The Toronto neighbourhood where I grew up had mass appeal for me as a child. There was an Olympic-sized swimming pool around the corner, at George S. Henry High School Don Mills Road and York Mills Road meet. The landscape from my youth held much distraction and seduced me with promises of escapism. The variety of choices in entertainment, found about this suburb of Greater Toronto, brought delight to the faces of kids throughout North York and the rest of the city. I was no exception. After all, in the 1970s, there was really nothing else to do.
Before the days of Pong, during the reign of the 8-track, children did not remain inside the house for amusement. Although television was a popular destination, it held little in comparison to the programming of today. One was lucky to manage any signal, let alone one containing content worthy of a child's attention. 12 channels left much to be desired. Outside of the talking box, home was for feeding and sleeping. Life was for play and adventure, not chores or responsibility. I could not have imagined myself sitting in front of the television for hours playing games, when all around me was excitement and room for mischief. I know that things have changed for children.
Up Don Mills Road , the Fairview Mall was but a friendly walk away, with movie theatres galore (2) and every store imaginable. Down the road was the Prince Hotel, playing host to bands like the Bay City Rollers. Large parks and baseball diamonds littered the area. Trees seemed so large, aged like giant antique ladders meant to climb. Grass went on forever, at least in the mind, and kites were your very best friend. In the winter, ice skating at Fenside Arena filled up my Sunday afternoon. Come summer, it was off to camp with my sister. Camp "Melachaguchie" (or something resembling that name) gave two weeks of complete diversion during the long summer days and one over-night to cap it off, with no parents to be found. For a child, this was pure freedom.
It would have been easy to catch a bus into the heart of downtown Toronto , and on occasion, I did just that (accompanied, of course). The Summerville pool, the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM) and the Canadian National Exhibition (CNE) all were destinations throughout my fledgling years. The newly opened Ontario Place , with its snow cones, was a much anticipated outing. You could even head to the waterfront to watch the CN Tower being built. Outside of such grand things, there was little reason to head into the city, but for the spectacle of it all. Record stores, grocery stores, and all things in between were of easy access in the area, no matter where you turned. For a child, it meant a smorgasbord of options and little investment of time.
The first meal I remember eating was at McDonald's, located near Sheppard Avenue and Pharmacy Road . Long before the days of the Happy Meal, I recall just being happy to have the meal. You could walk to fast food in all directions, then and now. Strip malls and coffee shops meant promise for Tim Horton's and mini-malls to come. I remember my parents driving out of the city, west towards Kitchener , so we could all partake from the very first Timmie's, located near Cambridge and the African Lion Safari. The very first time I tasted a double chocolate donut stands out in my memory, an event measured equal to my first sexual encounter or first buzz from marijuana. This gastronomically thrilling visitor still greets my taste buds once a week or so. I can be a real pig for the stuff.
If you craved time with the animals, then a quick drive to the Metro Toronto Zoo was most rewarding. A decade before Canada 's Wonderland, thrills came from monkeys and elephants, not the Wild Beast or Behemoth. The Prince Edward Gardens Leslie Street and Lawrence Avenue East . A gang of us would venture by bus and ravage the park with play. The entire day, the large group of kids from our neighbourhood would turn greenery and forest into base camps or wolf dens, all the while running carefree, with little concern for time marching on or what was on the television set at home.
When we did watch TV, at least on Saturday nights, one just curled up on the floor to watch Peter Puck on Hockey Night in Canada . The game didn't really matter to me but Go Leafs Go! This was when a father seemed the most important thing in the world. My Dad would sit explaining the game until the questions became too frequent and we got rushed off to bed. One Christmas, Dad got tickets for us kids and we headed down to Maple Leaf Gardens
Just past the Don Valley Parkway (DVP), under the pass, and past the high school sat Graydon Hall. Built in 1936, the estate, in the 1970s, consisted of a Golf and Tennis Club in the Manor, an abandoned man-made river and several venues throughout the property. The outer shell of all the buildings and exterior walls remains the original cobblestone to this day. The river may have dried up, but it served as a canvas for our imaginations. We played Werewolves, Capture the Flag and Hide and Go Seek among the rocks and secret places. We set booby-traps for those who would dare disturb our sanctum. My brother Phil stands as a testament to the power of childhood weaponry, though I'm not sure if he still bears the scar. The enormous hills found at Graydon Hall Park
Into the latter part of the decade, Peter Pocklington began to develop the land for apartments and condominiums. The Manor became a prestigious reception and banquet facility and high-rise towers now fill a once unencumbered view. Just over Don Mills Road lies a collection of commercial and industrial buildings, but when I was a kid, it was all ravine, a large mixture of trails, bush and wetland. This too was a favoured destination to escape from reality. Getting lost in the woods made for hours of exploration and enjoyment. It broke my heart when I saw, for the first time, a concrete jungle on top of my childhood jungle. This place was magic for me, a favourite place. Still, there was nothing that held my interest as much as the tuck shop down the street.
