March 2018 – Alan Skeoch

1960’s: These were different times. Less up tight years for Eric, Marjorie snd me…we were young and life was pretty good.

If the bottom story seems abominable to you then there is nothing I can say to change your mind. We live in different times today.

Far more fearful times. Less tolerant of idiot behaviour. More judgmental…up tight. Our story below was just part of our

life journey. The serious, academic, compassionate, well behaved facet of our personalities may not be as evident as some

readers may like. Give us a little space to be silly. Takes some space yourselves.

alan

TWISTED: OUT OF CONTROL IN EUROPE 1965

alan skeoch

march 2018

I blame my brother Eric for our shameful performance as Canadian visitors to western Europe back in 1965. His fault. He set the tone

for the trip when he organized a stag celebrating my marriage to Marjorie Hughes. She was the ultimate ‘nice person’ everyone said. Some

friends even cautioned her that she could have made a better choice as a marriage partner. Looking back, I have to agree. Marriage to

the North Bay judge’s son might have been wiser. But women have a twisted streak and often look for the man whose behaviour they

can twist into shape. If that was her plan, it did not work out too well as this photo essay proves.

So Eric invited a bunch of our friends to the SKEOCH MONASTERY just before our wedding , August 24,1963…somewhere around that date.

We had a good time, ‘ Windows’ Bill Doyle set a fine example. Eric nicknamed him Windows because he was the first friend to get glasses.

Windows promised his mother he would never touch alcohol until he turned 21.

As fate would have it the stag date was his 21st birthday. We missed him for much of the stag and found him semi impaled in a large

forsythia hedge at the farm. He was making up for lost time. The stag was great fun…all our friends together. Nothing sordid.

A year or so later, when Eric and I were employed as history teachers at Parkdale Collegiate , I got a great idea for the summer of 1965.

“Eric, how would you like to join Marjorie snd me on a trip to Europe?”

“Three of us? Are you joking?”

“We could save money…three travel cheaper than two.” I got that ides from that goddamn book “Europe on Five Dollar a Day”…turned out

to bre wrong.

“Suppose I could. Are you sure I won’t be in the way, if you know what i men?”

“Nah! Marjorie likes you…enjoys your company.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“Let’s do it”

So we flew to Europe with a skimpy budget. And did we ever have a time.

We started off in some cheap B and B places. Charming as you can see above. Eric had a separate room.

Marjorie did not sleep with her suitcase…she made room for me. I love this picture.

We looked for inexpensive places…like this one…note the wall paper.

I was a little nonplussed when hosts assumed Marjorie and Eric were husband and wife and I was just a hanger on.

Perhaps that was because he carried her bag often. That gave me an idea.

“It would be a hell of a lot cheaper if we all stayed in the same room.”

“What does Marjorie think of that.”

“No problem.”

“Have you asked her?”

“Well…..”

So we did. Eric was unwilling to split the costs 50 50 though.

Beds on night trains were not the best

“If we use the European trains, we can sleep in rooms on the night trains…they hold six people…really cheap.”

“How do they get six beds into a room?”

“Stack them up…three bunks high…a little tight…but cheap.”

Read the sign. I know some of you cannot read…as I expect som you are only looking at my pictures. The sign

says “Danger…Keep Children Under Control”. We had entered the slippery slide back to childhood….

Marjorie became less amused as our money began to run out. She only complained once…the day we had no meals for the whole day. She even called her guardian, Phyllis Morgan,

saying: “We are down to one meal a day…and that meal is usually Bread, cheese and a couple of bottles of Bulmer’s Hard Cider.

I am losing weight but having s good time.” She may have said other things.

We rented a small car…really small…and visited Lower Wooton Farm … relatives or bonded friends from our grandparents past. Nancy Griffiths killed a

couple of chickens which Marjorie plucked and we all ate. Predators. In previous stories I mentioned events here. A cow was having a breached birth

Cyril called us to action stations.

“Boys, need you in the barn now…trouble.”

