Year: 2018

Begin forwarded message:

From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: “( YOU ARE A GODDAMN FOOL!” “DAD, YOU GOT THAT RIGHT.”

Date: January 11, 2018 at 10:48:08 AM EST

To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

“YOU ARE A GODDAMN FOOL!”  “DAD,  YOU GOT THAT RIGHT.”

DAD SPOKE IN OPPOSITES…IF HE LIKED SOMETHING, HE SAID IT WAS JUNK.  WHEN HE CALLED ME

A DIMWIT, HE MEANT I WAS OK.  NOT THAT I WAS GREAT…JUST OK.  WE LIKED THAT….NO SLOPPY SENTIMENTALITY. NO 

KISSING AND  HUGGING.

 

alan skeoch

Jan. 2018

   One fine spring day around 1970, I brought this heavy  corn cutting machine  to the farm.   Dad helped me  unload.  

He had a whole  string of four letter words when he  saw  the thing.  That meant he liked it even  though he said it

was  no goddamn good and  the former owner had  no right to exploit my stupidity.  

So  this story is  really about Dad and less about the machine. 

“:Dad,  give me a hand with this big corn cutting box…runs off tractor belt or stationary engine in barn.”

“Now what the hell did you buy that thing for…should be in the scrap yard.”

Are you out of your GODDAMN MIND…daft…brainless.  Take the son of a bitch back to the smart ass who sold it to you.””

“Neat, isn’t it.  Circular blade … sort of like a revolving guillotine. Did you ever use one on the Skeoch farm outside  Fergus? ”

“No.  I headed west when I was 14, told you that a long time ago.  Are you both deaf and dumb?”

“ Harvest Excursion? wasn’t it?”

“No, I got in a  bit of trouble when I was 14…had to hotfoot it west to Keeler…

“Keeler>”

“Saskatchewan…spent couple of winters cooped up with 16 horses. Slept in 

an empty stall.  No farm house.  Horses kept the barn warm.  No corn feed…lots of hay and some oats.  No tractor so 

why the hell would we want a corn cutter?  So cold around Riverhurst in those winters that a fellow could die fast in the open

Freeze balls  of a brass  monkey  as they say.”

“Just you alone with 16 horses.”

“That’s right, better company than my two sons that’s for sure.”

“Get paid?  “

“Just enough to get me back East with a new pair of boots.  Then some bastards stole the boots  when I fell asleep and I had to hotfoot it

along Queen Street in Toronto to that old hotel at Roncesvales..  Came back with nothing. “

“Why not go home?”

” Sure as hell wasn’t going back to the Fergus farm.

No room for me up there anyway.  Too many kids…too little money.”

“Couldn’t you  go back  to school?  Grade nine?

“Jesus, don’t you ever listen to me.  Fergus High School was the reason Iwent west in the first place.  i old you about the wood flap at the back of

the girls  outhouse.  My schooling ended suddenly when Kelly and I hurled snowballs up that flap in the  girls outhouse.  We thought it was funny.

Hit a girl on the ass.  She  ran into the school screaming.  Dizzy.  We just stood there.  The principal was not amused, “Arnold, you go home right now and get your father over here.”

“What did your Dad do?”

“Never told him.  Never even went home.  Hid out in the swamp for a while, siept in neighbours place.  My sisters…Elizabeth and Greta looked after me…brought me food.

Couldn’t;t stay there so I lit out for Saskatchewan where brother John had  just got himself married  and fixed up on a section … 640 acres…nearly seven times the size of our Fergus farm.”

“Who put up the money for the fare?”    

“Maybe mother or big sister Elizabeth…don’t rightly know.  Think John had something to do with it”  He wanted us all to  move west”

”  My brothers Art and Archie each

bought farms near Keillor but they  never lived on them.  Had crop put in then buggered off  back to Ontario.  Let big brother John do Threshing in fall…did it on shares.”

Archie made money beating up  French Canadians  one summer.  You know how  skinny Archie  is even to this day.  Skinny as a tent pole.   that fooled lots of people.

“Is this the boxing story,  Dad?”

“God that was great when I Heard about it.  Word  was spread  around from Keeler to Riverhurst that  A fist fight was going to happen over near Riverhurst.  French Canadian against an Ontario  Scot.  Skinny Scottish bastard…going

to get the shit kicked out of him.  Put your money on the Frenchy.  Wrng!  Wrong!  Archie could really fight.   Knocked  the Frenchy down fast and  the boys  picked  up a bundle.   Archie became famous for a while.

“How come you were not involved?”

“Never wanted to go back west.  Try sleeping winters with 16 horses…alone.  that will knock any romantic notions out of your head.”

“Scared?”

“More scared of my dad than the idea of travelling to the West.”

Enough bull  shit.  I Bet dollars  to do-nuts you don’t even know what this son of  a bitch is supposed to do.”

“Chops up field corn.”

“For what reason?”

“Maybe cut it up green and blow chunks into the silo to make ensilage for winter feed.”

“How did a dimwit like you figure that out?”

“Farmer I bought it from told me…he was short a thumb and finger…maybe cut off by this machine.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Thirty dollars.What is it really worth?”

“He sure saw  a sucker coming when you arrived. Not worth a goddamn cent…junk…”

“I thought you would like it, dad.  Flattered .”

“Where do  you plan to put it now your barn has collapsed?” (Story to come)

“That, Dad, is the big question…I do not know. where to put it.”

