“CRASH” THE WOOD DUCK RETURNS TO SMASH MORE DISHES




WOOD DUCK RETURNS TO SMASH MORE DISHES

“Alan, I found her!”
“I searched all yesterday and couldn’t find her…where did you catch her?”
“She was  wedged in between the big black flat back cupboard and the wall…I heard a faint rustle….had to move dishes and get down on hands and knees but
there she was waiting for help.”
“Second time around this  year…why does she like our chimney so much?”
“Looking for an old tree trunk for a  nest…”
“We saw the male out on the pond with her the other day…why is he never caught?”
“Females are nesters…males are just pesters.”
“Well, Let’s name her CRASH because she seems to love breaking  dishes.”
-She got two of the beer steins and a big blue vase and  glasses.”
“How can we stop her?”
“Maybe just give up and turn the house over to her for the next few weeks”

alan skeoch
Marjorie skeoch
April 2018





On Apr 20, 2018, at 10:31 PM, SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com> wrote:


ICE STORM APRIL 16, 2018:  STUCK WITH A DUCK


alan  skeoch
April 17, 2018

THERE have been better days…. April 16 was a bad day.  The decision to go to the  farm was an error in judgment I suppose.  But then again, if
I had not gone then maybe the LITTLE DUCK WOULD BE DEAD and the house would be wrecked.

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“Alan, are sure the road  is OK?”

“Well Woody, I think we have a problem.   Snow  with a crust of ice on top that is thick enough 
for us  to walk  on.  Too thick, Woody, Can we get the truck n there.  Two wheel drive but still
have the snow tires.”

“Take a chance, Alan…turn in fast…cut a trail through the crust.”

“Not going to make it, Woody…we are stuck…spinning tires…snow and ice up under the truck.”

“What to do?  Call Andrew, he might be somewhere nearby.”

“Good idea.   Ring Ring ring…,”Andy, Woody and I are in a bit of trouble….got the truck 
stuck in the lane…ice storm is bad…Can you come up ro help?”

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“Give me an hour or so…take Woody into the house and I’ll get you out.  You should have known better than to try 
to ride on top of the ice….regular thing with you.”

“Not all my fault…Woody said  to take a run at it.”

“Fine advisor, Dad…see you in an hour.”

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“And it’s getting dark…sleet and ice coming down now.  Road is as slick as a salesman’s blather, Woody.  LOOK AT the old barn…belonged to 
J..S. Woodsworth years ago.  Really bleak looking today.”

“Stop talking.  Open the door…neighbour phoned Marjorie  to say the power has been off all week  end.  I Just hope
the propane is firing away….”

“Quite pretty, isn’t it Woody…the ice coating everything.”
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“Look at the bird house, Alan…loaded with ice.”

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“Open the  door…my feet are frozen, Alan.”

“There…we are now about to get warm….OH NO!  WE HAVE HAD A BREAK IN!!  BROKEN GLASS ALL OVER.”


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“WHY WOULD a robber break  all this glass?”

“Not a robber, Alan, I hear something moving in the bathroom…maybe a raccoon…or coyote….”

“Quiet , Woody, I Hear it too…close the doors…I’ll get a towel.”


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“It’s a DUCK, Alan…must have come down the chimney in the ice storm…thought it was a hollow log.”

“Woody, I am going too catch her if I can.  Hope her wings are not broken…There she  is…FLOP FLOP…Got her  covered.”

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“She seems to be glad we came along Woody.”

“Real heroes!”

“Set her down on the verandah…see if she is going to be OK”

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“What kind of duck is she?”

“Smaller than a Mallard…look at that odd  crest on the back of herded….like a Merganzer maybe…small duck…maybe a Wood duck…Damn, Damn, 
Damn…she  looks like  the same  dick we had last year.”

“Likes smashing glasses and dishes…entertainment until her mate arrives.”

“There she goes…flying…not staying around to help clean up.”

“Check the window…see if Andy is here yet.”

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Bleak out there, Alan, I am going to curl up on my bed while you clean up the glass.”

“Wish Marjorie was  here…”

“Why?”

“She would do the clean up better than me.”

“Andy is here, Alan.”

“Good…I bet he give me another lecture. “

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“Get in your truck, Dad, and put it in reverse…gently…my truck is on solid ice…need all the help we can get.”

“Glad to see you, Andy.”

“Never a dull moment, Dad…you seem to find pickles even in winer time.  How is that torn Achilles tendon doing?.”

“Just fine…”

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“Great…we are now out, Woody…road is sheer ice though…can’t fool around.”

“Did  you tell Andy about the duck, Alan?”

“Not yet…I am  going send him a picture…sort of  a thank you.”

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“Where are you going, Andy…on foot?”

“Now  I have to get my truck in here with the trailer…”

“Need  help?”

“No!”

“I left a duck to give you a hand Andy”

“A what?”

“A LITTLE BROWN FEMALE DUCK…”

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“Sometimes I think my dad is nuts….Did he say Duck or something else?”

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TREADMILL WITH ANDREW AND MARJORIE AT CNE


IN MEMORY OF DAISY…”YOU GOOD DOG, YOU!”

WE TRAINED our dog Daisy to run this treadmill which in turn made the grain cleaner work…fanning mill.   Daisy loved doing the work 
for no reward.  she would just hop on the machine and get everything moving.  In this case we had her  down at
the CNE where she was  a big hit.  Earlier Daisy did the work at a farm show near Milton which  got me in a bit of trouble…see dialogue.

“OK, Daisy hop on…I’ll release the brake.”
“the poor dog!”  Exclaimed one woman at the show.
“She loves doing the work.”
“How do  you know that, young man!”
“Look at her…”

“How long will she have to turn the machine?”
“I let her work until she drops.”
“You do that…the nerve…terrible…then what do you do?”
“I go down to the SPCA and get another dog.”

Now that was a  stupid thing to say.  Little wonder that some people
think I’m a fool. The woman took off fast and
I expected  a visit from animal cruelty people but no one ever came.
Daisy continued her demonstrations for a long time.  Her death was
very sad.  At the time I was doing CBC radio broadcasts on Radio Noon
in Toronto.  The broadcast about the death of  Daisy was delivered to an
empty broadcast room.  Everyone was crying…me included. Remember
that song about OLD BLUE?   

The song comes from the Mississippi region of the USA when hunting
was a common thing and eh need for a good hunting dog was essential.
I think of Daisy every time I hear the song.

I had a dog and his name was Blue
And I betcha five dollars he’s a good dog, too
Come on, Blue
You good dog, you

I shouldered my gun and I tooted my horn
And I went to get a possum in the new ground corn
Come on, Blue
You can come too

(chorus)

Old Blue bayed, and I went to see
Blue had a possum in a ‘simmon tree
Come on, Blue
You good dog, you

That possum come out on a swinging limb
Blue barked at the possum, possum growled at him
Come on, Blue
You good dog, you

(chorus)

Blue grinned at me and I winked at him
I shook out the possum out, Blue took him in
Come on, Blue
You good dog, you

Baked that possum nice and brown
And I layed them sweet potatoes round and round
Come on, Blue
You can have some, too

(chorus)

Well, Old Blue died and he died so hard
He shook the ground in my backyard
Go on, Blue
You good dog, you

Dug his grave with a silver spade
Lowered him down with a golden chain
Go on, Blue
You good dog, you

(chorus)

When I get to heaven first thing I’ll do
Take my horn and blow for Blue
Go on, Blue
I’m comin’ too

Come on Blue, come on Blue
There’s a possum in Heaven for me and you
Go on, Blue
You good dog, you

(chorus)


ICE STORM APRIL 17, 2018: BAD DAY FOR ME…GOOD DAY FOR THE DUCK

OH…I FORGOT TO MENTION THAT WOODY IS OUR DOG. YES, HE CAN SPEAK BUT HE ONLY DOES SO WHEN WE ARE ALONE. HE LIKES TRAVELLING WITH US…ALTHOUGH HE HAS MISGIVINGS.

