as many as possible of the eighty buildings open to the public. They noticed the huge banners that advertised the grandstand show—entitled Mystic Mars—that was presented each evening at 7:30 PM They billed it as a Brilliant, Beautiful, Crashing, Reverberating, Rocketing Spectacle of Polytechnics. If the program, which included thirty European vaudeville acts, was as superlative as the array of adjectives in the advertising, it was indeed a superb presentation. However, the general admission tickets were thirty cents so my parents were unable to attend the show of Beauty, Colour, Thrills, and Action, as another sign declared. Similarly, the horse show in the Coliseum entitled Cavalry of Empire was beyond their financial resources.

The CNE grandstand in September of 1936. On the right-hand side, opposite the tiers of seats, is the stage for the spectacular evening presentation.

City of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Item 11544

In the Arts and Crafts Building, they examined the numerous displays of schoolchildren’s art, as well as prize-winning examples of ceramics, needlepoint, embroidery, and knitting. The hand-stitched quilts fascinated my mom, as she had witnessed her mother work long hours sewing them when she was a child.

My dad whispered, Quilt therapy is a wonderful cure for almost any ailment.

That’s true, it’s very relaxing, agreed my mom, puzzled that he was whispering.

In a voice as pious as a priest’s, my dad declared, Quilt therapy is better known as fun under the blankets.

My mom gave him a withering glance, ignored him, and continued examining the patterns on one of the more-colourful quilts.

The Arts and Crafts Building at the CNE in 1936, where the quilts were displayed.

City of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Item 11537

My dad suggested that they visit the Automotive Building next, where the Rudy Vallée Show required no admission fee. The famous crooner entranced the audiences with his sweet ballads, enhanced by his trademark megaphone. Adoring fans crowded inside the building to hear him and to view the latest models of cars. As my dad listened to the lilting songs, he ran his fingers over the smooth body of an Oldsmobile. A six-cylinder model was $1,088, and an eight-cylinder cost $1,241.

My dad said with a sigh, I can only dream of purchasing such an expensive set of wheels.

You’d better dream of learning to drive too, my mom teased. However, it’s good to know that your dreams extend beyond quilt therapy.

Next, they visited the Toronto Transportation Commission Exhibit, which included several of the sleek new buses the company intended to introduce the following month on several of the city’s routes. One of these was to be the Vaughan Road route, which extended from Vaughan Road and Oakwood, south to Bathurst and St. Clair. My mom looked forward to boarding one and enjoying a ride.

The TTC exhibit at the CNE in September of 1936.

City of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Item 11556

In the Pure Food Building, built in 1921, the influence of the recent heat wave was evident in the advertising. Pepsi-Cola declared, Forget the heat, pack up your troubles, and cheer up with a Pepsi. Another sign said, Coke—ready for you—ice cold. Another company bragged, The only drink that can outlast a heat wave—iced tea. Maxwell House Coffee attempted to appeal to buyers who were forced to be careful with their pennies during harsh economic times: Maxwell House—Quality Coffee Anyone Can Afford.

My mom had packed sufficient sandwiches for both lunch and dinner. They enjoyed the free samples provided by the food companies and shared a Honey Dew drink. When they hit the midway, my dad insisted that they splurge and have a ride on a Ferris wheel. My mom felt that it was being too extravagant, but reluctantly she agreed. However, when she was whisked high into the air and gazed out over the shimmering waters of the lake, the troubles of the previous weeks evaporated. She smiled at my dad and knew that despite his occasional spendthrift ways and his odd sense of humour, he was indeed a dream husband.

After dark, leaving behind the twinkling lights of the world’s largest annual fair, they trudged toward the Eastern Gate and commenced their return journey to the stuffy confines of their small apartment. A day beside the cooling water of the lake had indeed erased the stressful memories of the great heat wave of the summer of 1936.

The four Ferris wheels on the midway at the 1936 CNE.

City of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Item 11531

Midway crowds at the CNE in 1936.

Cit of Toronto Archives, TTC Fonds, Series 71, Item 11532

Finally, the day arrived when my birth was imminent. During this decade, a lack of money prevented most women from giving birth in hospitals. When my mother’s labour pains commenced, my father rushed to Dr. Maloney’s office, three blocks away on Fairbank Avenue, and requested that he come quickly.

In June of 1938, I made my entrance into the world. On the evening of my birth, no bright star illuminated the eastern sky. Three Wise Men did not appear, such gentlemen being in short supply in days of yore. Hairy, humped camels, braying donkeys, and bleating sheep were also out of the question. Because no angels heralded my nativity from cloven skies, our landlady, Mrs. Cattell, performed the angels’ role and made the announcement. She ran around the corner, encountering my dad in front of Max’s barbershop. It was not a particularly prestigious location for such an important announcement.

Thomas, Thomas! she yelled. You have another son.

A-are … you sure? my dad stammered foolishly.

Well, if I am mistaken, you have another male in bed with your wife.

After much consideration, my parents decided to name me Thomas, after my father. However, to avoid confusion with my dad, they always referred to me as Tom. Fortunately, no one called me Tommy.

The year I was born, the Great Depression had engulfed the nation for nine years. Today I realize how hard my parents struggled to survive. My dad, in the latter years of his life, recalled how following the crash of the stock market, the Canadian system of government was unable to cope with the situation. Ottawa possessed the bulk of the taxation powers, but the provinces had most of the responsibilities (e.g., health, education, and most infrastructure projects). Sound familiar?

