Posted on

Fwd: The Little Skeoch…picture of 1920 factory



Begin forwarded message:


From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: The Little Skeoch…picture of 1920 factory
Date: November 28, 2018 at 12:09:49 PM EST
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

THE  SKEOCH CYCLE CAR PRODUCTION LINE IN 1920

(Dalbeattie, Scotland)

alan skeoch
Nov. 28, 2018

Seems to be quite an  interest in my last email concerning the Little Skeoch so  here  is  another picture of the production line as  it appeared
in 1920.  Lots of  things to see including the typical line shafting along the ceiling of the factory.   Wheels on the line shafts drove the industrial
machines…lathes, grinders, etc.    If you are really perceptive you might see the convertible top unfurled  and ready for assembly.  If you can 
read, and some  of you can no doubt, you will see a sign mentioning Wolseley Oil  Engines…whatever that means.   And  those if you who
are socially aware  and critical of the grim atmospheres of factories might note that sunshine floods  this  factory floor.

My dad,  Arnold (Red) Skeoch became a  tire builder in Canada around this time and I will always remember his stories  about the
dangers  of the big line shafts which had a drive pulley beside a stationary pulley.  If you wanted a machine to shut down all that
was required was  a slight push on the whirling drive belt to put on ‘idle’.  That way the whole  assembly line was not affected.
 I assume the movement was normally done by some kind
of lever.  But Dad, working in Guelph and later in Toronto, described how a worker decided to move the belt with his  hand.   His arm got 
caught and he was converted to pulp as his  body was drawn up and around the drive pulley.  Pulp is the wrong word.  But Dad
did say the man died.  I had  visions of the poor guy being whirled around the drive pulley like his body was a windmill.  Until his 
arm was  torn from its  socket and  his  blooded body fell to the floor.  That is my image…might be true .
 The pulleys  in this factory below are quite small but I do not see any idling pulleys which means all at the production line
has to be shut down to change a belt or service a machine.

Dad had another industrial  story he told occasionally.   Rubber tires  were made with flat slabs of  reinforced rubber.  To make the rubber
uniformly flat a large rolling machine was  used.  Very dangerous.  One worker got caught in the  roller and  came out flat.  Dead flat.
Was this  true?  Well dad told the story as if it was true.  Accidents in factories…even factories like this Burnside Motor Works factory…were
quite common.  And that still seems to be the case as a  few workers each year in Ontario meet their maker in such  accidents even
though machines are now shielded and line shafts are a  thing of the past.

The really bright readers among you will know what that machine on the far left actually did.   It may be the drive engine for the whole line shaft.  
The machine that powered the whole factory.  See
the drive belt dead centre…seems  to connect to that machine dead left.  Now why in hell’s half acre did  I  use the t erm  ‘dead’.

When Dad retired from the Dunlop Tire Corporation around  1970,  Eric and I asked if we could  tour the factory and see what he did
for his  whole working life.  That was  quite an experience.  Dad was  busy manhandling slaps of rubber … big slabs …onto some spinning
machine on which he carved bug truck tires.  A job only for the strong.  Dad  was  strong and proud of his work.  He grinned  at Eric  and I
as  the plant foreman took us around the factory.   Dad wore a simple sweatshirt and his  hands were blackened by the constant contact
with rubber.   Dad seemed to like his  job as he turned down the foreman’s job when it was offered.  “I can make more money making the 
tires than supervising.”

Dad liked working for Dunlop’s because for many years the factory was  very close to the Woodbine Racetrack where he spent all or 
nearly all of his idle time.   He  loved the horses  yet ye spent his life making car and truck tires for machines that rendered  horses
obsolete. Eric and I spent a  lot of time at racetracks along with Dad and occasionally mom.  But only once did  we ever visit the
rubber tire factory.  Glad we  did.


alan skeoch
Nov. 28,2018



Photograph taken in 1920 when the LITTLE SKEOCH CYCLE CAR WAS IN FULL PRODUCTION….three car assembly line.
In 1921 the factory burned to the ground  and the Little Skeoch became a blip in the the history
of the car industry.


Posted on

THE LITTLE SKEOCH MOTOR CAR … LIVED FOR ONE GLORIOUS YEAR…1920


ONCE UJPON A  TIME THERE WAS  A MOTOR CAR CALLED  THE LITTLE SKEOCH

(also called  The Skeoch Motorcycle  Car)

alan  skeoch
Nov. 27. 2018

Maybe we should bring back the LITTLE SKEOCH MOTOR CAR.   It was small,, cheap and  simple…sort of  a  4 wheel bicycle  seating two people with a chains drive and  small

motorcycle  engine.  So small that only two very slim people could  ride in it since the

car was  only 31 inches  wide and a  little over 8 feet long.  

Some of  you may think this  is some kind  of joke.  Wrong.  In 1920, James Skeoch built his first Little Skeoch, then entered it in a Scottish auto show and sold it
in ten minutes.   All  told less than a dozen Little Skeoch’s  were built in his small factory.  Ten  were quickly purchased at that auto show. Price?  180 pounds…which was the cheapest car in the show.  None have survived.   Sadly in 1921 a fire  consumed  his little factory and as  a  result the Burnside Motor Company in Dalbeattie,  Scotland, ceased to exist.




Skeoch utility car




The original Skeoch Utility Car.


Skeoch Utility car advertisement






Burnside Motorworks

Pictures of the Skeoch production line were retrieved from Skeoch  family albums.   Not exactly an automated  factory.
But the LITTLE SKEOCHS were real mini cars and seemed about to make a big splash in the booming car market of the 1920’s
until  fire ended  the enterprise.  Everything became a  blackened  pile  of scrap  iron.