While Graydon Hall had a little variety store tucked into its stone facade, the real tuck shop was right through Sandover Park York Mills Road and the DVP. Located where Sandover Drive meets the main thoroughfare, 1200 York Mills Road housed my daily guilty pleasure. Primarily used as a term throughout the British Commonwealth , "tuck shop" denotes a small retailer or canteen. There was no 7-11 or variety stores when I was but a boy, they were all known as "the tuck shop." The store remains the same as it once was, still buried beneath 16 floors of apartment living. This quaint corner shop not only carried every kind of candy one could imagine, but was my main source for comic books. The white angelfish sculpture just outside, large and bold, told of treasure to come as you approached your pleasure. It was a touchstone for children looking for ecstasy in Blackballs, Gold Rush gum, or Dipsticks. I stole 2 of those Blackball gobstoppers when I was 8 years old and got caught. I can see myself sitting in the back room waiting for my Dad. The owner banned me, a crushing blow, but that lasted only a week until I returned to buy more comics. I guess 'preferred customer' was a familiar business term even in the old days. I recently learnt that the store will be closing this fall after almost 60 years.
When I close my eyes, I can see myself as a child in action. There are few memories I embrace from the point of view of me sitting. There was always so much to do when I was young. Back then, I didn’t think in terms of freedom, rather it was more often to escape. To escape the boredom and the reruns. To escape the chores or even my siblings. To escape school or the same old life in general. It didn’t hurt that there was plenty of selection to escape to.
I don’t believe most people view their childhood as a source of knowledge. I know that the things which resonate most with me, from my childhood, hold some of the greatest lessons from my life. Albeit not every memory of this time delivers significance and meaning, some are just demonstrative. In that demonstration, there is always something to be learned.
"In my solitude, many miles from men and houses, I am in a childishly happy and carefree state of mind, which you are incapable of understanding unless someone explains it to you." (Knut Hamsun, Norwegian Author)
Although my 10th birthday was over and done, Thursday, May 15th, 1975 was the bomb for me. While the birthday cake and the Big Jeff Safari set were memorable, it was the $10.00 burning a hole in my pocket I worshipped the most. I had to wait until that Saturday before my Mom let me journey from North York to Scarborough to spend it. It might not seem like a lot of money to a 10-year-old now, but a thousand pennies went far in 1975. These days were pre-lottery, no scratch cards or Lotto draws to be found. I admit no modern winning, that I have known, has ever met the same sense of wealth that possessed me over this purple piece of joy. The gift, from my maternal grandmother, came wrapped in white with a stamp in the corner. For 48 hours, it was my closest friend.
On the sixth day, I headed out around lunch time and walked straight through Sandover Park York Mills Road . Heading east, North York ends just before Victoria Park Avenue. Although the distance from home to Parkway Mall may seem insignificant to a full-grown adult, for a 10-year-old boy it took forever to get to there. The bright sunny day was warm and smooth and I sauntered, with all the time in the world. I don't recall another day from my history where I felt so carefree. As I crossed the invisible line into Scarborough , and entered the large parking lot belonging to the mall, I felt as if God liked me, shining down permission to be happy for a change.
I went from store to store, taking my time, analyzing each item I considered for purchase. By the time the giant strip mall ended, so too had my friendship with my birthday buddy. The 38 cents in my pocket was all that remained of our camaraderie. In spite of this parting, the way home found me almost skipping with delight. All the warnings from adulthood, regarding money, or "Mammon", and its effect, seem ridiculous when I recall these moments. There was a profound effect, for me, in having something of my very own, and the freedom to use it as I pleased. I never feel this way, now, when I pay my cable bill. If not for the later spring weather, I could have sworn I gave Christmas to myself.
When I arrived home, I raced to my room and poured out my hoard. There was Laura Secord chocolates, new swimming goggles, 9 comic books and an assortment of goodies which escape me now. I took the quarter from the carcass of my pal and hid it in the seam of my Bible, also a gift from this Grandma, two years older than that day. I felt such glee because it all belonged to me. There was a freedom in it, a feeling of independence and objectification took me over, if even for a moment.
I always had instances, growing up, of such actualization, this condition of being free. The full gamut of space and time seemed relevant to my sense of me and my environment. At my hands was everything a child could want as distraction, and I used them all. Still, for every place I ever played in, any attraction I ever visited, nothing holds a candle to my spending spree, birthday 1975. The cornucopia of joy I purchased may be lost to time, but that 1975 quarter still hides among the binding of the Word. I guess some friendships are meant to last forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment