EPISODE 744 AN OLD MAN’S WINTER NIGHT” FARM RUINS SW OF MILTON, SIXTH LINE FEB.15, 2023
alan skeoch
feb.. 15, 2023
63f0611cb9cc7.html
EPISODE 744 AN OLD MAN’S WINTER NIGHT” FARM RUINS SW OF MILTON, SIXTH LINE FEB.15, 2023
EPISODE 744 AN OLD MAN’S WINTER NIGHT” FARM RUINS SW OF MILTON, SIXTH LINE FEB.15, 2023
alan skeoch
feb.. 15, 2023
EPISODE 741 THE 53 NEARLY FLIPPED OVER WHEN DAD ZIG ZAGGED
EPISODE 741 THE 53 NEARLY FLIPPED OVER WHEN DAD ZIG ZAGGED
alan skeoch
feb. 14, 2023
To Dad those little pot holes were a challenge. He tried to avoid them and failed. If we had gone deeper into the swamp, the story
would not be funny Mom did try to get out the passenger side. Imagine that. That’s cousin Ted Freeman with the tractor
This is the Fifth Line…in the far distance is the swamp below the hill that rises to Frenk Freeman’s farm.
Not as full of holes as it would become when that snow melted .
2) Car story 2:: The 53 Meteor had an exciting life at our place. Take the day Dad almost flipped the car
on the fifth line when we had planned to visit Uncle Frank and Aunt Lucinda . Their farm is just a few minutes f
north of our farm, We could be in their lane in less than ten minutes on a normal day.
But it was March and the gravel road was peppered with pot holes all of which Dad decided to avoid. He had already
made a fool of himself getting to the farm from Highway 7.
“Why are you rolling the window down…..it’s cold.”
“I have a reason.”
“What reason?”
(pause as we pass farm house close to road)
“Fix your Goddamn road…FIX YOUR ROAD!!!”
“Dad, road repairs are done by County … not farmers”
“I don’t care who…FIX YOUr ROAD!!!”
The Fifth Line was a mess… potholes were raising hell with the shocks
of the 53 Meteor…and the car cried to us with each crunch. The smashes
were louder than dad’s yelling.
And things got worse.
We were getting close to Uncle Frank and Aunt Lucinda’s farm. Passing through
a very swampy area. Dad decided to zig zag. But still managed to hit every
pothole, Sometimes at right angle to the road as he twisted and turned….swore
in his melodic way. Dad could make swear words sound like poetry.
THEN THINGS WENT VERY WRONG…THE SWAMP
Then Dad swerved sharply. The Meteor hit the soft shoulder and then down
towards the swamp. Bad luck with good luck to the rescue. The undercarriage
of the car ground into the shoulder and the car hung there. It happened so fast
that Dad did not even have time to swear.
MARJORIE and I crawled out through the drivers side passenger door…now at a 45 degree
angle to the road. Dad did the same.
Mom did not move.
“Elsie, get out of the car!”
“I can’t, Red…can’t move.”
“Get out…in case it turns over.”
(Dad was worried. We knew that because he called mom, Elsie, rather than his
favourite name, “Methuselum”, the name of oldest person in the bible because mom
was a year older than him. So the use of Elsie’s proper name was startling.)
“Get out, driver’s side like I did”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Pinned here.”
“Pinned?”
We all worried mom was badly inured. But that was not the case”
“Oh, Red, you fathead. My high heeled shoes went through the floor
of the car when you hit the ditch. Cannot move.”
“Take the goddamn shoes off and crawl out barefoot.”
(Dad was relieved. We knew that because he started to swear again.
Soon he would be blaming either the road or the 53 Meteor for our trouble.
He had one final remark though as Mom crawled out the driver’s side.”
“Elsie, pull down your skirt. We can see the top of your nylons. Hardly lady like.”
That was not the end of the adventure. Dad sent us up to Uncle Frank’s
to get the Massey Harris 55 and a chain. Cousin Ted got the tractor revved
up and pulled us out. Dad turned the key and the Meteor revved into life
as usual.
To save face I think Dad tried to give Teddy five bucks but Ted, amused, refused.