James Skeoch moved on.   His skills were valued.  He had a  long successful career and  died  in 1954.
Not many people, by 1954, were even  aware that there was  such a  car as the SKEOCH.   Memories are short especially since 
none of the Little Skeochs  survived.   Gone  Gone Gone.    

Well, not quite.

POSSIBLE REBIRTH OF THE LITTLE SKEOCH
Posted on

Fwd: ALAN SKEOCH AWARD 2018



Begin forwarded message:


From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: ALAN SKEOCH AWARD 2018
Date: November 14, 2018 at 6:31:06 PM EST
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, “Macdonald, Leigh” <lemacdonald@scdsb.on.ca>


LEIGH…SEE MY NOTE THAT FOLLOWS…THIS  IS THE SPEECH I WOULD  LIKE TO GIVE…MIGHT TAKE EIGHT MINUTES

ALAN


SKEOCH  AWARD  … TO  NATHAN TIDRIDGE
( HAMILTON WENTWORTH DISRICT BOARD OF -EDUCATION)

CRITERIA
1) SENSITIVITY TO STUDENTS AT ALL LEVELS.
2) COLLEGIALITY WITH FELLOW STAFF MEMBERS
3) ORIGINALITY
4) ENTHUSIASM
5) REACH  BEYOND THE CLASSROOM INTO BROADER COMMUNITY


ALAN SKEOCH
NOV. 15, 2018

Members of  OHASSTA, publishers, student teachers, ladies and gentlemen

I consider it a great honour to have this  award  given in my name annually to a  classroom
teacher whose  contribution to education has  been remarkable.  

What makes  a  remarkable teacher?

Off the top I would put each of you in that category because you are willing
to reach  beyond the classroom to the wider  world of  education…that’s why
you are here at OHASSTA…you are  perpetual  learners … improvers…interested
in others ideas…prepared to share  your ideas.  Remarkable.

Nathan  Tidridge, this year 2018 is you…How  do I know?  Because for
the last half  century…48 years I have sat among you…joined  your tables…
shared  your joys and  your failures…noticed  things that make you remarkable

-Remarkable teachers  are respected…first and  foremost…without that respect Remarkability fizzles.
-Remarkable teachers remember names…memorize names  of their students from the get go
-Remarkable teachers can  control their classrooms…clear objectives
-Remarkable teachers never humiliate their students
-Remarkable teachers  have thick skins…not all teaching goes  smoothly…sometimes a  student might
tell a teacher to Go to Hell…that is a  real  teaching moment…remarkable teachers  know that.
-Remarkable teachers recognize distress in certain  students…and provide help…or get help.
-Remarkable teachers laugh a  lot…and can laugh at themselves
-Remarkable teachers are positive people;e
-RemarKalbe teachers respect social distance…they are called  Sir,  Miss, or Mr…not Joe, John or Judy
-Remarkable teachers enjoy rather than fear parents  nights
-Remarkable teachers want their students  to achieve…to be elevated
-Remarkable teachers know what they are doing…the lessons are going somewhere…coherent
-Remarkable teachers understand the curriculum…even  though they might pinch it a bit…or expand it more
-Remarkable teachers  are passionate about their subject
-Remarkable teachers  are passionate about children…love working with them
-Remarkable teachers  are remembered  … forever
-Remarkable teachers are cut from various  cloths…they  are not digital cut outs…they differ…students notice

I had a lot of remarkable teachers


Phyllis Morgan…who loved Latin but also  spent much  of her life finding  places in the  work world  for her students…and
who recognized distress and took action.
Evan Cruikshank…who admitted there were things  he did  not know about our world…instilled a desire  to work as  a  team in the classroom
Roberta Charlesworth…who lifted  me  by my ear and  drummed one clear lesson into my teen age brains  “I judge people by what they do,
not by what they say.’
Duncan Green…who  found a place for everyone in his  classes…in his school  play…on his track and field team…no one was  left out
Fred Burford…who  made math seem easy…and  who elevated a nondescript bunch of teen age boys into a formidable team of football players…
education requires  team  work.  I got the hop, step and  jump…not a  stellar role but one I  could attempt.
Miss Sharpley, Grade 6, who made every student feel important but who also  treated every student the same…
Mr.  Herman Couke…who suspended  me for 5 days for spotting a  football game played by  an  enemy school…that
was  unethical behaviour he explained…I have to suspend you Alan … your first offence…must treat all students the same
or our educational system will collapse into a sea  of favouritism.
John Ricker who taught me  a wonderful skill…to keep my mouth shut if a  lesson  takes  off…he  was  prepared  to
zip  sideways  in a  lesson…peripheral … and he used silence as a control skill…and  he showed deep  thinking and power using just as few  words as possible.
He knew  the power of  Silence…slow sipping of his  coffee  with his  eyes ferreting the room…then with one word…the word “Really”
he established  that historical  causes and effects are never simple…many causes of  one big effect…and that effect had  consequences
that were varied … not simple.   If he  were in  your class  next Monday he might ask”
   -Who is Donald Trump?
  -Why did so many Americans vote  for him?   
  -Why did the  Journalist Woodward title his book on Trump, FEAR?

 Or he  might just say, “I was thinking the other night about human  civilization, what makes us remarkable?  Do we have a future?