> On Apr 20, 2018, at 10:31 PM, SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com> wrote: > > ICE STORM APRIL 16, 2018: STUCK WITH A DUCK > > alan skeoch > April 17, 2018 > > THERE have been better days…. April 16 was a bad day. The decision to go to the farm was an error in judgment I suppose. But then again, if > I had not gone then maybe the LITTLE DUCK WOULD BE DEAD and the house would be wrecked. > > > > “Alan, are sure the road is OK?” > > “Well Woody, I think we have a problem. Snow with a crust of ice on top that is thick enough > for us to walk on. Too thick, Woody, Can we get the truck n there. Two wheel drive but still > have the snow tires.” > > “Take a chance, Alan…turn in fast…cut a trail through the crust.” > > “Not going to make it, Woody…we are stuck…spinning tires…snow and ice up under the truck.” > > “What to do? Call Andrew, he might be somewhere nearby.” > > “Good idea. Ring Ring ring…,”Andy, Woody and I are in a bit of trouble….got the truck > stuck in the lane…ice storm is bad…Can you come up ro help?” > > > > “Give me an hour or so…take Woody into the house and I’ll get you out. You should have known better than to try > to ride on top of the ice….regular thing with you.” > > “Not all my fault…Woody said to take a run at it.” > > “Fine advisor, Dad…see you in an hour.” > > > > > > > > > > > “And it’s getting dark…sleet and ice coming down now. Road is as slick as a salesman’s blather, Woody. LOOK AT the old barn…belonged to > J..S. Woodsworth years ago. Really bleak looking today.” > > “Stop talking. Open the door…neighbour phoned Marjorie to say the power has been off all week end. I Just hope > the propane is firing away….” > > “Quite pretty, isn’t it Woody…the ice coating everything.” > <2oijBupjToKv0RmtQDRqDA_thumb_15ad.jpg> > > “Look at the bird house, Alan…loaded with ice.” > > > > “Open the door…my feet are frozen, Alan.” > > “There…we are now about to get warm….OH NO! WE HAVE HAD A BREAK IN!! BROKEN GLASS ALL OVER.” > > > > > > > “WHY WOULD a robber break all this glass?” > > “Not a robber, Alan, I hear something moving in the bathroom…maybe a raccoon…or coyote….” > > “Quiet , Woody, I Hear it too…close the doors…I’ll get a towel.” > > > > > “It’s a DUCK, Alan…must have come down the chimney in the ice storm…thought it was a hollow log.” > > “Woody, I am going too catch her if I can. Hope her wings are not broken…There she is…FLOP FLOP…Got her covered.” > > > > “She seems to be glad we came along Woody.” > > “Real heroes!” > > “Set her down on the verandah…see if she is going to be OK” > > > > “What kind of duck is she?” > > “Smaller than a Mallard…look at that odd crest on the back of herded….like a Merganzer maybe…small duck…maybe a Wood duck…Damn, Damn, > Damn…she looks like the same dick we had last year.” > > “Likes smashing glasses and dishes…entertainment until her mate arrives.” > > “There she goes…flying…not staying around to help clean up.” > > “Check the window…see if Andy is here yet.” > > > > > Bleak out there, Alan, I am going to curl up on my bed while you clean up the glass.” > > “Wish Marjorie was here…” > > “Why?” > > “She would do the clean up better than me.” > > “Andy is here, Alan.” > > “Good…I bet he give me another lecture. ” > > > > “Get in your truck, Dad, and put it in reverse…gently…my truck is on solid ice…need all the help we can get.” > > “Glad to see you, Andy.” > > “Never a dull moment, Dad…you seem to find pickles even in winer time. How is that torn Achilles tendon doing?.” > > “Just fine…” > > > > > > > > > “Great…we are now out, Woody…road is sheer ice though…can’t fool around.” > > “Did you tell Andy about the duck, Alan?” > > “Not yet…I am going send him a picture…sort of a thank you.” > > > > > “Where are you going, Andy…on foot?” > > “Now I have to get my truck in here with the trailer…” > > “Need help?” > > “No!” > > “I left a duck to give you a hand Andy” > > “A what?” > > “A LITTLE BROWN FEMALE DUCK…” > > > > “Sometimes I think my dad is nuts….Did he say Duck or something else?” > >

ICE STORM APRIL 17, 2018: BAD DAY FOR ME…GOOD DAY FOR THE DUCK

ICE STORM APRIL 16, 2018:  STUCK WITH A DUCK


alan  skeoch
April 17, 2018

THERE have been better days…. April 16 was a bad day.  The decision to go to the  farm was an error in judgment I suppose.  But then again, if
I had not gone then maybe the LITTLE DUCK WOULD BE DEAD and the house would be wrecked.


“Alan, are sure the road  is OK?”

“Well Woody, I think we have a problem.   Snow  with a crust of ice on top that is thick enough 
for us  to walk  on.  Too thick, Woody, Can we get the truck n there.  Two wheel drive but still
have the snow tires.”

“Take a chance, Alan…turn in fast…cut a trail through the crust.”

“Not going to make it, Woody…we are stuck…spinning tires…snow and ice up under the truck.”

“What to do?  Call Andrew, he might be somewhere nearby.”

“Good idea.   Ring Ring ring…,”Andy, Woody and I are in a bit of trouble….got the truck 
stuck in the lane…ice storm is bad…Can you come up ro help?”


“Give me an hour or so…take Woody into the house and I’ll get you out.  You should have known better than to try 
to ride on top of the ice….regular thing with you.”

“Not all my fault…Woody said  to take a run at it.”

“Fine advisor, Dad…see you in an hour.”








“And it’s getting dark…sleet and ice coming down now.  Road is as slick as a salesman’s blather, Woody.  LOOK AT the old barn…belonged to 
J..S. Woodsworth years ago.  Really bleak looking today.”

“Stop talking.  Open the door…neighbour phoned Marjorie  to say the power has been off all week  end.  I Just hope
the propane is firing away….”

“Quite pretty, isn’t it Woody…the ice coating everything.”

“Look at the bird house, Alan…loaded with ice.”


“Open the  door…my feet are frozen, Alan.”

“There…we are now about to get warm….OH NO!  WE HAVE HAD A BREAK IN!!  BROKEN GLASS ALL OVER.”




“WHY WOULD a robber break  all this glass?”

“Not a robber, Alan, I hear something moving in the bathroom…maybe a raccoon…or coyote….”

“Quiet , Woody, I Hear it too…close the doors…I’ll get a towel.”



“It’s a DUCK, Alan…must have come down the chimney in the ice storm…thought it was a hollow log.”

“Woody, I am going too catch her if I can.  Hope her wings are not broken…There she  is…FLOP FLOP…Got her  covered.”


“She seems to be glad we came along Woody.”

“Real heroes!”

“Set her down on the verandah…see if she is going to be OK”


“What kind of duck is she?”

“Smaller than a Mallard…look at that odd  crest on the back of herded….like a Merganzer maybe…small duck…maybe a Wood duck…Damn, Damn, 
Damn…she  looks like  the same  dick we had last year.”

“Likes smashing glasses and dishes…entertainment until her mate arrives.”

“There she goes…flying…not staying around to help clean up.”

“Check the window…see if Andy is here yet.”



Bleak out there, Alan, I am going to curl up on my bed while you clean up the glass.”

“Wish Marjorie was  here…”

“Why?”

“She would do the clean up better than me.”

“Andy is here, Alan.”

“Good…I bet he give me another lecture. “


“Get in your truck, Dad, and put it in reverse…gently…my truck is on solid ice…need all the help we can get.”

“Glad to see you, Andy.”