Ted liked my Dad in spite of his cantankerous nature. How do I know that?
Because one day I was out with Ted alone and he lit up a big cigar…a White
Owl Invincible…the kind Dad smoked while leaning out the back window
of our house. Mom put her foot down. No smoking of cigars in the house.
Only once did she put her foot down hard enough to go through the floorboards
of a 53 Meteor.
alan
Dad, teaching our boys how to smoke a cigar. Both boys never smoked except when we
told stories about dad.
EPISODE 740 A SHOCKING NOTE SENT TO ME TODAY…SCARED ME
EPISODE 740 A SHOCKING NOTE SENT TO ME TODAY…SCARED ME
alan skeoch
Feb 13, 2023
Came home to an empty house today. Not completely empty for our dog Woody
was curled up in his bed. Was I expected to take him for a walk? No!
Pulled a chair up to the kitchen counter and began to eat banana and fruit
lunch that Marjorie left for me. Nosed through the paper. Totally at
ease with the world.
Then I noticed the brief hand written note on the table.
“WHERE IS THE LIFE I HAVE LED,?
WHERE IS IT NOW?
TOTALLY DEAD
WHERE IS THE FUN I USED TO FIND?
WHERE IS IT NOW ?
GONE WITH THE WIND.”
Just a a short note from Marjorie My wife of 60 years.
What a shock. I had no idea she was so unhappy.
The lunch dishes had been placed in the sink for Marjorie to wash.
I had not been a perfect husband. Let her do
the housework…not some but all of the housework for sixty years
That includes making all the meals, handing them to me as I read the paper
or watched the Super Bowl or just sat there waiting for food and drink to
be put in my hands.
Not only did Marjorie make all the meals
Marjorie also washed all the dishes
-initially she feared i would break them (which was true early in our marriage)
She did everything else as well…washing , vacuuming, shopping, bedding,
You name it, she did it
And that included raising the boys.
I was some use on that score however. Entertainment. Made wooden fire engine life size
held 10 kids…did stuff like that. Things I liked doing. Self centred stuff.
Why did she write this note?
“WHERE IS THE FUN WE USED TO HAVE
TOTALLY DEAD”
What did this mean. Sixty years of an unhappy marriage? Why
would Marjorie tell me now. Maybe Better wash these dishes
before she gets home. What else can I do to repair the marriage?
Not much. I do not know how to start the washing machine, drier
or vacuum. “Sorry Marjorie I am left handed and everything
is in reverse for me.” To which she responds often, “Then I better
do it … you’ll burn the house down so do not ever touch the
stove.”
“GONE WITH THE WIND”
Why would she write this? I thought she ws OK with my imperfections.
I wonder if it’s too late for me to buy some roses for Valentines Day
tomorrow? Years ago I bought some plastic roses at Woolworths
and she handed them back to me. That ended any effort to be
romantic.
Then the door opened.
“Is that you Marjorie?”
“Did you eat your lunch?”
“I did…and found this note….whar does ir mean?”
“What note?”
“This one…your handwriting…says something about our
marriage being ‘TOTALLY DEAD’”
“Oh that …not a note ….”
“Then what is it? A lawyers letter?”
“No…(laughing)…those are the words from the movie Kismet
where Howard Keele is pleading with Kathryn Grayson….I wrote
them down as he sang on the TV.”
“Well, I thought they were real.”
“And what did you do?”
“I washed up my lunch dish.”
“Fine (laughter)…Don’t touch the stove…afraid you’ll burn he house down.”
SO LIFE HAS RETURNED TO NORMAL
alan
EPISODE 739 CAR STORY #1: SNOWBOUND AT SKEOCH HOME FARM CIRCA DECEMBER 1960
Note: No time to edit this down to a shorter episode. For those of you not amused or offended by
our extended familY, I apologize. The memories kept coming as I wrote and may be enjoyed by
those who were there that winter celebration. The farm is now gone. Cousin Roy Skeoch’s daughter,
Roberta, born and living in New Zealand will enjoy Roy’s horse radish devilry delivered personally by our grand
daughter Molly who is now touring New Zealand and will no doubt find Roy’s grave. Tourists must
think that Skeoch is a Maouri word when they see that grave.