Alan Skeoch
Nov. 14, 2018
OHASSTA  CONFERENCE





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ARE THEY NUTS? ALAN AND MARJORIE SKEOCH IN ACTION NOV. 10, 2018

Human  beings are a quarrelsome  bunch.  They like to criticize each other. Sometimes it is  hard

to find chinks in the armour.  Sometimes it is easy.   Trump, for instance,  invites criticism with
every  breath he takes…every lie  he  tells….every gross movement of his body.  Well, here below
is a chance for you to criticize Alan  and  Marjorie.  Just what the hell are they doing with their lives.

For  us,  we are having a good time.  We always have a good time.

But this  auction was a bit over  the top I must admit…as  you will see  by our purchases below.
How we managed to get all this in our truck and  still leave room for Woody and ourselves is 
a wonder.

Unlikely but maybe one or two  pieces of this jumble  will be seen  in a movie release  next year.

There is no accounting for  taste.

alan and Marjorie
Nov. 10, 2018

p.s.  Even the McCartney family, auctioneers, must scratch their heads at the bidding.



Posted on

SKEOCH SAMPLE #5 AFRAID (part one)

SAMPLE #5


AFRAID
(part one)

alan skeoch
Nov. 11, 2018

It’s  easy to pretend I was a big time football player in high school now that I  am 80 years 
old and winner of the Wildman  Trophy, Toronto Star and  Telegram All  Star choices.  But
that is  not true.  The truth is I was  scared out of my pants those early years at Humberside.
Second string lineman in Grade Ten.   I sat on the bench for most of the games terrified that
Mr. Burford would put me on the field where I  was  sure to be a miserable failure. My job
was  simple…to knock people down so  the ball carrier could  score touchdowns.  use my
shoulder and cross body to do  so.  Deep down  I am  not a violent person so  the thought
of slamming my body  into somebody  else seemed rather rude.  Best to stay on the bench
and  look eager but really be fearful of failure.

So I  whistled.  Whistled?  Yes, “Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect and
 whistle a  happy  tune…So  no one will suspect I’afraid”. Got that song in my brain
from the musical called  The King and  i with Deborah Kerr singing.  Memorized  the 
lyrics and applied  them every time I was  afraid.  Like the time when I  got ‘doored’
on my bike by a woman who opened passenger door fast and knifed  me .. broke
my clavicle.  She left me there in the gutter with arm hanging down.  I whistled…sang…
put my bike together and peddled home singing…then fainted into my mothers  arms.

Whenever I feel afraid
I hold my head erect
And whistle a happy tune
So no one will suspect
I’m afraid

While shivering in my shoes
I strike a careless pose
And whistle a happy tune
And no one ever knows
I’m afraid

The result of this deception
Is very strange to tell
For when I fool the people
I fear I fool myself as well!

I whistle a happy tune
And ev’ry single time
The happiness in the tune
Convinces me that I’m not afraid

Make believe you’re brave
And the trick will take you far
You may be as brave
As you make believe you are

Whistling, however, turned  out not to be a good idea as a second string grade Ten football player
at Humberside Collegiate back in 1954 because our coach was looking for a way  to build the boys
up for the game.  “Who is  whistling?”  I put my had up. “Here, you, Skeoch..stand up on the bench.”
Now I  was  really scared.  “This boy was whistling.  The last thing we need in this game against
Riverdale is over confidence.   Whistling is over confidence.  No one whistles.  Focus on the game.
OK, Skeoch, get down.”   I was  mortified…terrified…humiliated.   Now in 2018, I know what the
coach  was trying to do.  He wanted to give a pep talk and my whistling was as  good a way as any
to do  so.   But being centred out did  not make me feel too good…magnified my fear.  Made me
even more afraid  I would mess up if ever I was sent into the huddle and actually have to hit someone.
My good friend Jim Romaniuk, also on the bench as  second  string quarter back, kept pointing to
me every time coach Burford turned to size up his second stringers.  I wished  with all my heart
that Jim would not do that.  I liked the bench.

But I did  feel  rejected at the same time.  I  wanted to play but feared failure.  Now, at 80, I realize 
that was  quite normal for a kid with my chromosomes.   There was  another incident where  rejection
happened.  Sort of humorous  really.  Our quarterback Dave Bradley was an outstanding athlete…tall, lean, confident…
a natural leader who actually understood the game.  He knew when to throw a pass and when to
hand off the ball to Big Vic, our full back who seemed  to like heavy physical contact.  But Dave
made a big mistake one game.  He forgot his shoes.   “Listen up boys, Bradley has forgotten his
spikes…left them at home.  We need  someone to surrender his spikes to Bradley.  Who will  do
that?”  My chance for glory.  I raised  my hand.  “Skeoch…same size feet…let’s see your spikes.”
Coach Burford looked at my spikes then gave them back to me.  “No good! Anybody else?”
My spikes were old  and  worn.  Worse still they were split in two in the centre.  Sort of like the 
shoes worn by clowns.  They hurt my feet really.  Certainly  not the kind of spiffy spikes that
Dave Bradley would  wear.  I was embarrassed.  Trying to be heroic…to help the team…I was
rejected  again and did my best to fade into the background.