Wait until your Uncle Norman sees this machine.   Shows what a damn fool you are.  Why in hell he named

you as executor of  his will defeats me.

alan  skeoch

Ja. 2018

Stories to come   1) The Barn that a Jackas  built

                             2) Dad  teaching andrew and  Kevin how to smoke White Owl  Invicible  cigars when they were 6 and 8 years old.

RED SKEOCH…”’BROTHER CAN YOU SPARE A DIME?”

ASIDE:  Mr. and Mrs. James Skeoch operated a 100 acre farm on outskirts of Fergus (SW)  and, like many farmers they had a big family.  Greta, Elizabeth, Sarah, Lena, John, James, Archie, Arthur, Arnold, Norman.   The oldest, James  Skeoch was killed by artillery shells on one of the lat days of World War One,  sarah died of

the Flu epidemic that followed the war.  The rest thrived.  John bought land near Keeler, Saskatchewan and both Archie and Arthur also bought

some western land although they never moved  west.  Had their families in Ontario. Uncle John looked after things in the west.  Arnold (‘Red”)  and Artur became tire builders in Toronto.  They became city boys.   Norman, the youngest took over the home farm in Fergus and cared for his mother and father unto their death.

When Norman died, his will stipulated that each of his brothers and sisters should get an equal portion of the estate.  This meant that the farm 

had to be sold and the machinery put up for public auction.  My cousin John (long John) Skeoch and  I were named  as executors.  Nasty job.

Never met my grandfather Skeoch.  By all accounts he was a tough man.  Grandmother Skeoch lived on the Fergus farm util she died.  She became

an oil painter and made sure that all her kith and kin were given one of her paintings before her death.  There were so many relatives  that I never

really got to know her. Which is too bad.  The first Skeoch boys, James and  John, migrated to Canada in 1846 with their grandfather Mr. Watt. and an aunt who was terrified the boys would fall overboard as  they spent a lot of time running along the deck of the sailing ship.  Why were the little boys brought out while their

father was not?  I think he came later but there was a little mystery about the migration. I have never been able  to convincingly join the dots.  Trouble  with

the family tree is the  repeated use of James and  John…from  generation to generation. 

 If you have read this far you might be  comforted to know there 

was  only one Arnold in the family, my Dad, but henever went by that name.   To everyone he was  just “Red” because  he was born with red hair. No sign

off red hair when Eric and I were born but the name Red stuck.  He was Red to everyone  including my mother.  She  had another name for him when he

got in trouble which was often.  Then she  said, “Oh, Red, you Fathead!   Her name was Elsie  but he never called  her that.  His name for his wife was “Methooz”, 

a shortened form of Methusalum.  Why?  Because Methusala was  the oldest person in the bible and  Mom was  a  year older than Dad.  No I did not misspell 

Methusala.   Dad  added the “um” because it sounded  better.  It was a love affair that defied reason.  I think most real  and deep  love affairs are like that.

Some people we knew well as boys felt sorry for us.  They thought we lived  in a dysfunctional family. Are you kidding?  We lived inside a  cyclone with fasc[nating things whizzing by every day…and  remarks that were hard  to decipher.  What?  Meaning what?  Indecipherable remarks?  Sorry, maybe only Mom, Eric and I would  understand. For instance, Dad never used  our real  names, Alan and Eric.  Instead he always said, I  have two sons one is a gutsy bugger and the other is as stupid as  Joe’s dog/“  He never said who these  terms of endearment applied to.  Do I sound  like a gutsy bugger or stupid as Joe’s  dog?” Your call.

He had a disparaging label for everyone.  Catholics were fish-eaters.  English people were  sparrows or cheapers or broncos. Snobs, smooth talkers and creditor were ,’meally mouthed sons  of bitches.’  Dad turned a lot of people  off.  But he  also made a  lot of friends for he had  a twisted kind of charisma.  As proven, I suppose,

by the  fact he  remains vivid in my mind decades after is death.

Dad … caught him in a  pensive mood.  Rare. Shows a side of  him he  did not want the  world to see.   Much preferred the  tough guy pose.  Or the  cigar smoking arrogant man of the  streets and racetracks.  Under all that was the real  man.  Red was strong as  an ox from his AIaly labour making tires for big trucks. Slapping HEAVY slabs of rubber onto spinning wheel day in and  day out. “Careful of that roller boys, saw a guy  go through that, came  out as  flat a Gumby.”  he told  Eric and  I when we  visited Dunlop Tire  Company week before he retired.  Dad was proud of his work…he made things

with his two hands that our society takes for granted…huge rubber tires.  Deep down dad probably wished he  had gone  to high school…wished  he had

not thrown those  snowballs at the ass of that poor girl in the back house.  Mistakes in life can do damage. If he  became  an  educated son of a  bitch he

would have been a  different man.   Eric and I loved  him the way he was even when he pilfered our wallets for a few bucks to take  to the track.  Or forged  a  check that emptied  my bank account just when  needed  for first year university fees.  Or emptied that prize bottle of  Henessy’s cognac brough back from the job in Ireland. Mom felt the

same  way  even though she  slept on the couch  in our three room house  using her purse as  a  pillow. Would you lend Dad twenty bucks if he came around

to see you.  Most of  my friends had been  hit for a few  bucks now  and then.  They  seemed to like  dad in spite of himself.