EPISODE 739 CAR STORY #1: SNOWBOUND AT SKEOCH HOME FARM CIRCA DECEMBER1960
alan skeoch
Feb. 13, 2023
Skeoch Home Farmhouse, circa 1960…Imagine two feet of snow
and a raging snowstorm on a winter night. That is the back house on
far left.
SKEOCH HOME FARM BARN…”Red, park the car on the south side, away from the wind and snow”
“I was raised here and will park the car wherever I want.”
“Oh Red, you fathead”
1) One bitter winter night we drove from Toronto to the Fergus home farm of
the Skeochs. Temperature was at the brass monkey stage. Dad was driving
which we tried to avoid but failed. We made it to the farm with ease.
“Red, park the car out of the wind on the east side of the barn.”
“No. Parking it here, close to the drivewau.”
“Snowstorm coming…wind….drifting snow on North side of the barn.
“What do you know about this farm? I was born here.”
“Oh Red, you fathead.”
So we left the car and made our through the wind driven snow
to the farmhouse where dad’s brothers were arguing as usual and his sisters
were rolling their eyes as usual. After gorging on heaps of food a poker game
was started.
“Red, we should get home. The storm is bad.”
“Not until I get a few dollars back.”
Beer was present but in limited quantity thanks to aunt Greta and ‘Lid’ who were not present
but still had influence. Eric and I had no
idea why aunt Elizabeth was cailed ‘Lid’. perhaps because of her hat or more likely from
the expression “put a LID on it! She had strong opinions on life and tried to keep
her brothers in line. Failed.
Lots of yelling…laughing, arguing…kidding around. Eric, my brother, was a rather picky
eater and Mom said “Now Eric, you eat up your dinner tonight. It’s Christmas, ant Mabel has
been cooking and baking all week.” Which was true.
Eric and I were rather shy. City kids. Not used to the hustle and bustle of farm life in
big families Cousin Roy saw this as an opportunity for some devilry when it came
time for the apple sauce. Eric took one bite and made a face. Mom saw that and
said, “Now Eric, eat up you dessert.”
Cousin Roy hung around. Watching Eric like an eagle watching a trout. Straight face with
a slight upward curl to his lips. Eric took a couple bites…and stopped dead.
Roy let out a hoop of laughter. Eric’s desert was raw horse radish not apple sauce.
Laughter exploded . Seemed out knew the horse radish joke…even Eric now.
(Note: Non Skeoch readers might find these names a burden so just skip along)
WHO WAS PRESENT THAT NIGHT? SOME OF THE EXTENDED FAMILY BELOW
Norman, Arche, Elsie, Arthur, Arnold (Red) Skeoch
There were 10 children born on he Skeoch home farm (James Skeoch family) most of
whom filled the local schoolhouse when they were smaller . In Dec. 1960 they were grown
up and most were present the day we got snowbound
When Red’s sisters were present the family was less explosive. Aunts Greta, Lena
and Elizabeth in from row, John, Norman and Red (Arnold) in back row.
A WHOPPING BIG FAMILY…AND UNPREDICTSBLE AT TIMES
Aunts Greta, Lena, Elizabeth, Mabel…Cousins Margie, Sandy, Patti and
the twins Joan and Jeannette. Uncles Norman and Archie and I think Uncle Ernest and his
wife Ayleen were there. Along with the Toronto delegations …Uncle Art nd aunt Mary and
their kids Kenny, Jean and Big John…mom, dad, Eric and me. Lid and her
brood were not present (Uncle Frank and Lid with kids Eleanor, mary, Jim and Owen). Nor were
the Metcalfes, (aunt Greta and Uncle Irvine with Harvey and Gordon).. nor Jim and Ruth Skeoch
with Lloyd and Vernon and his brother Bruce and Jean and their kids. some of the Tosh family Lena and Wellington Tosh
with Helen, Lorne. Donald. Audrey. Ernest was always present.