Today it is almost impossible to understand the poverty that surrounded my parents. In Ontario, the average wage had dropped by almost a half. In Toronto, more than half of the population earned less than one thousand dollars per year, about eighteen dollars a week. Rent money averaged six to eight dollars per week. This was particularly hard on families with children, such as ours. However, those with jobs were fortunate. Those without employment, such as my dad, suffered worse.

Throughout my boyhood, I heard many stories and details about the Great Depression. The tales have now become a part of the family’s lore. These are a few of the facts and stories that I have gleaned:

In our household budget, not much money remained after my parents paid for food, rent, clothing, streetcar tickets, coal, water, taxes, and hydro. None of our neighbours fared any better. The GDP in 1935 was only half of what it had been in 1929. By 1938, it had not improved. A third of the nation was unemployed. My dad was a numberless face buried within these impersonal statistics.

One night at the dinner table, my mom was discussing the price of the basic foods she required to feed the family. Flour, eggs, Crisco, and potatoes have dropped a little in price since the crash, but they remain outrageous, she complained.

Well, my dad replied, glancing up from his dinner plate. Perhaps it’s not so bad. If that mean neighbour I’ve heard about, Mrs. Klacker, can afford fewer lemons, she might be a little less sour.

Ignoring his unkind remark about the elderly woman, my mom persisted. Lettuce has increased two cents a head this year.

I guess we’ll never get ahead in life, my dad quipped.

My mom knew that he was being stubbornly positive, his silly comments an attempt to cheer her, as he was well aware of the difficulties she faced when shopping. However, she continued. For years, toilet paper was three rolls for ten cents, and now the same amount is twenty-five cents. She paused at this point, looked directly at him, and exclaimed, And don’t offer another asinine remark!

I wouldn’t dare, but I think it’s a kick in the bum to pay such a price for toilet paper.

My mother rolled her eyes at his feeble joke. After a few seconds of silence, she exclaimed, I wish you’d stop being so irritatingly jolly. Optimism is an overrated attribute.

My dad said nothing more, not realizing that my mom intended to wait for the right moment to extract a price for his silliness and exaggerated cheerfulness. It happened the next evening at the supper table, when my dad closed his eyes to repeat the blessing for the meal. She inserted a table knife into the jug of ice water and surreptitiously placed it on his upper lip. The unexpected cold sensation startled my dad so badly that he threw himself back on his chair, sending it tumbling to the floor.

Picking up the chair, he sat down again. He glared at my mom but said nothing as he resumed eating his meal. A perfect picture of innocence masked my mother’s face. She sipped on her tea, pretending to ignore him.

Finally, my dad was unable to remain silent. Goodness, woman, you almost made me dirty my pants.

It’s a good thing you didn’t, she replied nonchalantly. At today’s price of toilet paper, you wouldn’t be able to afford to clean yourself up.

My dad knew that she had neatly retaliated for his inanity the previous evening and freely admitted that she had outdone him. Their love was evident as they laughed about the incident. However, no amount of mirth was able to wipe away the harsh economic times gripping their lives.

My mom knew a young Italian man who rented a single room in a house six doors to the north of us. When he lost his job, the government seized him and extradited him to Italy. In earlier years, immigration had boosted the economy, but now it had fallen to less than one-tenth of what it had been. Authorities were deporting immigrants who were without work. During the same period, the birthrate fell by more than a quarter. The reduction in population and the declining birthrate added to the economic woes of the nation, as there was less demand for products and were fewer consumers to purchase items.

In our neighbourhood, there was a destitute single mother with five children. My mom often chatted with her when they met on the street or in a shop. The government paid her five dollars per month per child. Her oldest child had recently turned sixteen, and the payments for him had ended. To ease the burden on the family, her young son decided to ride the rails westward in search of a job. His mother was distraught, not wishing him to go.

When the teenager reached western Canada, he discovered that conditions were harsher on the prairies than in Ontario. The price of grain had dropped from $1.60 a bushel to $0.28. Six weeks later, when he returned home, he was worse off than before he had left.

The government finally gave relief payments to the most desperate, my dad among them. It was a controversial measure, as many felt that the money encouraged people not to seek jobs, even though none were available. My mom hated receiving welfare assistance, as it deeply wounded her pride. The amount my dad received was lower than the worst-paid employment, and they attached it to a forced work program. Often, the make-work tasks served no useful purpose. However, while he and others laboured at them, they were unable to seek regular work. Over 15 percent of the nation was in the same boat as my dad.

In addition, my dad knew that if he did find employment, the wages would be meagre. Meanwhile, his relief payments were insufficient to provide adequate food for our table. My mom constantly worried about providing proper nutrition, as she had heard that some families were suffering from malnutrition, scurvy, and even rickets.

The young man in our neighbourhood who had travelled out west seeking work was unmarried so did not qualify for benefits like those my dad received. To avoid starvation, he unwillingly entered a work camp located in a remote area of the province. They housed him in a tar paper shack, fed him army rations, and forced him to wear war-surplus clothes. He laboured six and a half days a week for twenty cents a day on projects such as building bridges, roads, airfields, parks or restoring historic sites.

He wrote to his parents: They have interred me in a slave camp.

There were 125 camps throughout the country. In all, one hundred seventy thousand men spent time in them. The government considered the camps a reasonable solution to the problem, as they feared that if large numbers of unemployed men remained in the cities, the situation held the potential for riots.

My dad felt that because Prime Minister Bennett, the owner of the E. B. Eddy Match Company, was a millionaire, he