“Never a dull moment, Dad…you seem to find pickles even in winer time.  How is that torn Achilles tendon doing?.”

“Just fine…”






“Great…we are now out, Woody…road is sheer ice though…can’t fool around.”

“Did  you tell Andy about the duck, Alan?”

“Not yet…I am  going send him a picture…sort of  a thank you.”



“Where are you going, Andy…on foot?”

“Now  I have to get my truck in here with the trailer…”

“Need  help?”

“No!”

“I left a duck to give you a hand Andy”

“A what?”

“A LITTLE BROWN FEMALE DUCK…”


“Sometimes I think my dad is nuts….Did he say Duck or something else?”

Fwd: Andrew knows how to stop a TRAIN



Begin forwarded message:


From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Fwd: Andrew knows how to stop a TRAIN
Date: April 20, 2018 at 9:55:10 AM EDT




Begin forwarded message:


From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Andrew knows how to stop a TRAIN
Date: April 20, 2018 at 9:30:10 AM EDT
To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>


I CAN STOP A TRAIN, DAD!

IMAGINARY CONVERSATION — REAL PHOTOGRAPH


alan skeoch
April 2018

“SO Andrew about 200 years  ago these great flat fields were covered with thousands…even millions at one time…of great buffaloes.”
“I haven’t seen a buffalo, Dad?”
“Little wonder.”
“What happened to them?”
“We killed them by the thousands.  One man  bragged he shot several thousand in a single year. Another claimed he killed nearly 100,000 in his hunting days.”
“Why would he do that?”
“No good reason…just blood  lust.”
“Really…just for the fun of it?”
“Well, by the 1870’s, there was a market for buffalo skins to make winter coats…so they skinned them and left the bodies to rot.”
“Dad, I don’t want to hear any more about that…makes me angry.”
“Me too.”
“Why didn’t somebody stop the killing?”
“A few tried.”
“But why did it not stop?”
“You are standing on the reason, Andrew.”
“No, Dad, I am standing on a railway track.”
“That’s one of the big reason for the slaughter of the buffalo.”
“Railway tracks?”
“Not tracks…railway trains.  We Canadians wanted to bind our country together in 1867 and the best way to do that was
to build  railways…the trains would move settlers to these gReat Plains and stop the Americans from moving north
and taking the land.  That was a fear.”
“What about the Indians, Dad?”
“Another reason for shooting buffalo.  If the buffalo were shot by the thousands  then the First Nation people would starve
and not cause any trouble for the new settlers.”
“History is awful, Dad.”
“Do you want to hear more?”
“No!”
“Just one more bit of history?”
“No! No! No!”
“OK. I will shut up.”
“Dad, how could you blame the trains?”
“Are you sure you want an answer?”
“Sportsmen rode the first trains…rich lazy hunters.”
“So what?”
“They shot the remaining buffalo from the comfort of their railway seats….just fired from the windows…”
“NO!”
“They did.  That kind of hunting was even advertised as The Great Hunt.”
“NO, I don’t want to hear anymore.”
“Are you sure?”  If that was true there would be lots of bones here beside the tracks.  I haven’t seen any.”
“That was a long time ago.  The bones were gathered  up by the first settlers…piled up in huge mounds right here beside the tracks.. then ground into powder and used as fertilizer.”

“Dad, I hate trains, now.”
“Not much you can  do.”
“Oh, yes there is…just watch me…I CAN STOP A TRAIN!!”

Alan Skeoch
April 2018

(PICTURE of Andrew Skeoch taken several years  ago in Saskatchewan)



“DAD, JUST WATCH ME…I CAN STOP A TRAIN!”



Fwd: “PUNCH YOUR LIGHTS OUT” TO “WONDER OF WONDERS”


Just came across this…thought might amuse  you in bathroom or bus.  wrote it four years ago.




‘PUNCH YOUR LIGHTS OUT  to  WONDER OF WONDERS
(Humberside Collegiate in the 1950’s…one persons memories)

alan skeoch
Jan. 24,2014

 just went along with the flow. 


“Alan, you will go to Humberside next year.”

So spoke the principal at Runnymede Public School as he
made decisions about the big move from Grade 8 to Grade 9.

“Humberside! That’s a long way form Runnymede, especially when Western Tech is just over the fence and down the hill.”  That’s what I thought in my mind but never said it.  What did I know about schools?

So I made the walk eastward along Annette Street cutting down by St. Cecilia’s Separate School over to Ravina Gardens covered hockey rink and down to Humberside.  What a building?  it looked like some kind of palace that should have been in England.  Towering burnished brown/red bricks piled three floors high with all kinds of masons decorations including a spire at the top.  Intimidating is the word.

And that is what it became in that first year.

Mrs. James was our home room teacher and the class were all strangers to me.  The teachers were even a bit strange like Mr. LaPierre who insisted upon singing Alouette whenever he could in his French classes.  And then imitating his parts of his body with the words…”C’est la dos!”…C’est le bras!” “C’est la tete!”   Nothing offensive…no private parts…but strange way of teaching.  Enjoyable, of course.

Then there was Tiny Tim Talbot, our typing teacher.  Quite a man. “You have a simple choice, learn to touch type or go out and climb telephone poles like Bob (last name deleted).”  I learned to type.  We were given one choice of subjects in 1953…music, art or typing.  Who in their right mind would pick music or art.  Typing was a real saleable skill.  I mean it made sense.  Odd that most kids chose music.

Our history teacher was Bert Tancock.  Nice man.  Tough last name.  Latin was Mr. Mcquarry.  Laid back kind of man who ate chalk.  He would write some Latin declension on the board then chew the chalk as he worked us over.

Students really watch their teachers.  Looking for idiosyncrasies and they are not hard to find.  Miss Schroeder wore tight sweaters for instance.

We had lots of assemblies where the big kids smirked and joked around a lot.  And LaPierre led everyone in the singing of Alouette with his funny gestures.  “C’est la tete!” and we would holler back “c’est le bras”   Then W.E. Taylor would try to impose order on all of us which was no easy task.  I was such a puny little punk compared to the seniors.  Were they ever big!  Super athletes.  Certainly eclipsed any hope I had of making a team.  And the cheerleaders were something else.  Beautiful especially when they broke out in a syncopated “Garnet, grey and white” followed by a quasi-military urge for us to “Fight, Fight, Fight”.  A rumour spread around that somewhere in the basement there were hundreds of Italian rifles captured in WW 2 and given to the school.  The rumour turned out to be true. No bolts on them just to make sure we didn’t shoot each other I guess.

The assembly hall had a great mural of Canada done by some artists called the Group of Seven I think.  Best feature was a very attractive semi-clad First Nations girl.  Very distracting.

And the assembly doubled as a dance hall.  I remember that first Halloween dance like it was yesterday.  Rock and roll was just making its appearance so we jumped around a lot.  I remember picking up Elizabeth Kilty in one dance, whirled her around in some fancy step whereupon she fell in a very awkward manner.  I closed my eyes.
The big guys in Humberside brought a bunch of apple cider crocks filled with hard cider which was passed around even to a lowly niner like me.  No wonder some of us got polio for the nasty little virus must have loved life in a crock that was pressed to many mouths.  Nothing was done to stop the crock passing.  I think the teachers thought it was sweet cider.  Not so.  I think a couple of fights broke out but nothing big  time.

Sounds idyllic, eh?  Not so.

One day in late October I undid my combination lock on my locker and found my books had been vandalized.  Lots of nasty words.  “Asshole” being the prominent one and other including the f word followed the “off” word.   How did that happen.  The only person that knew my locker number was a friend from Runnymede who I had known for a long time.  Maybe no longer a friend.  I don’t know if I can accurately describe the fear this put in those Grade 9 days.  It got worse.  One day there was a note in my locker.  “Someone wants to meet you at Western Tech for a fight.  Today at 4 p.m. Be there.  He’s going to knock the shit out of you.” (paraphrasing from memory)

Whoever these guys were, I was certainly not going over to Western to get the shit knocked out of me.  I was plenty scared.  Especially since the whole thing was so anonymous.  I did not know who my friends were anymore.  