Figure there were between 17 and 20 people present…and about another 20 or 30 who
were absent but talked about.
“What’s all the yelling about?”
“Skeoch men having a conversation.”
The family was bewildering in numbers….aggressive to passive in behaviour…shy and bold… mostly
bold…. although Eric and I would be called shy. Most were Loud…very loud. The house smelled of ensilage
and manure in the mud room… then roasted turkey and chocolate cake in the kitchen …then the smell
of beer, cigars and cigarettes where the men played poker and occasionally threw a punch. Catch as catch can seating
with the unlucky braced against the stone walls of the fieldstone house. Out door toilet (back house)
was a long run from the house,,,very social two seater
The beer was under loose hay in the barn…a safe place that was unlikely to be found by
the side of the family that considered empty beer bottles marked the trail to damnation.
Horse radish. All hooting snd yelling at Eric’s expense. Mom had been suckered into playing a role.
Dad, too. Not sure dad thought it was funny. Dad was always ready to fight if he felt we needed help.
Eric was more than a little non plussed
but did not cry. I was lucky. Forgotten snd ignored which was fine by me.
The worst wasywt to come. Norman went out to check the cattle in the barn and reported that
the snow storm was still severe at which point mom suggested it was time to leave and head
forToronto. We wrapped ourselves and stepped into the storm. The barn was just a dark shadow
as the wind drove the show at almost right angles.
Dad was cold sober. He never drank much. Perhaps a bottle of beer now and then. His addiction was
horses not alcohol.
“Oh Red, what will we do now?”
“pull the snow away from the doors and get in…start the bastard and head home”
“There, you can squeeze in now Methuselum.”
(Methusela was the oldest person in the Bible. Mom was a year older than dad so
he called her Methuselum as a pet name. He tacked on the ‘um’ because it sounded
better…shortened to ‘Method’ sometimes. Mystified many people.)
Mom Squeezed in as did Eric and I. Dad took the wheel. Mom did not offer criticism
but we all knew she was right about parking debate long hours earlier.
“Goddamn thing won’t turn over. Dead as a skunk on the highway.”
“Lift the hood.”
We managed to lift the hood with wind blasting us with snow.
“Where is he motor?”
“Packed with snow….invisible”
the wind had driven the snow up under the hood then packed it tight
like a snowball.
“Get Norman, Red”
Norman argued clad in buffalo cot and at with ear protecters….grinning.
“What can we do, Norman, snow has made car into a goddamn snowman.”
“Have to haul you to Fergus with the tractor.”
“What good will that do…it’s near midnight.
“I’ll get Drew Elgie to open his service garage and we
can set the car in there until the snow melts…then jump
the battery.”
“Will that work?”
“How he hell would I know…Drew Elgie will figure something out”’
“What about Methooz and the kids?”
“Enough talk. I’ll get a chain and the tractor. You can all sit in
the car was I tow it to Fergus. “
“Bloody cold job for you Norman.”
“Bitch of a job…so let’s get at it.”
And so we were hauled to Fergus. Storm still raging. Four of us in the car, freezing cold
as Uncle Norman drove the tractor with a long chain attached under our bumper. Slowly
moving down the lane and along the sideroad to Fergus where Drew Elgie had opened
up one of the service bays where Uncle Norman wedged our car.
And we sat there. The snow melted. The battery was boosted and miracle of miracles the car started.
No money changed hands. This was a rescue not a profit making enterprise.
As a matter of fact this was not even the 53 Meteor. It was our next used car, a Dodge I think. A used
car though and therefore not always dependable.
Back in the Skeoch home farm the poker game continued and a few beers were slipped into the
farm house from the manger in the barn. Cigarettes and cigars were lit. Laughter and arguments
…a remarkable extended Skeoch family at ease.
I wonder if all this could happen today? Our extended family has drifted apart and many have died.
Perhaps only this memory remains now that the big barn has been taken apart by Mennonites and the stone
farm house has been remodelled by people we no longer know.