One  muddy game  in the east  end of Toronto was a  horrific experience.  Coach  Burford had
armed us  all with mud spikes on our boots.  Long stiletto like things  with blunt ends.  “Those 
longer spikes will Give
you more purchase in the  mud, boys.  Now go out and beat Malvern.”  Well we  won the game but
the cost was  great…too great.  Eric came off the field with a mud  filled
hole in his leg where a  mud  spike had  sliced  him.  Brutal looking thing.
So brutal  that i  felt weak in my knees.  By then I was in Grade  12 and had
a first string  position.  Expected to be tough but felt rubbery.  That night Eric
was  taken to Dr. Greenaway who cleaned the wound but had  misgivings  concerning
a devastating infection.  Eric and I slept in the same bed  at home. “Alan, see this
needle?  If Eric starts to have convulsions…throws a  fit…shove in this needle.”
I lay awake all night fearing the worst.  But Eric survived.  This was  a tough game.

Coach Burford  insisted  we meet every lunch hour in his  room to go  over plays.
And  to build solidarity.  One lunch hour  chalk talk was  memorable.  Burford was 
going over expectations when the person in the desk behind  me began tapping.
Tap…tap…tap.  It was Don Phillips.  He was not being disrespectful.  he was having
a fit…rolled to the floor.  Convulsing.  Brhord quickly got a ruler in his  mouth so  his
tongue was  not severed.  He came around eventually but we were all stuned.  Was  Dons
fit really the result of a brain confusion in the football game that week?  We never knew
Don was  no longer on the team, sadly.

Years later, when i became a football coach at Parkdale C. I. I made a  similar mistake.
So i forgave coach Burford.  My mistake was worse…a  terrible thing really,.  I hesitate
to even tell you about it.   OK, here goes.  Forgive me.  “Boys, we are going up to Lawrence Park.
Those guys think you guys come from Cabbagetown.  They look down on you.  I want you
to go up there and kill them.”   Awful…awful…awful.  And  it got worse.  The field  was slick  
with mud.  Splashy lucky mud.  One of our boys  made a sliding tackle on the Lawrence
Park ball carrier.  They slid  towards our sideline bench.  Our guy held the Larence halfback’s
head up a bit.  Then when they slid into a good muddle, he hollered “Cabbagetown, eh?”
and  shoved  the halfback’s helmeted  head face first into the mud.  I saw it all.  What a lousy
coach I had become.   Made me remember the incident of whistling.  Yes, I really got our
boys fired  up for victory.  But at what cost?  What a lousy  example of a  coach I  had become.
The boy that was so afraid years earlier had become the encourager of violence.  Not my
proudest moment.  

  Left Alan  Skeoch and  Grant Weber after a  good game, Toronto Star photograph…circa 1958  Right,  circa 1961 at U.  of T. Many University days
were spent playing inter facility football. At football  practice I Made my first date  with Marjorie when she leaned out her residence  window and  I hollered  “What are
you doing tonight?” “Not much.” “See you at seven.”  That made football very meaningful.  We married.


Back at Humberside I grew older.  Became  a first string left guard  and  inside linebacker.  Got
good  at knocking people down.  Burford  was  a great coach.  I forgave him for the  whistling incident.
He knew every step every player
had to take on the field.  I can still take those steps.   I could take my place on the field even
today.   Nah!  Too old.  We won  a lot of football games  at Humberside…became city champions.
In Grade 13, I was  startled when awarded the Wildman Trophy and various  City All  Star designations.
Coach Burford  spoke to me privately.  “Alan, you have won these awards…earned  them…butJef
remember It’s the t team that won…all the players as a unit.”  I looked Burford  in the eye.
“I know that, sir, I really know that…the best player I have ever seen is our halfback, Richard Mermer,
he should get all the awards, not me.”   I believed that then and  I  believe that now.  I am not 
puffed  up…wth inflated ego.  Just lucky.  

My best friend, Russ Vanstone, was on the line beside me for all those  years.  He had arms  of steeI.
When he hit an inside  linebacker there was  no bounce backwards. My brother Eric was an End…he could catch
the ball…score  touchdowns.  More glory possible.  God we loved that  team…the unit…all my friends in all positions.  
Ready  to help me. Take Big  Ed  Jackman for instance.  He was our left tackle, a lineman. In one  bad game  i complained toEddie about 
the St. Mike’s defensive lineman.  “Ed, that son  of a bitch  doesn’t charge.  He waits  for me and then
knees  me in  the mouth.”  “Wait until the play goes the other way,  I’ll get him.”  And  Eddie planted  a  cleated
foot right between the  legs of that bastard.  Sounds  awful,  doesn’t it.  So juvenile. But that’s the way  we were.

My career in football began  at Humberside when I was  s skinny runt trying to fit into the world around me.
Scared  most of the time.  But I endured.  Made lifetime friends.  Russ and  I even married roommates at U. of T.

But it is our high school team…those still 
living…that  meet twice a year for old times sake.  

Now for some truth.  Every game I ever played…at high school or University…I was always
a bit afraid.  And in my mind I whistled  a  happy tune.  Still do  so when confronted
by adversity.  Why play?  Friendship is a  big factor.  Working…playing…alongside a bunch 
of other boys  and  young men was  a great bonding  experience as proved  by the 
fact we still get together and tell the same old  stories…somewhat improved…and  laugh
together.    

alan skeoch
Nov. 11, 2018

P>S>   Part 2 will trace the consequences  that followed when  my  baby  left hand  finger got
crushed  by a cleated  enemy boot.   Sounds silly I know.  But the  consequences  of that smashed
 finger changed  my life  completely.  Some of you may  want to read  about it.  Some of you will
not give a damn and press  delete.  I  do  not care.

P.P.S.   Thank you Them Norris for triggering these memories.  Your reflections on Humberside
came alive to me.  They also  made me see your dad in a totally different light.