Dad did not take pictures.  This shot of his must show the horses  he cared

for in the winter in that lonely barn. The west was won by horses…thousands of them.  Dad  kept 16 alive in a frigid Saskatchewan barn when he  was a kid.  Alone.   Alone!The west was won by horses…thousands of them.  Dad  kept 16 alive in a frigid Saskatchewan barn when he  was a kid.  Alone.   Alone!

This is  one of the few pictures he ever had.  Hardly glorious.

  Hardly glorious.

WHO WERE WE?

In 1846, our wayward branch of the Skeoch ‘clan’ left Scotland under mysterious circumstances  that I have never properly understood.  Just two little boys, James  and John  Skeoch, with their mom and her father, Mr. Watt.   The grandfather was the prime mover…wanted out of the Scottish Lowlands near  the west coast… not too far away from the place

where Robert Burns had his love  affairs and wrote his  poems.  1846 was a bad year al across  Europe and Britain.  Potato crop had  failed  and starvation stalked humanity like  the fabled gym reaper.   Starvation, however, was not the push factor.  Old Mr. Watt was an economic migrant.  He had money.  I am  not too sure he felt his daughter had married wisely.  Hart to understand why his son-in-law, Skeoch, was left in Scotland  when the children and wife shipped out for Canada. 

 My Skeoch grandfather, James  Slkeoch, was the son of James Skeoch, one  of  the little boys on board that 1846 ship.  

This story is not a documented  family tree…instead  it provides a  little flesh and  blood to the family history.

By the end  of the 19th century James, son of James, was building an immense  field stone house  and  an equally giant barn on their Fergus farm.  He  also seems

to have been  quite busy in the marital bed when darkness fell. 

  Mr. and Mrs. James Skeoch operated a 100 acre farm on outskirts of Fergus (SW)  and, like many farmers they had a big family.  Greta, Elizabeth, Sarah, Lena, John, James, Archie, Arthur, Arnold, Norman.   The oldest, James  Skeoch was killed by artillery shells on one of the last days of World War One,  sarah died of

the Flu epidemic that followed the war.  The rest thrived.  John bought land near keillor, Saskatchewan and both Archie and Arthur also bought

some wester land although they never moved  west.  Uncle John looked after things in the west.  Arnold (‘Red”)  and Artur became tire builders in

Toronto.  They became city boys.   Norman, the youngest took over the home farm in Fergus and cared for his mother and father unto their death.

When Norman died, his will stipulated that each of his brothers and sinners hold get an equal portion of the estate.  This meant that the farm 

had to be sold and the machinery put up for public auction.  If you think that was pleasant, then you have a brick for a brain.

Never met my grandfather Skeoch.  By all accounts he was a tough man.  Grandmother Skeoch lived on the Fergus farm util she died.  She became

an oil painter and made sure that all her kith and kin were given one of he paintings before her death.  There were so many relatives  that I never

really got to know her. Which is too bad.  The Skeoch boys, James and  John, migrated to Canada in 1846 with their grandfather Mr. Watt. and an aunt who was terrified the 

boys would fall overboard as  they spent a lot of time running along the deck of the sailing ship.  Why were the little boys brought out wile their

father was not?  I think he came later but there was a little mystery about the migration.

NEVER BROUGHT GIRLFRIENDS HOME…WITH ONE EXCEPTION

I had  a  lot of girlfriends.   Platonic  girlfriends  that would  never understand  Dad.  Many  would bolt in fear.  So I never brought a girl friend home to meet dad  with one exception.  Marjorie was  different. They got along like a house

on fire.  He loved her almost immediately.  Both loved horses so  they had  common bond.  One of my graphic memories is Dad  and Marjorie glued to the rail that surrounded  the Fort Erie racetrack.  Racing form in hand.  Assessing the flanks of race contenders. And she  understood him even when he  was at his worst. She found him amusing.  Warm.  And he dropped in at our apartment and eventual  house so often that Marjorie had to give up trying to breast feed the  kids because Dad  kept popping up at the most inconvenient times.

We  miss  him.

alan skeoch

Jan. 2018

The TEST:  Who called  me a “gutsy bugger?”

Must stop here…more will come…

Begin forwarded message:

From: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: IRELAND 1960: “COW IN THE MINE,…OR SO I WAS TOLD.” I

Date: March 6, 2018 at 10:51:20 PM EST

To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Note:  Only sending this to a few friends…sounds too self-obsessed…too much about me…too silly…but true hence the pictures.  I cannot believe

      that Barney and I took such risks  but we did.  Sense of immortality reserved for risk taking males when they are 22years old.  Article is too long

for casual reading so I know some of you will press delete.  Good.  Do it.  Why did I write this?  Because my former boss, Dr. Paterson  is writing a book about 

geophysical prospecting in the 1950’s and  he wanted  some material that gives a little twist on the job.  I sent him one short article.  Then I wrote this whopper.

IRELAND, 1960:  “COW IN MINE,…OR SO I WAS TOLD.”

alan skeoch

March  2018

     Science says there are no ghosts.   So would you believe folK stories told with no evidence?  Ireland… IN the summer of 1960  a lot of stories were told.

    “Protestants?  We bricked them up in that old church.”

    “The pigs got a Nun…tangled up in her habit… all that was found was her shoes with feet inside.”

   “IRA men hid out in these old mine adits…lived here.”

   “Some think little people live in the old  mine.”

  “A cow wandered  into the mine, so the entrance was  filled with rubble.”