“I will reach in the cow and tie this rope to the calf’s feet,”

“What is wrong?”

“Breached birth…twisted…just pull when she contracts…firm but gently…work with her…don’t try to be heroic.”

“Now! Pull.”

And the calf flew out with all the afterbirth and landed on Eric who was wearing view one and only suit. Yuck!

“It could have been worse Eric.”

“How?”

“It could have landed on me.!!”

In 1965 we seemed to have relatives everywhere…and we stayed with them. This is

Una Dunne who later became a Roman Catholic Nun. I am not sure but I think we

helped her decision making.

Things started to get really twisted. Our diet started to cause gastric problems. One incident comes to mind.

We were standing in line to buy s post card to send back to Mom. Eric handed me the card and left

the store with Marjorie. He left something of himself behind. An odour. A ‘futz’ as they say in German.

The ladies behind me said “Oh, someone has passed by” and held their noses. And looked at me. Eric and Marjorie were hooting

with laughter outside while I was assumed to be the carrier of Night Soil in the lineup. Not funny? Right.

Eric took off to Spain for a few days. He was chased by some young girls on the train who called him ‘Blondie…Blondie’ in an effort

to corral him. Female toreadors looking for a Ferdinand. (Children’s story…read it) I think they failed. But we were on the downhill slide now for sure.

Above is a picture of Marjorie in the vast Hofbrau Beer hall in Munich. That is a quart she is drinking…not a puny British pint…bigger…a German quart. (litre)

Take a look at her drinking buddies. The cream of German beer hall society Marjorie became a star here. Really did.

“Alan, look at that poor msn.”

“Don’t look over there Marjorie…those guys want…”

“Alan, look at him. The front guy. He has passed out.”

“So what?”

“His cigarette is burning down to his fingers…he will burn himself. I am going to help him.”

And she did. Took the cigarette and stubbed it in the ashtray. Was Marjorie ever a hit. Other Germans came over and sat with us. Bought us

another round of beer. The barmaids by the way could carry six or eight steins of beer at once. They washed the used ones with a quick dunk

in laundry tup We did not care. Then a really weird thing hopped. Something grabbed my pant leg from under the huge table.. Another msn emerged …he was pretty drunk as well.

It became quite a party in which Marjorie was no longer just another tourist. She was compassionate…warm hearted…a cigarette stubbed.

Those of you who only drink in sophisticated society right be horrified. Us? Not a bit.

Eric was still in Spain. When Marjorie and I left the Hofbrau house we left with our steins…someone paid for them. Germans from another table…sober

Germans…saw Marjorie prevent the flesh burn of the fellow in the picture. They loved her. We all sang loud and long. Then we left.

“Where will we sleep, Alan?”

“Right here in this park…nice green grass…good for s nap.”

We flopped down and slept. Some time later s police officer poked me. He pointed to dome sign…something saying ‘Verboten”. Marjorie was

still sleeping holding her stein firmly. The cop said something about vagrancy but he wasn’t really mad. We got up and headed back

to our B snd B.

Eventually we met up with Eric. To this day he does not remember the “Blondie Blondie” sirens on that Spanish train.

Back in London things got really interesting.

The next stage in our decline into insanity was due to Eric noticing a loose board in a

fence at the Portobello Road antique (and junk) market.

“Some one behind the fence, Alan…odd?”

The board flipped up.

“You lads need new hats. How about these?”

“Derbies!”

“Very British…you can sashay across London Bridge with all the toffs with these …”

And he held out two beautiful derbies

“How much?”

“Five quid.”

:”Sold.”

So we were now part of the British establishment

Marjorie left us for a while and visited her aunt and friends from North Bay who happened to be in London. They stuffed her with food. Eric and

I tested our hats in a local pub … Plowman’s plates of mish mash food and a pint of bitter. Good stuff. And we searched for a cheap B and B.

Marjorie joined us refreshed.

“Where did you get those derbies?”

“Never mind. Look at mine…got Harold MacMillan’s initials inside…think he’s the Prime Minister of something…must

have lost his hat.”