Posted on

MY DREAM NOV. 11, 2018


Freeman farm November 10, 2018



Freeman Farm taken in summer of 1918 
(with mom, Elsie, and  Grandma  Louisa and  the  dog Punch)

Last night I had a bad dream.  Dreaming happens all the time, most are good dreams.  But last night I dreamed we  drove to the
farm and found the whole house had  collapsed in on itself.  Hand hewn beams, lathing, plaster, furniture, dishes…all spread helter
skelter.   So we began the clean  up and  began  planning the reconstruction.  Optimism asserted itself.  To rebuild the farm house
we would need  a builder so we drove to Rockwood in search.  The town was different with more Victorian and Edwardian buildings
than  I  had  ever seen before.  Saunders bakery, a  place we visit often in real  life, was  no longer in the village.  But the other
buildings were pulsing with life.  “Need a builder, try Coulson and the Mennonites,” commented one  citizen.  Then the storm hit…a  whopper
of a storm with the sky as black as  midnight.  And wind began to scour the leaves and rubbish into airborne  missiles. Then the rain
hit like a the worst torrent of  a mountain stream.  A  deluge.  We sheltered in a building with an overhang once used by horse drawn
carriages…brick with a curved arch.  No  sooner had the storm hit than it ended and the sun burst forth like the dawning of a new
summer day.   We drove back to the farm where the boys were still imposing order on the heater skelter mess.  Strange mix of
images dominant of which was a  feeling of optimism in the midst of the destruction.  

Armisitce day…100 years  after the end  of World War I…any semblance of connection to the dream?  Mom’s first boyfriend was killed
in the Somme  offensive…his  body marked by an  upturned  rifle.   Dad’s  oldest brother Jack died  in the last day of the war, hit by
a mortar shell as he walked  along a train track en route to a Red Cross station knowing, perhaps, that the war had  ended.  Both
Harry Horsman and Jack  Skeoch were tragedies in our family life that happened long before I was born.  Harry’;s death, sad though
it was, meant Mom  would  look for a  new man and eventually, in 1937, married  Red Skeoch producing in 1938 myself and  in 
1940, my brother Eric.  A good thing for Eric and  me…not so good for poor Harry.  

The death of Dad’s brother devastated the Skeoch family.  He was  the oldest and a  leader for sure.  His  picture was  inserted  in
a family picture taken shortly after World  War One.  A  ghostly  reminder of the war.  

Then there was the death of my  cousin George Freeman who died when  his Halifax bomber was shot down  over Bourg Leopold
in 1944.  The  deaths of George and  Jack  devastated  their respective families.  I was told by mom that Aunt Kitty and  Uncle  Chris
kept George’s  room at the Toronto Hunt Clubg  gardener’s  cottage exactly as it was  when he left for the war.

In all  three cases  I found  or have been given letters they sent home.  Jack’s letter to his brothers is most explicit.
…’do not come over here’ (paraphrase from my memory).  Harry, who was a Home  Child with kn known parents, sent
many letters to Mom, letters that got more depressing as the horror of the trenches deepened.   Harry’s letters were
given  to me  by some after my dad died.  “Alan, you might like these.”  I did and made  the letters into a  filmstrip/movie
for Ontario  students.   Technology unfortunately  has rendered that film obsolete.  Harry’s lonely cry will not longer be  heard.

George also seems 
to have known  his days were numbered as were  the days of all the flight crews  in  the allied bomber command where each
returning flight had missing  bombers  such as  HX 313, the Blond Bomber.  I was able to reconstruct George Freeman’s
life overseas  in a story titled The Last Flight of HX 313 by interviewing all the survivors of his crew.  George tried to squeeze as
much life as  possible  into those months before his death as an  upper turret gunner when  a German  night fighter stitched
the bomber with slugs.  Those  who were still alive bailed out.  George  did not.

Was anything learned from the loss of so many young men?  Was there anything positive from so much destruction?
I think there was.   Most survivors knew the full meaning of  war and  the subsequent Cold War was carefully managed
lest a  hot war burst forth.   And we all  knew that any future world conflagration might spell the end  human  life as
we know it today.   Nuclear war would take no prisoners.  The Freeman/Skeoch farm house would  be pile  of rubble.

Any connection to my dream?  Maybe.  No matter, today I  think of Harry and Jack and  George…boys I never knew yet
came to know so well.

alan skeoch
Nov. 11, 2018

Want some proof?  Pictures  below.


Alan  and  Eric Skeoch  at the Freeman farm around 1947.  We were
the luckiest generation the earth has  ever seen.  Children who
became adults  in the booming post war years the 1950’s. Yet
we worried about the nuclear bomb.


Some of  the Skeoch Brothers around 1956 on the Fergus family farm…
Norman, Archie, Greta  (aunt), Arthur and  Red whose real name  was Arnold,
my father (all dressed up for gambling at the horse races)


Elsie Freeman and  Red Skeoch around 1937 when they got
married though mom was cautioned about dad who had
deep love  of horses as much as that of  mom.


Uncle Art rolling his  own  cigarettes.  



Uncle Norman,  the youngest brother who inherited the family Fergus
farm.

Mom,  Elsie  Freeman about the time she  was  corresponding  with harry Horsman
in 1916…not really  a torrid love affair.  Mom  was too young and  Harry was too
lonely.  Mom gave me his letters after  Dad died.


I reconstructed  Harry’s  life in a  filmstrip titled  Canada and  World War One…now
a technology long  outmoded and never to be  seen again.