Methuselum (Elsie) Skeoch and her husband Red (Arnold) Skeoch will never be
forgotten as long as memory serves.
alaln
Eric and I Have always fowler lucky ro have been fragment of the Skeoch family. I do not know if Eric
ever adopted a taste for horse radish. I know we miss Roy.
EPISODE 735 TEMPLIN FANNING MILLS, FERGUS, ONTARIO — FACTORY GIFT TO ONT. AGRIC. MUSEUM
EPISODE 735 TEMPLIN FANNING MILLS, FERGUS, ONTARIO — FACTORY GIFT TO ONT. AGRIC. MUSEUM
alan skeoch
february 7, 2023
Templin Manufacturing Company, Fergus, Ont., circa 1890
Templin Manufacturing Company,, circa1900
Replica Templin Manufacturing Company (circa 1970), Milton , ontario
SUNNY AFTERNOON ABOUT 1970
“Just down the hill was the Templin Factory, Alan” said aunt Greta (Skeoch) Metcalfe one sunny afternoon
“Right here in Fergus?”
‘Yes, now the Howes and Reeves Garage Repair shop.”
“That was where Perfection Fanning Mills were made,”
“I believe the factory is still there…on the second and third floors…untouched
for decades….access only by a ladder.”
‘Do you think Mr. Reeves would let me climb the ladder?”
“I believe so…I will come with you.”
Aunt Greta Skeoch Metcalfe was about 80 years old at the time we spoke, My dad’s
oldest of four sisters…keeper of the family records…sharp as a tack.
I climbed the ladder first, pushed open the trap door. Aunt Greta followed but only
head and shoulders exposed to the site. What we behind was heart stopping. There before
us was the Templiin Manufacturing Company…intact. Like Miss Havisham’s cake
in Dickens ‘Great Expectations’. Everything in place but coveedi in half a century
of dust. My boots left a trail from station to station where the Perfection Fanning
Mills were assembled. Shelves along the walls contained the inventory…the parts
stations in line … ready for assembly.
What should I do? What could I do?
“Mr. Reeves, I have an idea for you to consider. Bob Carbert is the manager of the
new Ontario Agricultural Museum on the outskirts of Milton. I am a director…along
with many others. Maybe we could find a home for the old Templin Factory,”
“Sounds fine to me. Nobody other than you and your aunt have shown any interest.”
And so for the next few week ends we moved the factory to our farm while
Bob Carbert built a replica factory on the Museum grounds. The end result
was marvellous as you can see below.
Unfortunately Bob Carbert retired and the whole site of the Agricultural Museum
fell into neglect. Many tried to resuscitate the site but government support was minimal.
Museums are loss leaders. They do not make a profit. Visitors come once or twice
and then get on with their real lives.
Museum managers try to change this pattern of neglect. Try and try and try.
I suppose there are only a few people who want to climb that museum ladder
to see the dust covered reminders of past lives.
As to the replica Templin Fanning Mill Factory, it remains. Closed. Perhaps
covered in the dust of the past couple of decades.
The pictures below were taken when the replica factory was first opened.
Makes me sort of weepy.
alan skeoch
Feb, 7, 2023
Perhaps the Wellington County Museum might start to pay attention,
Fwd: EPISODE 730 I wrote a book! Would you read it? Dealt with machine design in 19th century, 1850-1891, (memorize sentence 8. OK?)
Fwd: EPISODE 730 I wrote a book! Would you read it? Dealt with machine design in 19th century, 1850-1891, (memorize sentence 8. OK?)
alan skeoch
Feb. 3, 2023
Pride! Arrogance! Both are a part of all of us. Best kept in check.
But who would know if the small candle is hidden under a bushel?
So let me get this bit of pride and arrogance off my chest and into
the digital world.
Around 1980 I applied for sabbatical leave from my job teaching history
at Parkdale Collegiate Institute. For decades we had been watching the
Ontario rural landscape changing as small 100 acre farms were disappearing
several of which were Skeoch farms in the vicinity of Fergus where our ancestors
arrived in 1846.
Wth the disappearance of these farms…hundreds of the them…the machines of
19th century agriculture were going to scrap yards across the province. Some of them
we rescued and trucked to our small farm, 25 acres, in Wellington County. Others
we bought and donated to various museums…Ontario Agricultural Museum, City of
Toronto Riverdale Farm, Doon Pioneer Village, and others.