“Think, Alan, think…what brought this on?”  The only thing I could think of was a stupid incident at Ravina Gardens before school one day.  I walked to school with what I thought were friends.  They stopped for smoke in a hidden corner of the ice rink.  So I did too.  I had a couple of Craven A cigarettes I had liberated from Fran the pharmacist where I was a delivery boy at 35 cents an hour.  Lit up one of them. Choked of course but kept up a good front.  On the second day I thought …

“What am I doing this for?  Cigarettes make no sense…waste time standing around. Upset my mom as well.  She thinks smoking is dirty and can barely stand Dad’s White Own Invicible cigars which he has to smoke in the back yard.  And I don’t see any of the big guys or the cheerleaders smoking. They were people to look up to.” 

 So I threw away the other Craven A.  Maybe that offended my tenuous friends.  Maybe the locker graffitti had nothing to do with them.  I never did know.  I did hear from a couple of the guys who were waiting for me at Western Tech.  So there must have been a gang of them wanting to punch my lights out.  Discretion is the better part of valour.  Believe it.  I had learned something from watching the Beanery Boys and Junction Boys fighting in Dufferin Park before we moved.  Simple lesson.  People that fight get hurt.  The image of a lead pipe bashing one guys head from behind has lingered long in my head.  Not a fighter.

End result.  I changed all my friends.  Made a whole lot of new ones that have stayed with me for more than half a century.  The strangers in my Grade Nine class became my new friends.   And the  locker vandalism eventually ceased.  Had to hide the cover of our English novel Moonfleet though for it featured a few more obscenities than I care to remember.

There was so much to do at Humberside that the fear eventually diminished.  Camera Club, Drama Club, Science Club…Football games at exotic places…new friends houses to visit on my Raleigh Sports racer with no brakes which I had been able to buy at a special price form the Toronto Daily Star suing profits of half a cent a paper on our Fairview Avenue delivery route.   Dances, Boy Scouts, Young Peoples…so much.

Deep down I wanted to be an athlete.  But I just as not any good.  Left handedness was a handicap.  Teachers tried to break me in public school with the result that I still cannot quickly tell the difference between right and left.  Baseball was a nightmare since I had a left handed glove.  Catching the ball was hard enough but throwing off the glove to fire the ball back to first base was really awkward.  I always got a job in the field somewhere and I prayed the ball would never be hit my way.  

But I really wanted to be part of the teams.  Loved the idea of a bunch of guys working together, laughing together, talking together.  So I spent all my athletic years at Humberside joining teams.  Football was the biggest thing in my life at school except for gawking at the girls.
I was assigned a job as left guard and stayed there my whole football career…also inside line backer when I got better at knocking people down.  

“Hit them low with your shoulder.  The lower the better. Get below their centre of gravity,” Fred Burford used to say.  And he showed me the steps to use.  I can still do that.  I must have got really good at it for in my final year I made two City All Star teams (Toronto Star and Toronto Telegram) and won the Humberside Wildman Trophy.  Deep down, however, I knew there were lots of people far better than I was. I remember Mr. Griffiths and Fred Burford buttonholing me in the hall late the fall of 1957 or 1958.

“Alan, you have won a place on the City All Star team.  A big honour. But I want to you to remember you were and are part of a team.”

Boy, did I know that.  The finest athlete I have ever seen was Rich Mermer who was so much better than i could ever be.  Maybe I won the award more for being a booster of team spirit than anything else.  One thing I know for sure.  Every game I ever played was a nervous experience even at University of Toronto.   Nothing wrong with being nervous I suppose.  Overconfidence is not so good.  Injured in one game…guy stepped on my fingers with his big cleats…broke one finger.  Mom and dad had to work the day of the operation so I went by street car down and back.  What an ordeal?  Shaved the wrong arm and then left me in hall so long that the anesthetic wore off.  “The pain! The pain!” I screamed as the surgeon cut open my finger to wire bones back in place (or near place).  He shoved another needle in fast.  Then back home on the street car with blood oozing through the cast.  The really stupid think was that I continued to play football.  Made one of my best tackles with cast and all…took the enemy halfback down perfectly.  Of course it was my left hand which meant I could not write for months and that was a very bad thing.  School notes were really important for I never had much time for homework.

So many teams to join.  Like the swim team at Humberside.  I was really no good as a swimmer.  Never could get the hang of proper breathing with the crawl stroke.  Burford must have noticed that so he made me the swim team manager.  I looked after the lists and other tasks.  Part of the team.  Marvelled at Gary Logan’s symmetrical diving and Jim Romaniuk’s effortless crawl strokes.  No girls.  Just the boy’s swim team.

And then there was Duncan Green our English Teacher who also coached the Track and Field Team as well as directing the Drama Club.  I joined both.  But I was no good at track and field.  Middle of the pack for tail end of the pack.  Just not good enough.  So Dunc assigned me to the pit.  “Alan, you are going to be our man doing the Hop, Step and Jump.”  I took it seriously but never was stellar.  I marvelled at Jerry Zadeko doing the pole vault as if he was a bird on the wing.  My job was much more earthy…sandy may be a better term.
Never won.

Basketball was another  sport.  Teams at Humberside were terrific. Closest I came to hotshot team was in phys-ed class where Streak Maclelland asked us to form teams by a choice system.  I got the lead job.  And I picked George Chuvalo as I thought he would provide a little force around the basketball net after all he was a professional boxer.  That did not happen.  He was just a good member of our team…no elbows or fists.   Since we could never hope to emulate the Basketball hotshots at Humberside we formed our own team, the Flashers, and joined a church league at Alhambra United.  Lots of fun.  Only five of us…Russ Vanstone, Bob Taylor, Red Stevenson, Eric Skeoch and myself.  We never won a game that I remember.  But we got an award for enthusiasm and dependability…long walk from our homes to Alhambra United.  Sang our way there.  Oh, yes, by the way we chose the name Flashers before that word took on its perverted meaning.

Hockey was out of the question.  I could barely skate since the hand me down skates were a always a little too large.   Sort of ankled my way around the rinks.  Pleasure skating at High Park was fine.  And that’s where the girls were anyway. Not that any took too much interest in me though.  They loved my brother for he looked like Burt Lancaster. I just looked like my Dad which was OK with me.

Bottom line of all this print? I loved Humberside.  Could not get enough of it.  As did my brother, Eric.  

Now for the teachers. Positive memories even though some may seem a little twisted.

Take Roberta Charlesworth for instance.  I learned much from her boundless enthusiasm and tenacious control.  She gave me a detention, maybe more than one, but one that has been memorable.
Sitting in her home room seemed pointless since she was coaching the girls basketball team in the girls gym next door.  Why not made serving a detention a little more pleasant by serving it in the girls gym bleachers.  Mrs. Charlesworth would know I was there and check off the detention and I would have something to watch while serving.  Make sense to you?  Did to me.  Next day, however, the real lesson was applied.  

“Mr. Skeoch, will you come up to the front of the class please?”
“Sure.”  Whatever for I thought
Then she grabbed me by the ear and lifted.  That is really painful…made my eyes water.
“When I say serve a detention, I mean serve a detention in this room not the girls gym.”
At which point she released my ear and Ihoped the class did not see my watery eyes.  To no avail, of course.  Some were amused and I hope some felt my pain and were sorry for me.  But it was not over.
The lesson came next.
“Mr. Skeoch, I judge people by what they do not by what they say.”
Pointless to give my explanation of the incident.  It was a learning moment that I have never forgotten and applied often.   By the way, Mrs. Charlesworth did not hate me.  She must have sort of liked me for 
she gave me a job tutoring new immigrant students at their homes. Paid a little, I think, but that did not matter.  One older Greek student always started our lessons with a sweet hard liquor in a glass.  I wonder if Mrs. Charlesworth knew that.  Maybe she would have lifted him by the ear had she known.