  “We’re having a  wake for him, he’ll be standing there.”

  “An IRA killer lives being that locked door in Kerwin’s pub, been there since Time of the Trouble.”

 “German bomber ditched in that field, the captain came back to see us last summer.”

These  are just some of the folk tales told to me in that summer of 1960.  They are the stories I remember.  There were a  lot more that

I forgot.  Read them again.  How many would you believe?  None?  Well, one story turned  out to be true and linked directly to our

geophysical exploration of the ancient Knockmahon Mine.

  

The Knockmahon Mine closed in 1879. It was not  a nice place to work…dangerous.  Miners had to climb down a series of wooden ladders in the dark to

reach the stopes far below..stopes that eventually extended out beneath the ocean.  Even so, by 1840 the mine was said to be in ‘the most important mining district in the British Empire.”  The cliffs of Knockmahon drew miners as far back at the 18th century and even deeper in the past.  Lead, silver and especially copper drew mining

entrepreneurs big time in 1824, and by 1834 profits rolled in for a decade. Mining costs got higher and higher the deeper they went until the Knockmaon mine

was  abandoned.   Where did  all the miners go?  They moved, all of them to North America.  Were they Irish?  No, Cornish families from abandoned Cornwall mines.

What remains?  This chimney and the ruins of the power house.  Both stand as  stone ghosts above the tiny Irish village of Bunmaon, County Warterford.

What did they leave behind?  Our company in 1960 hoped they left lots of residual copper.  The local Irish hoped the mine would reopen and the region

become prosperous once again but that was not to be.  There were anomalies…blips on our Turam receiving console.  But the whole area is so badly faulted that no mining

company  had any prospect of profit.  So the ghost remains.

  PICTURE:  Yes, parts of Ireland looks  like this.  Small whitewashed cottages  and ancient graveyards with stones askew.

   What story was  true?   THE COW IN THE MINE:   

PICTURE:  Some of our crew on the Irish job.  John Hogan (left) and  Dr. Joh Stam (far right), Barney Dwan (4th from left)

  We hired several others not in picture.  One handicapped teen ager just guarded the motor generator all day, not worried  about thieves but very worried about cows.

PICTURE:  Payday … includes pack  of cigarettes for each man

PICTURE:  John Hogan and i sharing a glass or Guinness in Kirwin’s pub.

The Irish job was unusual.  We were subcontracted by Dennison Mining Corporation to see if

the ancient Knockmahon copper mine had  any  residual copper.  The mine  closed  in 1879,had not been profitable

      since the 1850’s but Knockmaon,in the 1840’s,  had been one of the great mines of the British Empire.  We arrived 

more than a century later.   We?  Three of  us, John Hogan, a geologist employed by Dennison Mines, Dr.  John Stam, a Dutch/Canadian

geophysicist, and me, a University of Toronto student whose  job was  to climb through the brier, push aside

the semi wild hogs  with those lethal  jaws, climb the stone fences,.. Avoid the ticks that covered the cows noses…and  GET THE NUMBERS.

For many  moments  I felt like John Wayne, as in ” The Quiet Man “ which was running  forever in a Dublin movie theatre. That movie was my introduction to old Ireland.  Could the County Waterford

be anything like that?  No!  Impossible!   Wrong.  It was exactly like the Quiet Man including the Catholic priest’s concern for his  flock and  red headed colleens living

in turf covered cottages  up the boreens.  

Community life was centred  around  Kerwin’s pub during the week and the local Catholic church on Sundays.  We got to know both places but spent more

time in Kerwin’s than at Mass.  Plenty of black beer with brown foam spilling down the pint glasses.  Guinness stout was new to me then but I got to know it well.  Liked it.

It was  in Kerwin’s one night that I first heard  about the lost cow and  the hidden mine entrance.

“Did you lads get that machine to give you lots of pings up above Bunmahon?”

“We call them anomalies…odd readings…I guess  pings  says it all.”

“Anything happen…anything go bump or whatever that tin box does?”

“We got something up there, yes “ Was I betraying some kind of  secrecy by saying that?

“I  know there’s  something there…all of us know.”

.

We had  12 or more employees and paid  them less than

 $2 a  day  plus  a pack of Wild  Woobine Cigarettes as a bit of a bonus.   Later I added chocolate bars.

Big man.  Egomaniac.   My boss back in Toronto, Dr. Norman Paterson, wondered  why  I needed so  many men.   I had  an answer but it was  not quite  true.

      We really waned  to give some employment to the community.

“Dr. Paterson, I need  four men to cut our lines, 2 men to guard  the grounding rods from cattle and  pigs, particularly the pigs, 1 man  with the front coil,

1 record  keeper, 1  watching the motor generator, 2 men  patrolling the base line to keep the dairy cows  from eating the copper cable, 2 or 3 men to dig

trenches where Dr. Stam thinks bedrock might be interesting, and  1 man

to lift me over the stone fences  and through the thorny briar parches.  Pay all of them a total of around $ 24 a  day plus bonus…cheaper than  cost of  one man in  Canada.”

“Did you say  bonus?”  

“Yes, every  pay day…every week…I give each man a  pack of Wild Woodbine cigarettes  or a chocolate bar..”

      “Is this  a joke?”

“Why do  you need

a man to lift you  over the fences?”

 “Tiny fields here in  Ireland…stone  walled  fences  surrounded with dense brier hedges…impossible to get through without help…and keeps the

     cattle at a distance…ticks are ugly.”