“You didn’t steal them I hope”

“Nope, bought them from an antique dealer…” (the less said the better about that)

Things kept sliding from bad to worse as our trip wound down. I can only find one

picture to prove our decline but it is a good one. We flew home from Dublin, Ireland with a

short stay in Iceland to refuel.

Refuel? We did not need any refuelling ourselves. While waiting for the flight we joined a Roman Catholic priest and

his father…real father. The priest was a pioneer. Means he did not drink. His father on the other hand enjoyed a pint

of Guiness now snd then. Well we had too much Guiness by the time our plane was ready. We put on quite a show.

Good natured but twisted.

Proof? No better proof than this picture.

Guess who took the picture? Not me this time. For some TWISTED reason while we were airborne on the way to Iceland, the

stewardess got the caption to come back and se the three of us. Nice guy. I took a picture of him and have it somewhere but

he took my camera and snapped this priceless shot. He even put on my derby. Little wonder we got so much station on that flight. Today they might

even turn around and put us in he slammer. We were in fine shape. Notice the derby is back on my head. And notice Marjorie. She was a huge hit.

I may look drunk but I sobered up fast. The real reason the pilot came back to our seat was not just a jolly bit of friendship. There must have been a

reason…a concern. He took one look at us and relaxed. Just young Canadians with a little too much Guiness in them. Marjorie decided that the whipped cream

on her cabin dessert could be good finger paint and she proceeded to write her name on my face. Something she thought was hilarious.

“Here, Alan, let me paint your face.”

Alarm bell rang in my head

”Sober up, Alan.”

“How is Eric doing…seems qjuiet.”

Eric was vomitting into the little bag provided by all airplanes.

“Alan, call the stewardess.”, Eric said

She arrived with a grin.”

“Here take this away…”

And Eric handed her his pillow and put the vomit filled bag behind his head.

The trip was coming to an end but there was one more moment I will never forget.

We landed in Iceland for a couple of hours. Eric was still sick. Still vomiting or getting ready to vomit as

we all sat in the holding room. A nice young girl came across the room,

“Are you Mr. Skeoch?” she asked.

“Yes…” he slurred.

“You were my practice teacher at Humberside last April.”

“Really?”

Eric tried to hide the vomit bag.

Eric and I returned as history and English teachers at Parkdale Collegiate. Marjorie had a teaching job

st Emery Junior High School. ” Hurrumph! Fine examples of teachers!.” you say sarcastically. We were, I believe,

closer to the wave lengths of our students. They never heard our stories but had we told this story back

then I believe we not have been reviled as outcasts. I have often wondered what that little girl reported about meeting Eric in

Iceland.

When I began to write this story that song intruded again and again. What song, you say?

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose
We’d fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
La la la la…

Those days re gone. Well, not really gone. I think about them now and again. I see Marjorie seductively

wrapped in that bed sheet and Eric with his derby…not those days are not gone.

We’d smile at one another and we’d say

Those were the days my friend
We thought they’d never end
We’d sing and dance forever and a day
We’d live the life we choose

Alan Skeoch

March 2018

CATAWBA IS CHEAP WINE: TED IS DEAD

(38TH ROVER CREW, WINTER 1956)

ALAN SKEOCH

MARCH 2018

Those were grand years, the 1950’s. I thought they would never end, as the song goes. But they did and as near as I can see they have not been repeated. The innocence, sense of adventure, opportunities, simplicity, thrift, tight friendships of those years are difficult to replicate today. This picture for instance, was taken on one of our winter camping trips with the 38th Rover Scout troop led by Ed Hisson (right) where we tramped into a huge log cabin built by a group of older WW2 veterans deep in the Canadian Boreal wilderness north of Parry Sound. They shared it with us for some reason I cannot fathom…perhaps just the Rover Scout bonds. That’s Big Red Stevenson in the foreground, one of my lifetimes friends and me in the background. Our coats come from the War Surplus stores of which there were many in the 1950s.