Every teacher was different.  Skillful bunch.  Many went on in later years to become the puppeteers of the Toronto and District School Boards which I thought was a great mistake for they were great teachers.  Big Al Merritt for instance became a Director of Education and eventually controlled the purse strings of the whole system.  I remember him as a teacher who had the most amusing take on Ancient history.  He could make the Greek philosophers into characters that Charlie Chaplin would have replicated.

Duncan Green and Big Al had adjoining classrooms and I could not help but notice how much they enjoyed each others company.  That made me feel good.  They were always laughing about something…not destructive laughter but good natured laughter.  Big Al got his dander up one time with Black Bill Daniels.  We called him Black Bill because the Principal W.E. Taylor took Bill into his office one time and scolded him with this remark.  “Daniels, you have an attitude as black as coal and, lad, I intend to change that attitude.  Understand me lad?”  Of course Black Bill never really changed much.  That was why Big Al was chasing him down the hall.  Bill had said some quick remark to Big Al (take your choice of possible remarks) and the chase began.
I think Bill eventually sought refuge with W.E.  No matter both Big Al and Black Bill remember the chase to this day.

Duncan Green was a terrific English teacher.  He was always more interested in his students than the content of the curriculum in my opinion.  As a result he made the curriculum seem part of the life blood of the class.  I remember to this day one essay Dunc asked Russ Vanstone to read to the class.  It was as good as any hotshot literary guru.  Amazing and unexpected.   I got to know Dunc really well when I became a teacher.  He climbed the ladder of administration really fast which was a damn shame for the kids lost a lot.  I even had the temerity to tell him so.  On his way up he became our VP at Parkdale Collegiate and I needed his advice one day just before being interviewed by a journalist on the ills of education.

“Dunc, how should I handle this.  I am worried I will offend many teachers and maybe even say something that will hurt kids or parents or our teachers union.”
“Alan, just say what you honestly think.”  In other words, don’t go around trying to placate people. ” Don’t hurt kids, though.” In other words, don’t dirty your own nest.   

Dunc made a lot of speeches when he became Director of Education. One I remember well.  He was speaking to a bunch of teachers in our auditorium.  He got our attention fast with this remark:

“I have heard that teachers have second class minds.”  Zip! Conversation stopped and Dunc was getting full attention of the hundred or so teachers in the hall. Some of them thought they had first class minds so the second class remark got their hackles up.
“And, you know I think the writer was likely correct.”
Dead silence in the auditorium.  Maybe a little cold sweat as well. Maybe some of the teachers were silently getting a little huffy.  I am sure Dunc knew that.
“But when I think of the all the possible minds in this world, being second class is not too bad.”
Ice broken.  Humour came forward.  And possibly more than a modicum of truth.

Lots of amusing incidents with Dunc.  Most embarassing was when he asked me to join his curling team in a bonspiel.  I was not a good curler.  On the first rock I stretched a  little too far and ripped the crotch right out of my pants.  I may as well have been wearing a kilt for the rest of the game.  Being laughed at is not always pleasant.  But after the second or third end, no one seemed to care that I was almost bare ass to the wind.  It was a male bonspiel thankfully.

We even had Bob Nixon for science.  He would go on to become leader of the Liberal Party in Ontario.  As a teacher he was relaxed and  often pulled down the blind at the door do no one could see what he was doing.  He scraped the dirt from to of the boys fingernails at one point. “Let’s see what happens,” and he plopped the scrapings into a Petri dish.  Well, you would not believe how that dish began to pulse with organisms.  Nixon best day was the Honeymoon Day.  “Want to see what we did on our honeymoon?  Got some slides here.” The room was darkened and I remember distinctly seeing his attractive wife

swimming in the clear Mediterranian Sea.  Was she wearing a bathing suit?  Not sure.   When he went into politics Nixon seemed to lose that impulsive spirit.  Politics does that I suppose. (Then again there is Rob Ford !!)


Less Devitt was also a great Humberside character.  I never could tell whether he was just acting or whether he really was a bit on the clumsy side.   Discipline was a bit of a problem with Les.  “Order…order in the class!” he would holler often.  At one point he kicked his desk hard to get attention and his foot went right through the wooden side skirt of the the desk…his foot was hooked.  Dare we laugh?  Can’t remember.  What I do remember was Christine Skironsky and her low cut blouse.   They were in fashion.  Les Devitt was checking homework row by row. Came down row five from the back.  As he approached Christine’s desk he said: “What have you got there?” referring to her homework.  She misinterpreted the remark and straightened up fast with both hands covering the top of her blouse.  We all got great laugh out of that.

When Les retired, Roberta Charlesworth asked me to give his farewell speech. 

“Alan,” (by that time I was no longer Mr. Skeoch and my ear lobe had healed), “Alan, you know how amusing Mr. Devitt is…capture that humour.”  Well, after researching, I decided not to be funny.  How would you like to be retiring and everyone making quasi-humourous remarks about you?  I discovered that Les was a real war hero.  He was a test pilot in World War I flying Tiger Moths built in West Toronto I think.  Light little airplanes, parents to the jets of today.  Mr. Devitt would take off, do a few circles, climb, dive and then land. If the airplane seemed defective he would deliberately crash land and damage the machine.  “Not going to let these things go overseas and kill some kid by an air accident.”  When we bade farewell to Mr. Devitt that year, we had a different point of view about him.  I felt good about the speech.

One year, maybe Grade 11, we had Miss Schroeder as our home room teacher.  French.  We must have been an accepting bunch of kids for a new girl joined us.  Big girl. Big in the stomach.  Pregnant.  We grew to feel it was our baby.  Non judgmental.  Forgot her name however.  My greatest memory of Maida Schroeder occurred on the final exam day. As I was slugging away with the verbs and my collection of anglicized nouns, Miss Schroeder slipped a piece of paper  on my desk.  Exam ended and I read the note.  It was cut from Dagwood and Blondie comic strip.  Blondie said  “There is no such word!” to which Dagwood responded, “It takes real skill to invent words that do not exist!”   I knew in a flash what Miss Schroeder meant.  All year I had been bluffing with my homework translations which she had me read from my notes.  (The pages were usually blank) Thought I had fooled  her by pronouncing English words as if they were French.  All I had done was amuse her.  Nice lady who years later I credited with getting a pass mark on the French exam in post graduate year.  She was a great teacher, also a great person.


The teacher that determined the direction of the rest of my life was Evan Cruickshank who made history come alive while at the sme time imposing the historian’s rigourous search for the truth.  At the time I had not idea I was going to be a high school history teacher.  I remember one moment in particular when ‘Crooky’ asked us”

“What do you plan to do with your lives?”
Sitting behind me in the second row near the window was Leland White.
“Sir, I am going to be a history teacher.”
I turned around with an incredulous expression.  Leland must be kidding.  Who would want to be a teacher.  Who could be a teacher.
My dreams were, of course, quite infantile.
“And you Alan?”
“Forest ranger, sir!”

Funny how some moments lodge in the conscious part of our brains forever.  That was one of those moments.  “History teacher?  Harumphf!”  Leland did become a history teacher by the way.