     “Are ticks really a problem?”

      “Cattle have their noses full of ticks…strip every night and check my body for ticks.”

PICTURE:  DR. Stam autorized a crew to dig several deep trenches down to bed rock when a promising anomaly was found by our survey equipment.

      That attracted pigs as can be seen here.  Free running pigs could be dangerous if a bore was present.

“And Dr. Paterson, sometimes  I  buy a round of beer for the lads in the evening.”

“are you running some kind  of popularity contest, Alan?”

     “Suppose so…influenced by John Wayne..”

“Have you seen  the movie The Quiet Man?  Great movie. Has had an effect on me.  And it is very important to be on good terms

with the community…public relaitons.”

I  am not sure I said  all this to Dr. Paterson but I was ready to do  so.  Years  later when he asked  me to tell his  men’s club about

the Irish  job he described  me  as being   “precocious” whatever that means.

Getting the trust of the community paid  several dividends. One such was the ‘legend of  the lost cow and the mine’

PICTURE:  This may be the boreen where the mystery adit was located.

PICTURES:  Adits  to the old mine are located many place along this cliff face.

John Hogan and Jon Stam went along with our adventures.  See them above.

Those hole are ADITS…horizontal mine ecavations used for air or as entrances

SHAFTS … are vertical excavations … to get deeper.  We used the old adits and one venture into a shaft which we regretted.

Barney Dwan was my  Irish sidekick on the job.  We were about the same age and had  a  similar devil may care love of life.  At his suggestion we

spent many evenings crawling in the old  mine adits  from the copper stained  cliff faces that hung over the ocean.  Dangerous beond  belief really

for sometimes we were flat on stomachs wedging our bodies (then thin) across  a four collapse  or leaping over a narrow  shaft filled  with crystal  clear water 

that had inched  up from the ocean filled workings far below.  The Knockmahon mine had been worked  under the ocean some time between 1833 and the closing in 1870.

Men had  climbed  down  these shafts  on long wooden ladders in the dark. In 1960 mine exploration any deeper than the adits would require scuba gear.

Was there any justification for our risk taking?  Not much.  Although the walls  of the adits  were bright blue and green with copper staining and occasionally pink

with what I thought might be cobalt.  One of these water filled shafts even had  an old  ladder spanning its mouth.  Was the ladder 90years old or was  it left here

by Barney and  his  palls?   I preferred the  latter but crawled across  it anyway.  At the time I thought The worst that could  happen was a  cold swim.  No danger of falling  down hundreds feet or so to the old mine working below.  Why?  Because about 20 or so feet down was water.  The old mine had been reclaimed by the sea.  So if the ladder broke, I would fall a short distance and have a cold swim.  My second thought was not so optimistic.  How could I climb back up to the adit?  Barney would have

 to get a rope.  And if we both fell?  I put that thought aside.  We were across the chasm..  Now and then we would stop and light a  candle just to be sure  there was  enough oxygen to continue.  

PICTURE:A simple decision needed here.  Should we cross this shaft on the ladder provided?  Second question.  How old is the ladder?  Third question. How deep is the shaft…the old

mine working are supposed to be a hundred or more feet down.  Fifth question.  Do I see water about 20 feet down…think so.  Then the mind must be filled with water.

Sixth question.  If the ladder is rotten and I fall down there, how long will it take Barney to get a rope and haul me out?  Seventh question.  Suppose we both fall down

into that water, who knows we are in here and who would launch a rescue?   These questions seemed important at the time.

On another of these explorations  we got

ourselves in serious trouble.  We were slowly crossing a large open space with piles of football sized rubble.  The space was  angled  down at about 30 degrees 

and may have been a  deliberate slope that ore and rubble were sorted by hand by the miners  wives and children.  Our flashlight, however, did reveal  some kind

of  iron contraption below where the cpen cavern like room narrowed down.  We entered  the slope from the adit about the mid point and were crossing it carefully to the  other side where

the adit continued.  Big  mistake!  We loosened  the boulder  strewn incline and  the whole face started  to slowly slide to the hole below.  We froze.  Thoughts of

death intruded.  Should  we make a  broken field run for the  adit?  Should  we wait and  hope the sliding talus  slope would  hang up on

some intrusion.  Panic.  Turn around?  No time for that.  We were riding  a stony sea.  Then the movement stopped  and  we got across to the other side.  That even

shook Barney who seemed to have spent his teen age years crawling in and out of these old mine adits. “No wonder the IRA felt safe hiding in here.”   Was Barney

putting me on again or was he speaking the truth?  Got so I never really knew.

PIICTURE:  Not exactly stable 

“In  the  Time  of the Trouble, people  hid  out in here,” Barney said

“Time of the Trouble?”

“1920’s when  the Black  and  Tans were around.”

“‘Black  and  Tans?”

“The British.”

The dark politics of  Irish history took  on a  life of  its own suddenly.  The Time of the Trouble were years of killing by both sides. Irish  nationalists  versus British  imperialists to oversimplify.   When Barney spoke of those years he always had a  lopsided  grin…knowing with that grin that I was likely on the other side of the Union question.

“See  that old bricked  up church?”

“Abandoned?”

“Filled with Protestants in the Time of the Trouble.  They’re still in there.”  And  Barney grinned. 