Arnold, Red,  Skeoch in 1930’s



This is  Victor Poppa around 1980.  He was the rear gunner on HX 313 and best 
friend  of George Freeman.   Victor was  trapped in the bubble at the back of
HX 313 as  it pirouetted  out of the sky  in May 1944.   Hydraulic  lines  had been
severed  by bullets.  Sure of his  death.  Then the plane corck screwed  and  the 
force twisted the bubble  in such  a way  that Victor fell out with one line attached
to his  parachute…he pulled the  line down  and yanked the rip chord.  Became  
a POW.


We visited Victor in California…got his story which  became the basis  of
‘The  Last Flight of HX 313’.   


The great mass  of the Freeman families  around  1958 when we gathered to celebrate
the golden wedding of  Aunt Kitty (seated centre) and  Uncle Chris Freeman.  There
would have been more people in this  picture  had George Freeman survived.  How
do  I  know that?  Because I found a  picture of a British girl he was planning to marry
after the war.  Sadly her name is lost.  Red  Skeoch is seated  far left…Elsie (Freeman) 
Skeoch is  standing with arm on hip on far right.  Eric  is sitting beside dad.

Posted on

Last Gasp of glory before the snow flies (Fifth Line Nov. 4, 2018)

Hi,


Maybe you would  like  to savour the glory of our fall colours  for just one more time.  The winter wind is blowing as I write and the
leaves a swirling skyward then down to earth as a temporary carpet on the ground.    Soon they will just be a memory.  So I thought
you might like this reminder.

alan   Nov. 5, 2018


Do you recognize the GINGKO…Most ancient tree on earth…grew and thrived  long before the dinosaurs came and went…we have one gingko beside our front door.


There was a time not long ago when a big section of the Fifth line was protected  by a long line of immense tree roots  that had been pulled from the earth
by pioneer farmers using huge hand made excavators armed with one gigantic screw gear.  Only these three have survived when someone dragged three
of the roots across  the road and wedged them among the living forest.  The rest, I assume, were burned.  Too bad for they were homes to all kinds of small creatures.
When I was a kid, one of our ministers at Runnymede  Presbyterian  Church used to give a children’s sermon each sunny based on a piece he cut from the white pine
root fences  that were once so common.  See if you can find a face on this root.  Now see if  you can  write a  sermon for little kids.  I see the head of a monster
dead centre.  Not a good  idea for a sermon though.  

Wonder if you Red or you Eric or you Carole can  remember those sermons?


Look at this root…I can see a porpoise swimming upside down…maybe just a fish….


This face was carved on one of our giant squash.  Big success tis  year.  So big we cannot lift them.  Gruesome…


Right now our street looks beautiful .  In another month ti will change from red  and  yellow to white and black…another kind of beauty.




Test:  Can you find a  leaf that is NOT from a tree?   Looks like the skin of a big snake.
Posted on

Fwd: alan



Begin forwarded message:


From: “Carole Sanford” <carolesan@rogers.com>
Subject: RE: alan
Date: November 1, 2018 at 11:56:26 PM EDT
To: “‘SKEOCH'” <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>


Well done Al.   Good job Marjorie told you to turn the light on.  I think there would have been a few choice words from “you know who” when you arrived in the pouring rain at the farm and found Woody in the truck.   

Just glad to hear you’re both o.k.   Not a fit night for man nor beast.

Take care.

Warm regards,
Carole

—–Original Message—–
From: SKEOCH [mailto:alan.skeoch@rogers.com]
Sent: November-01-18 11:26 PM
To: d.m.macmorine@gmail.com
Subject: alan


LATE NOVEMBER NIGHT…NOV. 1, 2018

So we drove  home in the teeming rain and the dark.

“Put Woody out for a  leak  as soon as you get home, Alan.”

“Sure.”

Home

“Got that sinking feeling as I reached in the dark truck  for Woody…interior lights  do not work well…felt no fur…Woody…we  left him all alone in
the dark farm veranda in pouring rain…must tell Marjorie although hate to do so.  Maybe best if I not say ‘we’.”

“Woody  is not in the truck…must have left him at the farm…I’ll drive up and get him now   (11.12 pm)…I will be  back bye 1 am…not tired…must go now. Poor Woody
he will be waiting for me.”

“Turn the light on.”

“I already reached  in … no Woody…”

“Turn the light on.”

“OK.”

“And there he is curled  up in a tiny ball…hates the rain…would not move out of the truck.”

“Just think I nearly drove up to  get him and there he was all the  time.”

THOUGHT CAME TO ME: “If I got to the farm and found Woody in the truck seat right behind me it might
be best if  I pretended we had left him there…otherwise I would  look like a dimwit.”

“Stupid, Alan, just stupid.”

“Accepted.”=


Posted on

Fwd: ‘MY DAYS ARE IN THE YELLOW LEAF”



Begin forwarded message:


From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: ‘MY DAYS ARE IN THE YELLOW LEAF”
Date: November 5, 2017 at 11:27:17 AM EST
To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@rogers.com>


“MY DAYS ARE IN THE YELLOW LEAF”*


alan skeoch
Nov. 3, 2017



“Long ago I hung a little sign in the old pantry of our farm house….before we gutted and rebuilt everything.  It said, “My Days Are in The Yellow Leaf”
It is  a  quote from Lord Byron which he may have borrowed and changed from Shakespeare’s Macbeth, “My  way of life is  fallen into the  sere and  yellow leaf.”
Both quotes  are depressing…expressions of dread…

“I Don’t get the Meaning?”, you say…”Thought you were about to describe  farm sale, not a love poem or a Shakespeare play ? What does the expression mean?”