I loved Crooky’s classes but felt I could never measure up to his depth of knowledge nor his ability to make great sweeping ideas understandable.   He had one powerful skill and that was his ability to admit to things he did not know.  Which brings up another of those memories.  For some weird reason I went up to Crooky as the class was leaving one day and asked him a question about something.  This was not my usual practice.  Usually I was trying scribble homework assignments fast so I could play basketball or go to football practice or go dancing.  The question I asked has long gone.  It was his response that stayed with me.  Crooky looked at me and said:  “I don’t know.”
Crooky did not know the answer to my question.  That great man did not know!  So thant night I went to the library on Bloor Street and looked up the answer which I told him the nest day.  I was not trying to be some kind of brown noser.   I wanted to help Crooky because I respected him so much.  Since then I have always had respect for people who honestly admit there are questions they cannot answer.
Of course, as a teacher, respect has to be established before the “I do not know.” can be used.

Life went on.  After high school our class seemed to just go with the flow and the flow led to University of Toronto for a lot of us.  No deep calling.  Just rolling along heading somewhere we hoped.  My ‘somewhere’ turned out to be high school teaching and wonder of wonders Crooky hired me to teach at Parkdale Collegiate Institute as he did my brother Eric who tottered along a year after me.  My respect for Crooky never wavered even when we were peers in the classrooms.   We became good friends.  I often wondered if that question I asked him so long ago impressed him…or maybe my comment.  “Mr. Cruickshank, I found out about that question last night. It turns out that Karl Marx believed Socialism was the inevitable consequence of the greed of capitalists.  They will destroy each other by competition.”  No!  I was not that perceptive but the theoretical answer above will give you some idea of just how deep Crooky’s lessons could get.  What I did learn from that incident, however, is that good questions…sincere questions…are the essence of good teaching. And that it is not necessary to take the pompous position of being a know it all.   

Funny things happen in life…strange things.  After I got to know Crooky and Ruth as friends, he confided something to me. “You know Alan, your family built the barn on our farm at Corunna (near Sarnia) and tina Skeoch still lives on the adjoining farm.  Barn builders?  I had heard rumours to this effect but did not know what to believe.  The worst part of the rumour was the story about a distant Skeoch who walked the ridge of a just completed barn and fell to his death.  Barn building was celebrated and lubricated with lots of cheap whisky which may have been a factor in the death.  The story was sort of hush-hush in the family which infers truth maybe.   One day Crooky asked Marjorie and I to go with them to Corunna and there it was.  The barn!  Fenced off as part of Imperial Oil property but intact…beautiful.  So I hopped the fence and eased through the padlocked but gapped threshing floor doors.  Never saw so many rats in all my life.  Live and dead, grey and brown.  Whoever was farming the land had simply dumped the grain into the granary with no intention of selling it.  Mess beyond belief.  “How did it look, Alan?”, asked Crooky.  “Terrific!”, i lied.

Wonder if the barn is still there.

High school.  What a great adventure!  Lucky to have so many teachers as idols.  Take Streak McLelland…the grand old man of our HCI years.  Never missed a game…never missed student name.  His influence on me was not sports related however.  It was sex related…earthy unspoken sex.  “Now boys you can get these diseases …syphilis and gonorrea!”  “What? You must be kidding!”  “They are ancient diseases but they are still around. Here is what they do to you…”  At that point, I resolved to never fool around…to stay virginal until marriage.  So did my friends…I think.  Maybe Bruce ___ was the exception.  When his girl ankled across the gym floor she was followed by the deep bass beat of males in union…”Barum..barum…barum!” They married.

Marriage.  Humberside even influenced my marriage.  I had been interested in girls from an early age…perhaps as far back as Grade 6 or 7.  Humberside provided so many chances to meet girls that it was bewildering.  Nice girls.  In profusion.  Some even liked me. Most seemed to idolize my brother. ” Rock and roll was there to stay at HCI…dance the nights away…My Prayer is to be there with you…even Smoke Gets In Your Eyes…music, music, music”…lots of girls.  A blur!  We were such a bunch of naive goofs that few girls saw us as much of a catch really.

But one moment burned into my mind.  Graduation year.  A guest speaker from the University of Guelph.  Dean of Women I think.
“You are all about to graduate and no doubt have careers in mind.
Good for you.  Let me give you some advice.  Find a life partner while you are at it…perhaps more important than a career for you will spend your life with him or her while your career will only last so long…and may not even happen at all.”  Some graduates laughed at her.  I did not.  And I found a life partner early in my university career…as did many of my friends.  Some time ago I was asked “Why did you go to university?” My answer was simple.  “To find a wife and then, maybe, a career.”  

I guess I did not miss much at Humberside.  Even got suspended for skipping school to “spot” a football game for Burf.  Not his idea though.
Mr. Couke called all three of us into his office.  Two of the guys did a lot of skipping.  I didn’t.  My greatest fear that day was that I would not be suspended and the other guys would be tossed out.  “Alan, I have to treat everyone the same,” said Mr. Couke.  What a relief.  I was suspended!  No more skipping.

ALAN SKEOCH
JAN 26, 2014





THE LIST OF 20 women I admire Alan Skeoch April 11, 2018



Begin forwarded message:


From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Fwd: THE LIST OF 19 WOMEN…YOU SUGGEST NUMBER 20
Date: April 11, 2018 at 8:47:08 AM GMT-4
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>



THE LIST:  20 WOMEN CHOSEN I ADMIRE:   by   ALAN SKEOCH, APRIL 11, 2018 SPEECH TO RWTO

ELSIE FREEMAN SKEOCH    1901 –

GUDRIDUR PROBJARNDOTTIR       – 1000 AD,  L’ANSE AUX MEADOWS

  ROBERTA BONDAR  


 SALLY ARMSTRONG

URSULA FRANKLIN    1922 – 2017


LUCY MAUD  MONTGOMERY    1874 – 1942

NELLIE MCLUNG

  JONI MITCHELL


MAZO DE LA ROCHE

EMILY CARR   1871 – 1945

MOLLY BRANT    1736 – 1796

  LOUISE ARBOUR      1947


MARGARET ATWOOD

 CHANTEL HEBERT

CLARA HUGHES

ANNE MURRAY

  MOLLY BRANT  1736 – 1796


HAZEL MCCALLION

  GABRIELLE ROY   1909 – 1983

  

PHYLLIS MORGAN

Extras
 ROSEMARY BROWN, CELINE DION, ROSIE DEMANNO, JENNIER JONES, SANDRA SHMURLER, LOTTA HITSCHMANOVA   1909 – 1990





HEAD ON CAR ACCIDENT IN NEW ZEALAND…ANDREW AND KEITH SURVIVE



Begin forwarded message:


From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Fwd: HEAD ON CAR ACCIDENT IN NEW ZEALAND…ANDREW AND KEITH
Date: April 3, 2018 at 6:54:08 PM GMT-4
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>




Begin forwarded message:


From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: Fwd: HEAD ON CAR ACCIDENT IN NEW ZEALAND…ANDREW AND KEITH
Date: April 2, 2018 at 6:03:01 PM GMT-4


HIGHER RESOLUTION?  HOW DO I DO THAT?


Begin forwarded message:


From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: HEAD ON CAR ACCIDENT IN NEW ZEALAND…ANDREW AND KEITH
Date: April 2, 2018 at 5:28:16 PM GMT-4









        NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE

(Andrew Skeoch and Keith Merker)

ghost written by  Alan Skeoch
from interview with Andrew Skeoch

      (North Island,  New Zealand, winter 1991)

      The  road was empty.  Or, at least it seemed  so.   Keith was driving and I was in the passenger seat reading.
The two girls were in the back dozing.  We had  been surfing on 90 mile beach, a vast expanse of hard  sand and
foaming waves.  Wonderful place.  So huge that other cars are few and  far between and the hard  sand allowed 
us to park at the water’s edge.  We had a  great time.   

But that was  about to end.  Suddenly.

“Car! Coming at us head on.”  Keith yelled but probably never finished  the sentence.  I looked up just in time to see
a white car with two boys coming at us on the wrong side of the road.  A blind curve.  No time to think or act.