Sick Humour between two  22  year olds  who were not

part of those years of death and hate.  My  wise  decision to attend  weekly mass  bridged that  ideological chasm. fortunately.  Everyone  relaxed and  told

funny stories about those past years.  Like the story about Kirwin’s pub.  There was the main  bar room …a low ceilinged tiny space filled  with tankards and

long  black beer pulls.  Then  there was the locked room.  “What’s behind the door, Barney?”  “Don’t go  there.”  “I saw shadows moving  across the gap below the door..”

“One of the killers lives there…old man now…touched  in the head.”   Killer?  Barney inferred  that a  hatchet man for the IRA was  firmly closeted  behind  that door.

Was this  true?  I have no  idea.  Likely not for Barney had that  lob side grin when he spoke.  The village  of  Bunhahon was rife with stories like  that.   Twentieth century legends.  Perhaps  containing a  kernel of truth.   I know readers will have a hard time accepting these potentially hate filled stories.  But they are part of the folk traditions.

Which gets to the points of this article. 

Barney seemed serious one day…trying not to grin. 

 “Master Skeoch” he called me that for some strange reason, “remember that story about the boreen we worked across today.”

“Something about little green men, Barney”

“No, although those stories are told as well.”

‘Is that why few people crawl into the old mine adits?”

“Suppose so.  But I have a different story today…a real story…not that those other stories are not real.”

“What story, Barney.?”

“A long time ago…long before I was born…maybe back before the Time of the Trouble…after the mine had closed down …”

“After 1870?”

“Sometime after.”

“the story about the farmer that lost a cow in one of the mine openings…It happened  here in this boreen,” (this valley)

“No openings here now.”

“The farmer filled in the opening with piles of wild and rocks…still here.”

“But where?”

“right here beneath this patch of brier…story has been told again and again.”

“Do you think we could open it up?”

“We could…maybe find out if the pings in the tin box mean something.”

“Good idea, if Dr. Stam agrees, we’ll hire one of the men to dig here for a couple of days…give him a pick and shovel

and just let him work at it alone…worth a try.”

So we put a man on the job and continued marching along our grid pattern checking for anomalies.  Might have been two or 

three days later that we got word about the hole.  Our pick and shovel man hit the old mine entrance dead on target.  The 

adit … mine entrance… had filled up with water over the past century…tons and tons of water.  At some point his pick or

his shovel released the pressure and a wall of muddy water exploded forth.  Scared the shit out of him.  As it would anyone working alone

and sceptical.  He ran.  

By the next day the adit had drained enough for us to enter.  This was not a small ventilation adit like those on the cliff face. It was a major opening.    Perhaps seven or eight  feet high and four or more feet wide.  Once the draining got down to a trickle all of us walked in with 

flashlights and candles.  The walls were slick with dirty brown chemical staining.  No bright blues or greens or pinks.  Perhaps under the slime

there were traces of copper but I don’t remember any.  Of  course our attention was riveted on something else.  She was there…in place…exactly as the legend said.  About 100 feet into the opening there was the cow.

Her body was wedged into a narrow point.  Hips must have got caught and she died there.  Her skull was facing into the mine, her arse facing out.  Just bones.of course.

Sceptics on our crew said that she was dumped here long ago.  She died in a field or stable and then was buried here.  Possible.  But doubtful.  The skeletons of

animals along with broken furniture and piles of old bottles were dumped in the mine shafts not in the adits.  Easier to do that.  The main shaft where the old

buildings still stood had a wide shaft totally plugged with garbage and dead animals.  This was different.  It had the cow exactlhyin place.

John Hogan checked the geology and did not notice anything remarkable.   I too ka few pictures of the brown slime walls the bones of the cow and a perfect

collection of crystal stalactites that must have taken 90 years to form in the stillness and utter blackness  of this place.

Begin forwarded message:

From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: “GO, ALAN, IT’S YOUR 80TH BIRTHDAY

Date: October 2, 2018 at 8:49:07 PM EDT

To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>

JUST in case one of  you wonders how  I spent the Saturday afternoon before my birthday party….take a look below.

Marjorie was busy  cooking and  packing for my 890th birthday  party on Sunday Oct. 1, 2018…I did not know that. She

seemed  glad  to get me  out of  the house.  Strange.  She usually comes  along.

Boring?  Not to me.  Riveting  in my opinion.  You  might wonder what I bought

-rope bed

-corn cutting box, primitive

-draughting table

-pot bellied stove

-crocks and  bottles

-ladders

-chains

-folk art horse and driver

-12’ solid oak distressed plank

“Damn fool,” my Dad would have said… yet he would  have  joined me loading  the junk in the truck with joy.  

On one occasion he loaded my junk and saw  there was room for more so began stuffing other people’s things

in the truck.  “Hey there, that is  mine…”   “What the hell do you want that junk for…I was doing you a  favour…only

a  damn fool  would buy this crap.”  Dad, was always  good  for some tension everywhere  he went.

At this sale I had

two loaders  with the same blood line.  See if you can  find them.  (Andry and  Jack)

alan skeoch

Sept. 30, 2018

for 

the Buckland Farm (century farm)

Saturday September 29th at 10:00am

5833  7th Line, Guelph/Eramosa, ON    Come East from Guelph or West from Erin on Wellington Cty Rd 124 to Wellington Cty Rd 26 (Bellwood Rd). Then North 7.6kms to Wellington 22. Turn west and go 1.4 kms to 7th Line. Then south on 7th Line 1.1km to sale on east side of road. OR   From Orangeville go west on Dufferin Cty Rd 3 (Orangeville Fergus Rd) 19.5km to Wellington Cty Rd 26. Then south 7.4 kms to Wellington 22. Turn west and go 1.4 kms to 7th Line. Then south on 7th Line 1.1km to sale on east side of road.  