“Years ago I was saddened  that my Grandparents farm was decaying…collapsing…Meaning the days  of the farm were numbered.  The hand-hewn frame barn had  collapsed  and those wonderful beams chain sawed into kindling blocks.  The hand woven wire and sapling  fence around the garden was aslant and doomed.  Wire worms infested  the carrots. The cattle and chickens were gone leaving Laddie the dog as the only non-human resident.  And  he was accidently shot by Angus Mcechern while worrying sheep.  “Meant to scare him.”  In the house The plastered walls  were cracked  and great slabs fell regularly.  The 
cedar shingle roof was  leaking.  The floors were worn down by heavy work boots…The knots  resisted so the effect was wavy.  The dirt floor cellar was filled
with water come spring time.  The field stone foundation was wonderful…for snakes that is.  And my grandmother and grandfather were just holding on by the skin of their teeth.  Grandma shook so hard with Parkinson’s disease that the coal oil lamp in her hand  cast shaky shadow devils on the walls.   And  granddad needed help to get
to the back house.  Out beside a huge walnut tree bounced baseball sized walnuts off the house roof.  The sound was chilling.  Red squirrels tunnelled their way into the
walls and piled the gaps with those walnuts as if  they were insulation.  Hence my feeling that   “Their days were in the yellow leaf.”

“And all that came to mind today?”

“That was  how I felt at the Farmer Moore auction today, November 3, 2017, as tractors, tools and scrap iron things changed hands assisted  by Jim McCartney, auctioneer..  I do not know what really happened here 15 years ago.  Something bad for sure.  The farm has been padlocked  and untouched for the last 15 years. “He was put in the home,.” said farm neighbours.
His tractors, trucks, Wheelbarrows, tools, furniture, even sexy pin-upgirls have  all been gatheirng dust and vermin footprints  for all these years.”

“What Happened?”

“I have no idea. The hand built ramp at the  farm house means Farmer Moore had difficulty walking, perhaps  wheelchair bound before he “put in the Home”.

“Forgotten. Padlocked gate…laneway leading up a gentle slope to a  place  of mystery dominated by a huge  derelict bank barn whose grim future you can judge in  the pictures.”


“Everything here was new at one time.  Brand new.”,  said auctioneer McCartney.  “Today things are sold to the highest bidder.  I make  no guarantees.  These machines….tractors, trucks, combine…have been safely undercover for the last 15 years.  Be aware of that.  None of them will be started today. “ In other words Buyer beware.


Farm Auction Sale

For Cimino Family (Farmer Moore Farm)

Friday, November 3rd at 12:00 noon
(Preview from 11:00 a.m.)

Located at 866 Safari Rd (7th Concession), Flamborough, ON. 1 1⁄2 miles West of Hwy 6, 4 miles North of Clappison’s Corners (Watch for signs). Tractors – Midsize Farm Equipment – Trucks – VW Beatle – 2004 -21’ Housetrailer (etc) Most items have been stored inside and have not been in use for over 15 years. (Everything sells as is)

Partial List Only: ‒ Case 730 Diesel with Allied Loader – Cab, John Deere 40 – 3 P.T.H. + P.T.O., A.C. – CA with remotes, Belarus 420 4 x 4, Ford 630 S.P. Combine (motor seized), 4 row 36” corn head, 12’ grain head
– 2004 Coachman 22’ model 248 T.B.C. house trailer with roof air – fully loaded (This unit has had very little use)
– 1971 Dodge Fargo 300 (29,050 mi) with 9’ x 7’6” dump box & 4’ racks
– 1979 Dodge S.E. – 300 Adventurer 70,000 kms with 8’ box & duals
– 12’ slide in camper – older Volkswagon Beatle 39,850 miles (rough)
– John Deere 210 riding mower 42” deck, 16 h.p. Master Craft, John Deere 1240 – 4 x 36 corn planter, 12’ 3 P.T.H. cultivator, J.D. 15 run Van Brunt Drill, 10’ Cultipacker, N.H. 351 Mix Mill with Loading Auger, N.H. 269 sq baler, 7’ Brady Flail chopper, 3 gravity boxes and wagons, 3 P.T.H. fert spreader, 3 P.T.H. Haban Corn Sheller, N.I 2 row 30” cor picker model 325 with 327 picker unit, Case 4 x 14” 3 P.T.H. plow, 3 x 12” Oliver drag plow, 7’ 3 P.T.H. single auger snow blower, 11 run McCornmick drill on steel, box trailer, J. D. 300 bale & grain elevator 32’, H. D. Front Mount truck blades 9’-10’-12’,
– (Older Ford 8000 single axle dump truck & other pieces for scrap)
– Antique hand operated forage, walking plow, bag cart, Welder, misc lumber, fanning mill, old hossier cupboard and others, misc farm related items

Terms: Cash – Cheque ‒ Interac® ‒ VISA® day of sale Lunch Booth on Grounds

Jim McCartney Auction Service Ltd.
905-689-8778
Waterdown



“And  here we are, in the  stable, empty. Ghostly”


There is beauty here…sunshine and a light breeze do wonders.


So let the story begin.  Part fact and  part speculation.   It is  November, 2017 and some trees are still  clothed but today, Nov. 3, it is cold and the wind 
is up.  Soon the maple  will be skeletal.