Kaboom!  Both cars were welded together and  both came to a  dead  stop in showers and gas  and metal  fragments.
None of  us had seat belts.  The moment after I looked  up from my book…milliseconds…I flew from my seat right through
the front window. Head first.  Something on my head  was  torn as  Ihit the crumpled hood of our  car. Blood. Lots of it.
My nose  was severed badly and would not stop bleeding.  It felt like a flap of meat rather than part of  my body.

Initially I was the only person who cold stand, however.  Keith’s chest had  hit and  collapsed the steering wheel while
a stiletto like piece of metal impaled his knee.  he was pinned.

The girls?   I tried to get the back door open on Jo Anne’s side.  Hard to do.  Blood pouring down my face. Finally 
the door was wrenched  open.  Jo Anne look like she was dead.  A limp body.  I placed her on the ground and
tired to revive her but feared the worst.  Then her eyes opened but she could not talk.  Her jaw was broken dead  centre.
But she was alive.  The other girl was mobile by then but badly cut in the lower torso.  She was stretched out on
the highway beside Jo Anne.

By  that time Keith had  freed  himself and  took a look at me.  Something had  to be done.  I was losing so  much  blood.
So he wound my head  and  face with tape…looked like  a mummy.  But the tape stopped  the heavy bleeding.  Keith
could not walk.  He hobbled.

The boys in the other car were in a state  of shock.  We pulled our camping gear from our car and  laid out 
what we could  right on the road.  

No car came.  We hoped and prayed but no car.  After two hours I decided to try to walk  and get help.  I was
the least hurt although my bloody clothes  looked  terrible.  And the making tape bandages were sinister looking.  Who would stop
to help once they saw me at the side of the road?  Just as I started,  a  car full  of  tourists came
around  the bend.   They had  phones.

A helicopter arrived in short order with a medic who bandaged us up and loaded both girls aboard for
the flight back to Auckland.  

Keith and I  had to wait for an ambulance and then faced a miserable six hour drive to the same hospital
in Auckland.   My nose was bad.  I feared the worst.  What would life be like without a nose?  The windshield
had lived my nose  across he bottom and up the right side.  So it was just hanging by he flesh on the left side.
What followed was wise than the accident as far as I was  concerned.  It was  night when we arrived but
there could be no delay so the surgeon began  stitching immediately.. Freezing kept the
nostril bridge from hurting but the rest was  sheer agony as the doctor had to reach up inside my nostril
to get the stitches to take hold.  And there was no freezing up there.  This was not a nice experience.

There was, however, a rosy ending.  Archie Clarke, the investigating police officer came down to
Auckland with us.  He was  responsible for policing the Northern Territory so that was  some distance
from his home base.   As far a the accident was concerned we were in the clear.  the other car
was in our lane.  Their fault.   Some comfort but not much for our car had to be written off and 
we had  very little money left.

Then a weird thing happened.  Archie Clarke volunteered to take us all…two boys and two girls…to his home up
north while we recuperated.  

In the end  we had a two week all expenses  paid vacation with a terrific family who loved and shared
their outdoor life.  We even went out hunting for wlld pigs in the wilds of the North Island.  I wonder how many police officers in Canada would do that?

Andrew Skeoch (almost verbatim)
April 2018
(The accident happened in 1991)

P>S>  Andrew never told us  how bad this  accident had been.  By pure chance I found
these pictures  while converting 35 mm slides to digital pictures.




This  picture  gives  a good  idea  of the impact.  Both cars are welded  together

like husband and  wife.  We never really got to know the boys in the white car.  They were

in shock.  Guess they knew they were also in big trouble.  Wrong side of the road. Nobody  had  been drinking. I say
that just in case you think four males and  two girls were violating the liquor laws.  Bad  
things happen to good people.



The gas tanks were not ruptured. That is cooling fluid on the ground.  If fire had  started

I don’t know if three of our people would have got out in time.  I might have been the
only survivor.  Cars  explode often in this kind  of collision.  We were lucky.  If you look
closely on the right side, you can  see the girls  wrapped in sleeping bags awaiting aid.

Notice that Keith Merker can  barely stand up.  Also this  gives a good  idea  of  what it was  like the fly through the windshield of our car.

What windshield, you say.  Precisely my point.  Lucky my nose is not attached to that last remaining glass shard.  Notice the bent steering wheel

  pushed  up against he dashboard by Keith’s  chest.


Help arrived.  Red car.   We had made the girls as comfortable as possible as we 
awaited the helicopter.


HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF BUTLER’S RANGERS?




 HAVE  YOU EVER HEARD  OF  BUTLER’S RANGERS? 

(MEMORIES  OF  THE WYOMING VALLEY MASSACRE AND THE VENGENCE OF SULLIVAN)
(noted at the Farm Sale for Charles  Colin Trout, on  March  31, 21018)

alan  skeoch
April  2, 2018



THIS is  Marjorie Skeoch sitting and guarding  her possessions like a  mother hen at the Troup auction sale, March  31, 2018, on the farm near Vineland, Ontario.
Notice her right hand, resting on that wood  box.  THAT IS  NOT HERS!  That box  is the platform used by auctioneer Rick Rittenhouse to elevate himself above 
the crowd.   She thought I bought it.  Back  in the deep past, in the  1780’s, Loyalist veterans  of the American  Revolution must have guarded their few possession like 
this.  Marjorie’s family were Loyalists…United Empire Loyalists…so  she comes  by this feeling of  dispossession naturally.  She was  not connected to Butler and  
his Rangers however.


THIS FARM HAS A LONG HISTORY…DEEP ROOTED IN THE CREATION OF CANADA

AND IT WILL REMAIN AS  IT IS TODAY…NOT SUBJECT TO DEMOLITION



THE STORY

Below is  an  imaginary dialogue between Marjorie and Alan  Skeoch:


“ALAN, did you hear about that house?”
“Hear what?”
“Owner  says  it goes back to the Butler’s Rangers…”
“Way back that far…are you sure?”
“Mr. Troup says so.”
“And  who  is he?”
“Owner of this  farm since the death of  Charles Group in 2015,”
“Butler’s Rangers  were a bloody tough bunch in the American  Revolution according to what I’ve read”
“Whose side?”
“Our side…the British side, they fought some nasty battles  with Jospeh Brant’s Iroquois…a  lot of people died, some  scalped.”
“Losers…”
“Right…after the Wyoming Valley  Massacre they had  to get the hell out as  fast as they could.’
“Massacre?  Wyoming?  Never heard  of  the place or the massacre>”
If you are American you would  remember.  Bunch of American militia, around  450 of them  under guy by  name of Denison got caught.  Sucked into a horseshoe
ambush…slaughtered mostly, then their farms  were  burned…Iroquois scalped  a lot of them, ‘blood and gore all over  the floor”
“How  can you make light of a massacre.”
“Sorry.  It was bad.  Women and children fled  into the  forest and some escaped to tell their story.  No doubt time has magnified the event. But it was
a bad scene.  Hard  to imagine how deep  the hatred was  back in the 1770’s and  1780’s…even up to 1815.”
“If Colonel Butler and  his force  won Wyoming Valley  battle,  how come  they fled later?”
“Because the American decided to get even.  Sent Sullivan north with several thousand troops…they ripped  Western New York state to bits.  Smashed, killed,  burned the 
homeland of the Iroquois.  They had a  war cry…good one…

TORIES WITH YOUR BRATS AND WIVES
SHOULD FLEE  TO SAVE YOUR WRETCHED  LIVES

“Sullivan and his troops drove Butler and  his Rangers, only a couple of hundred strong, north…across the Niagara River  eventually.   Iroquois refugees  by the 
hundreds clustered around  Fort Niagara…that big stone fort on the US side of the river now but in the 1780’s it was  British.”
“What happened to them?”
“For a  few years Butler and  the Iroquois launched  lightning and violent raids into American Territory…raid, wreck, burn, retreat, killing was part of it….war
is never pretty.”
“And then?”
“After the American victory in  1776, the Loyalists  and  Iroquois  were settled  along the new border, principally the Niagara River.  Butler’s guys were
each given a 100 acre farm in the then wilderness of Upper Canada.
“Do  you think this farm is one of those land grants?”
“I do.  But first must do some checking.”