                  

 **PARKING ON ROAD**     (A)Antique

Tractors/Combine:  AC 6070, cab, 4164hrs, dual hydr; MF 265, 594 Allied loader, quick tach bucket, dual hydr; Leyland 253 – not running; MF 410 combine – not running

Equip/Farm Rel: NH 469 haybine, 9′ cut; Lucknow 8′ snowblower, 1 auger; MF 124 sq baler with chute; MF 33 seed drill, 17 run, grain, fert, grass; NI 3pth fert spreader; Watveare 10ft 3pth cultiv; MH stack cutter(A); MF 3furr x12, 3pth plow; Kverneland 3furr x 16 3pth plow; NI manure spreader-parts; Grain-o-Vator wagon-1  axle; mineral feeder; feed cart; homemade squeeze; wagon undercarriage; seed drill(A); manure spreader(A); dump trailer(A); 11ft steel wheel cultiv(A); IH manure spreader; side rake(A); (5)wood gates 10.5′; (2)wire gates 10.5′; 20’x4″ grain auger; 670L fuel tank-new, never used; dump trailer-wood top, hand crank; lots to see here!

Shop, Misc: Tool chest; floor jack; (2)steel parts bins; cement mixer; barn beams; qty license plates(1923 & newer); garden tools; golf clubs; logging chains; hand tools; jack-all; pasture pump(nose waterer); Jonserd 625 chainsaw; car ramps; MTD T430 rototiller; push mower; antique tools(A); oil lamps(A); wood pulleys(A); buck saws(A); cross cut saws(A); wood tool boxes from binders(A); barn beam drills(A); wrenches; MH steel seat(A); hay saw(A); forge tools(A); (2)hand water pumps(A); hay hook(A); tractor seats(A); buggy seat(A); antique parts(A); walking plows (McCormick Deering #407, Flurey #21)(A); steel wheels(A); (2)bag carts(A); fanning mill(A); cutter sleigh(A); bag scales(A); 32″x80″ white screen door-brand new; and much much more! 

Lumber: 12″x12″x13.5′; 11″x11″x14′; 7″x7.5″x19.5′; ash/pine/hemlock/basswood-var widths & lengths; pine 12″-16″w & var lengths; cherry/beech/cedar lumber – var lengths & widths. 17 bush cord of seasoned hardwood;

Antiques (V)Vintage, Household:  (2)lg laundry drying racks; (6)wood chairs; gramophone; dining room table; china cabinet; wood trunk; bottles; carnival glass; oil lamp; hanging oil lamp; quilt stand; quilting frame; buffet; dresser with mirror; wash stand; magazine rack; fold down desk; moustache cup; shaving cup; radios(RCA, Stewart-Warner, GE, Electrohome); clocks; East Lake style washstand; doctor’s bag; wash basin & pitcher(Ironstone); NHL Pro Hockey table top game(V); Power play table top hockey(V); hockey & baseball cards; china cabinet/sideboard combo; everyday household items, some glass & china, Potbelly woodstove(D.Moore); something for everyone!

Lunch Booth                                                                                      Washroom Available

Note:  Property has been sold. First auction on this farm in 100yrs. 

           Preview Fri Sept 28 1-6pm

 

Order of Sale: Smalls/tools, household, shop, tractors(start at 1pm) & equipment

Terms & Conditions: Cash or Cheque with proper I.D. on day of sale. Owner and/or Auctioneer will not be held responsible for accident or loss on day of sale. All items are sold “As Is”. All verbal announcements on day of sale take precedence over written ads.

Auctioneers:     Kevin McArthur (519) 942-0264          Scott Bessey  (519) 843-5083

Begin forwarded message:

From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: High Flying adventure on a grey windy evening at North Beech

Date: October 12, 2018 at 9:43:05 PM EDT

To: Marjorie Skeoch <marjorieskeoch@gmail.com>, benoitdargis@gmail.com

(Note to any reader:  All dialogue is  alan talking to himself.  Silly at times, he knows  that…but alan thinks

the dialogue makes  the pictures  come to life.   Sometimes it may seem  that Marjorie is speaking but

that is  fake news.  Of course some people never read the dialogue anyway

so alan  inserts a little test.  In this case the test is  simple, where is  NORTH BEECH?)

SOARING WITH THE  WIND ON A LONELY BEACH 

alan skeoch

Oct. 11, 2018

THE gate to North Beach,  Prince Edward County, sported  a huge padlock.   Closed  for the season…abandoned  save for the two cars parked half in the ditch  and  half out.

At the end  of a Dead  End  road.  Eerie.  Solitary.  

This  was  not tourist  time.  The sky  was  grey…the wind  was  ferocious…the weather was getting colder by  the second…and the sun  was setting.   Perfect setting

for adventure.

“Woody needs  a walk, Alan…I doubt anyone would care if we slipped  under the padlock.  No one here…”

“Wind is  blowing fiercely…first time this year in winter coats.”

“What is that funny blue thing way up in the sky…looks like  a balloon…half a  balloon”

“Holy Cow, we are not alone…”

“Two people way  out in the surf … racing with the wind …”

“Sailboarding…”

“With a couple of miles of surf foaming its way to the beech.”