“I think there were at least two farmers here in the deep past.  Farmer Moore for sure and perhaps his wife, or Farmer Moore and his brother.
The condition of the  farm house with its ripped  and worn linoleum…wallpaper in some rooms but not all…would seem
to indicate a lone male resided here for a number of years.  Just speculation.  A woman would  never let the house be so neglected.
Men often are less concerned.  No furnace…heat provided by a cast iron stove….Naoleon style”




The farm house was sheathed in white siding within the last 20years.  Before that it was perhaps  insulbrick.


Linoleum floor covering  scuffed and  worn out by boots and neglect.





Hand made ramps for wheelchair access to the house.  Much more to the story that will never be known.


A few clippings pinned to the walls…with dates that stop abruptly around  2002 or so.





Now here is a visual story.  Farmer Moore seems to have been heterosexual.  Some ancient pin-ups and one modern.  Dates seem to have ended
around 2002.   Something happened.  Farmer Moore was taken a retirement home.  It would be tough to leave his ladies  behind.






OK.  Tell me what was kept in these crocks?    Something edible…look at the plastic lids.


“Small forge with hand operated lever for blower…sold for $280






Old Hoosier Kitchen cupboard in  workshop with faded  pin-up girls sold  for around $30 or less



Super organized  shelves full of nuts and bolts and tings unseen sold  for $85


Speckled sunshine of a forgotten mow of old hay.  Holes in the roof made walking on the wonky threshing floor problematic.



Looking out from the warm brown granary to the open threshing floor


Farmer Moore  once long ago had a thriving poultry business.  12,000 laying hens snuggled  up to these straw lined nesting cubbyholes.   Eggs  collected  by 
the Moore’s were sold in Millgrove and  perhaps as far south as Hamilton.   I wish it was possible to save a rack of these nesting cubbys   Why in tarsnation did 
I say that?  There  is no place for such.








The great cathedral roof has been ripped  open.  Rain water on piled hay and straw does  not take long to rot the threshing floor…see below.





Stable door.  A kind of invitation to explore..


One was of the fieldstone stable has already collpsed.  Likely to be repeated by others as  no-one cares.

Lots of outbuildings on the Moore farm, all overgrown with shrubs and trees.  A  Tangled Garden.  And dangerous for beneath
every step seemed to be the rusty remains of some long forgotten machine of agriculture.



Acres  of scrap so old that large walnut trees  have wrapped  themselves around rusty iron treasures…whole field of scrap[ machines sold for …I forget.  Make a bid.

This  is the auctioneer Jim McCartney making his way through  one of the hidden scrap pile.  How do I know this was once a horse driven mowing  machine?  Look  dead centre.


One  of the largest outdoor corn cribs  I have ever seen.  Tenty ortirty yearsagoit was filled with yellow corn cobs and teased upon why birds  and lots of rats until
used to feed  the 12,000 chickens that Farmer Moore raised. Empty now..  No longer needed since corn taken off the field below is shelled  and blown
into tractor trailers driven right up to the combine on under tiled fields and hauled to huge drying silos.  Modern corporate agriculture.  This crib is an object of
art … doomed of course.






An abandoned  Belarus tractor (Russian export from Soviet Union) … a green carpet of moss thriving where once Farmer Moore sat.





None of the machines worked…had not been operational for nearly two decades.  This little John Deere sold for $2,200.  Buyer must be a collector.  Lots of bidders.



People are in search of specific treasures such as this tractor tire or…OR?





And  here is the jewel of the auction sale in my opinion.   Wisner Wilcox fanning mill made in Brantford when Ontario was called  Canada West (C.W. stencilled)…made between 1840 and 1867 by skilled  craftsmen who even gussied it up a bit with blue  striping.   This was  the reason I went to  Farmer Moore’s  auction…prepared
to be disappointed  but instead  found the machine in impeccable shape.  Got it on first bid for  $25.  Expected to lose it for I noticed  a guy buy a fanning mill screen
in the  workshop.  Kept my eye on him.  But he was gone.  Guess he could not wait. This  was the last ting sold at the auction.


“It’s all over… pay  up today…you  have only tomorrow to get things out  of here…then the padlock goes  on .”


Next day, Andrew and  Marjorie came with me to load the mill.  By then the farm had been stripped clean.    We were alone.






Want moe?  Just scroll down.


At some time  in the distant past a horses hitched  here.



(Imagine this…not real comments)

“And you  sir are now the owner of the back end of a half ton truck…rust and all.”

“How do I move it?”

“Should have thought of that before you raised  your hand.”

“I was  just scratching my nose.”

“Some bidders just wink or nod their head  so the quick movement to get a bug out of your nose is considered a sound bid…you own
this now.  If you back your truck up, some of the fellows will tip it up and on.”

“I don’t have a truck…just a small car.”

“Well, you could attach a chain  and drag the old truck  bed  down the road.”

“But  I live in Hamilton.”

“Best haul  it  down  there at night then…less police  around….might be a shower of sparks slip an old door under it.”

“What will my wife say?”

“Now that, sir, is a good  question.  Good  luck!”






Wild cucmber vines festoon the place like  neglected  Chinese  Lanterns.


“This Ford combine may be a little  worse for wear but it would make the front lawn of your city home remarkable…and  I mean REMARKable.
Like  everything elsewhere, it was once  new…could be a kind of Gazebo in the back yard…with an elevated glassed  in  
reading room.”   Sold for $200








MY DAYS ARE  IN THE YELLOW LEAF

(Borrowed  from Lord Byron and William Shakespeare by Alan Skeoch…on this  November day, in the year 2017)

alan skeoch
November 3,2017
Farmer Moore auction sale
Auctioneer Jim McCartney
Cashier  Kate McCartney