Alan Skeoch

Month: November 2018

  • 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.



  • 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.







  • 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.

  • 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.

  • 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.”=