“Flying.”

“Faster than a speeding bullet as was said in the  comic books”

“Well, not quite but fast enough to lift those guys into the sky at times.”

“Wonder who  they are?”

“Woody will find out…there he goes racing the wind to greet those guys.”

“Might be afraid of dogs.”

“Any persons  who attach themselves  to a billowing kite in lashing wind will not be afraid  of a dog like Woody.”

“Hi fellows, where  you from?”

“Montreal.”

“Long way from home, how  come?”

“The surf here is  breathtaking…seems  to be end  of that Hurricane called Michael”

(On the left is  Benoit Dargis…missed out on his friend’s name)

“Seems a bit dangerous Benoit?”

“Not really…we stay away from those big boulders on the south end.”

“Did  Woody bother you when you benched?”

“No…does he bite?”

“licks a lot…wags tail a  lot…presses his  warm and tender  body against us a lot…but does  not know the meaning of the word bite.”

“Would  you boys like butter tarts?”  

“No…no…ok…Yes…mmmmmmm!”

“See Alan in the car with furrowed brow…we’ll leave him one tart, OK?”

“OK…and here’s  a jar of honey from Quebec…from our own bee hives.”

And  so the little bit of adventure ended.

Post Scrip Below”

“Well, Woody, what say we buy one of those rigs?”

“I like my four legs on the ground, Alan.”

“You don’t have to fly, Woody, your job  would be to pull a beech  cart with all the stuff.”

“Forget it, alan, another lamebrain  idea of yours that will never see the light of day.”

“Sometimes Woody you break my heart.”

“Get over it….”

Begin forwarded message:

From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>

Subject: I FELL AT THE CURLING RINK: COULD HAVE BEEN DISASTROUS

Date: October 16, 2018 at 2:18:32 PM EDT

To: askeoch@bellnet.ca, High Park Club <manager@highparkclub.com>

FOLKS…YOU BETTER BUY A HELMET

alan skeoch

Oct. 15, 2018

“It happened  in the twinkling of an  eye.”

“What happened?”

“I slipped…upended…feet n the air…crashed while curling”  (High Park Curling Rink)

“Careless?”

“Maybe a little too overconfident…maybe too aggressive…throwing a rocket rock…take out.”

“Smart aleck!”

“Maybe, certainly my fault for sure.”

“Anyone see the fall?”

“Too many saw  it.  Best way to  describe  it was  a failed attempt at a back flip in Olympic diving…only there was  no

pool just a solid sheet of ice backed by concrete.”

“Couldn’t you stop yourself?”

“Anyone who has fallen knows that it happens in the twinkling of an eye…in a fraction of a second…no chance to

regain footing.”

“Let’s  skip the melodrama, were you hurt?”

“Not nearly as badly hurt as  I could  have been.”

“Why?”

“Because I was wearing a helmet.  Spared me from a  major concussion.”

“So, this story is in praise of Helmets.”

“You  betcha…just the second game I wore a helmet after 40 years of curling.  Managed to buy the helmet 

at an auction sale.  Thought it seemed a good idea  since I turned 80 on October 16, 2018…day after my fall”

“Hit hard?”

“Hit the ice so hard , I cracked the helmet according to Shaymus, our lead who also wears a helmet.”

“Many others wear helmets?”

“Just three of  us out of 40 curlers.”

“Maybe the others are better on their feet.”

“That’s what they think, I’m sure because that is the way  I thought before the fall.”

“So  you are pushing for all curlers to wear helmets.”

“Yes, I most certainly am…now…especially after the hospital treatment”

“You went to the hospital?”

“Had to do so…911 medics insisted on it…anyone who bashes his or her head needs to be  checked out.”

“What happened in the hospital?”

“Triage  nurse asked  a trick question.”

“Like”

“Like…’What year is  this?’   I couldn’t give a  fast answer…as a joke, sort of, I said  1979.  Immediately she put

a red  star on my admission bracelet.”

“Brain concussion?”

“Suppose it was possible…my wife and I spend the next 8 hours in the Emergency Ward…checking mu heart, 

my chest, my back,  even my feet.  “

“Doctor could  find noting wrong but ‘Let’s  take a  couple of X Rays to be sure’”

“Dead  of night by then…3 a.m…got XRays  of lots of my body…even my big  mouth.”

“Any problem?”

“Not finished.   Then I was sent for a Catscan in a big special room with a giant donut in the centre.  The Do nut 

big enough to fit my whole body.  “Lie down  there,” said the scanner.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know because I closed  my eyes fearing I might do some claustrophobic  whimpering .”

“And what was the final result of the hospital experience?”

“We can find nothing wrong with you, Mr. Skeoch,”

“Can I go home.”

“Yes, you were a very lucky man.”

“Why?”

“Because you wore that helmet.”

“Helmets are that important, are they?”

“Obvious.  They save you from a brain concussion.”

“I expect to be stiff and sore for a while…”

“Maybe…maybe not.”

“As  things turned out I am not even very stiff and  sore.”

alan skeoch

Oct. 16, 2018

My 80th birthday

Note:  I am writing this story about 20 hours after the fall at High Park Curling Rink.   I am not even

as stiff and  sore as I expected.  I am fine… my 80th birthday.  I am a very lucky man.

And  I owe my luck to wearing a  HELMET.  THIS IS A  CAUTIONARY TALE…A MESSAGE…GET A HELMET!