“While you are  at it, tell me about this guy Butler…I  see his  name often.  Such as  the sign “Butler’s Buring Ground” near Niagara  on the Lake..

AFTER A  LITTLE  RESEARCHING


THE FARM OF CHRISTIAN PRICE…AND  CHARLES  COLIN TROUP

“OK, this farm seems to have been granted to Christian  Price, a private in  Butler’s Rangers…daughter must have married Troup family, hence name change over the years.
Colin Group died In 2015…not long ago…leaving the farm to others in the Troup Family who  own  Lakelee Orchards…easy to spot from the QEW at Vineland exit.  Lots  of  peaches.”
“Is that where we buy our peaches by the bushel?”
“Same  place…part of the Christian  Piece land  grant.”
“Where are the Pries buried?”
“Why would  you care?”
“Just trying to check your story…”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Not all  the time, no…sometimes  your enthusiasm  gets  ahead of the facts.  Where are the Price graves?  Gravestones  give facts.”
“Gone.”
“How  can  that be?”
“Big storms  on Lake Ontario washed  the Price Burying ground out into the lake…coffins and  all.  Maybe gravestones can be found by good  divers,  but I doubt it.”
“Facts gone?”
“No, lots remain…more than enough to back up this story.”



“SAY, ALAN, tell me a  bit about Colonel Butler…seems to have been loved and  hated.”
“You might be interested in how he became a  Colonel”
“Not really…assume appointed  by King George.”
“Nope  just named  himself  Colonel and went around gathering men who were pro British.”
“But who was  he?”
“A rich man…had 27,000 acres of land before the American Revolution…very Pro-British…was an officer but just not as high as a Colonel.”
“Lost it all?”
“Yep, lost every square inch of it.”
“Assume  he got lots  of land here  in Upper Canada…given by a grateful King.”
“Nope, he only got 500 acres…lost 27,000 acres (*which may have  really been Indian  land)…became a kind of sleazy businessman in getting  access to Indian land for personal profit.”
“Surely  King George III was aware of shady  happenings?”
“King George  III was not that great…loony a  good  part of his  live. Americans
made fun of the king…and rightly so.

KING GEORGE THE THIRD
SHOULD NOT HAVE OCCURRED
ONE CAN ONLY WONDER
AT SUCH A BLUNDER

“Was Butler a bad guy?”
“If you believe American historians, Butler was a despicable murderer…but take that with a grain of salt.”
“Why?”
“The history of war is often  written by the winners.  Washington won the American Revolution so the Loyalists  (nice  name) became Tories  (bad  name) and
Butler’s Rangers  became evil.”
“Truth, is there such a thing as truth?”
“Look for the middle path.  Butler’s Rangers were no better and  no worse  than other troops fighting on the American frontier.”
“Did Butler achieve anything?”
“Sure did.  He won  the loyalty of the Iroquois warriors and  fear of them stopped American forces  at the Niagara  River. They trusted  Buttler
more than that trusted  any American leaders.  Their land was taken and Buttler was part of the final settlement of the Iroquois on the Grand River
of  Upper Canada where most remain today.”

“What about Christian  Price?”
“He married  and  settled  down on his  new farm…then, in the 1780’s, covered with giant trees and  bisected  by streams and swamps.Today covered  with
peach, cherry and grape  orchards and  bisected  by a wide swath of the multi-lanes  QEW along with service  roads..”



Above are Mr. and  Mrs.  Troup, direct descendent of  Christian  Piece and the exploits of  Butler’s Rangers.  To Canadian Buttler and  his  Iroquois irregulars were heroic  defenders of
British colonial life.  To Americans,…?  not so!



And after the auction sale was  over, Andrew helped Marjorie and I load  our purchases…so the story has some hard  goods as  well  as  soft print.



Treasure?  Well, this hand operated corn sheller (below) is to my mind  a  grand treasure.  Comes  complete with a  hopper feed system and  a  hand crank.  Mr. Troup and who knows how many Troup’s before him, gathered  
corn cobs  each year and stored them in this  corn crib set up on stone pillars to keep the rats and mice away.   Then shelled the cobs into piles  kernels  to feed the livestock…pigs,  chickens especially.
The corn  sheller has survived as has the farm granted to Christian Piece in the  1780’s. Now called Lakelee Orchards. As mentioned, Today the QEW cuts right through the original lakefront part of the farm.  And  somewhere out in the
lake rests  the tombstone of Christian Price, washed away.




FOOTNOTES

Charles Colin Troup

TROUP, Charles Colin –  Peacefully on Friday March 13, 2015 at his residence at the Orchards in Vineland Ontario in his 89th year. Predeceased by his wife Muriel May Hodge (2002). Survived by his daughters Marilyn and Sandra and son David (Sev). Grandfather of Jason, Nicholas and Aundrea Troup, Victoria and Jessica Gibson, Fred Leppard and Sarah Thiede. Great-grandfather of Noah, Ava and Aleah. Also survived by many nieces and nephews. Colin lived a very full life and was probably best known as a fruit grower, income tax consultant, and a stamp collector who exhibited his award winning collections internationally. He was a member of both the Jordan Lions Club and the Beamsville Ivy Lodge for over 50 years. Special thanks to Dr. Overholt and his staff for looking after dad in his final years. Cremation has taken place. The family will receive friends at the VINELAND CHAPEL of TALLMAN FUNERAL HOMES  on Friday March 27, 2015 from 7-9 pm with a service in the chapel on Saturday March 28,2015 at 11am. There will be a private family interment at a later date. If desired, donations can be made to the Canadian Cancer Society or the Heart and Stroke Foundation in his honour. Online condolences at www.tallmanfuneralhomes.ca12909130

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Re: Butler’s Rangers

ANON-Y-MOUSE (View posts)
Posted: 07 Dec 2001 02:17PM
Classification: Query
Just type in Butler’s Rangers. The Lincoln & Welland Regt.
has all of them on their site.
Christian Price was a Butler’s Rangers. He lived on the
shore of Lake Ontario, (now the North Service Road)in the
former Township of Louth (Now Town Of Lincoln)on Conc.I, II & III, Lot 15. Sons & Daus. of American Loyalists by
Wm. D. Reid. PRICE, Christian of Louth Children: 
Elizabeth Md. Jacob Culp of Clinton O.C.19 May 1819
David Of Louth, O.C. 19 May, 1819
Christian of Louth. O.C.19 May 1819
Peter of Louth O.C. 19 May, 1819
Abraham of Louth O.C. 17 Mar. 1825
Catherine O.C. 19 Dec. 1833
Jacob of Louth O.C. 19 Feb. 1831
John of Louth, O.C. 19 Feb. 1831
Mary md.John McCarthy of Louth O.C. 19 Feb.1831
Nancy Md. John Haines of Grantham O.C. 19 Feb.1831

     

     

Re: Butler’s Rangers

Posted: 08 Dec 2001 01:47PM
Classification: Query
Edited: 12 Feb 2002 01:40PM
Christian Price died 1832 buried Price Family Burying Ground, Louth which was washed away by Lake Ontario. He married Barbara Overholt born Bucks Co., PA; died 1822 buried Price Family Burying Ground; daughter of Isaac Overholt who died 1824 buried Mennonite Cem., Louth. You can find Barbara’s siblings and my notes on these folks in CD 24 of the Pedigree Resource File.