There were precious few records of these machines. So I decided to apply for the MA
program at the University of Toronto and as accepted. This was not an easy decision as
we had already decided that raising children was best done by one parent staying in the
home. Other families made different decisions….or were forced to make different decisions.
Our decision meant that one salary would be ours and living could be tight. We could live with
that.
But to take a year off was another matter. I will forever be in debt to the Toronto Board of
Education which had instituted a sabbatical leave program for oddballs like me.. My salary
would be reduced to 80% and I would be committed to return to teaching in Toronto.
In other words we now had a green light to pursue our MA program. Our? Did I say
‘our’? Indeed I did. Marjorie was in full agreement.
So I joined three departments at the U. of T. The history graduate program under Dr.
J.M.S. Careless, (who only had one arm), The Fine Arts program under Dr. Webster,
and the School of Practical Science (S.P.S.) under several professors. The engineering
profs were so helpful . Three departments
was strange but my desire was strange. I hoped to consider the changes in agriculture
which swept through the 19 th century and resulted in the fact that we only needed 4 or 5
percent active farmers to feed 100% of our population.
The inventions of the 19th century were revolutionary. From sicles and cradle scythes to
hore drawn binders to early threshing machines and combine harvesters pulled by
steam and fossil fuelled tractors. No facet of agriculture was untouched by these changes.
IN the end I wrote a 300 page paper titled Technology and Change in 19th century agriculture
between 1850 and 1891. Research involved a couple of trips to the Ford Museum in Dearborn
(Detroit), the New York State Historical Society in Cooperstown, Black Creek Pioneer Village, and others.
What a grand time we had doing this book. Each machine had a history…a human history.
At the same time I was writing this thesis (If I can call it that) I got an extra job teaching at
the Faculty of Education, Type A students, helping them become teachers. That job was exciting.
I owe thanks to John Ricker, Dean of the faculty and Evan Cruickshank who had been my high
school history teacher at Humberside Collegiate and became head of history at the
Facultyof Education. When the year ended I was offered a job at the Faculty but I was
duty bound to return to teach at Parkdale Collegiate. Glad to do so. Loved teaching young
people and loved my fellow teachers at Parkdale. Absolutely no regrets.
Many of my friends and my brother took different tracks. I had one amusing job as a Vice Principal
at a summer program at Monarch Park Collegiate. Walter C., the principal, told me this was the
way to be upwardly mobile, To do so he gave me a yard stick and told me:
“Alan, I want you to stand outside the summer school and measure the length
of the girls dresses”
“What then?”
“If they are too short send them home to get changed.”
My immediate thought was “Are you kidding?” Walter was not kidding. I am proud to
say I never sent a girl home to change her shorts for a dress. I did stand out
In front of the school with the yard stick though. That was humiliation enough.
“Alan, I want you to check the boys’ washrooms”
“Why?”
“Just in case some wiseacre is smoking?
What if a smoker is in the toilet stall with the door closed?”
“Kick it open.”
That was a learning curve for me. Other principals were not as right wing as Walter. Many were terrific
people. Duncan Green, for instance, when I asked him about a newspaper interview regarding history
teaching in secondary schools. “What should I say?”
“Say what you believe…and say it in as few words as possible.”
Which takes me back to the 300 page book I wrote on my wonderful sabbatical.
I can still see the face of Dr. Carelss when I handed him my bound copy of the book.
I knew at that moment he was unlikely to read the whole thing. He would not have time.
What would I do if some kid handed me a 300 page essay? Point made.
There were so many funny things that happened on that sabbatical. And some challenges.
The big challenge was the French compulsory requirement. Each grad student was expected to
be fluent in a second language. Holy Samoley! So at the same time I was doing all this research
in three departments I had to be studying French to see if I could pass the compulsory language
rule.
I wrote the French test twice. Failed the first time and got zero. Zero! Zero was a mid mark between
+7 and -7. I don’t know how this was arrived at. But I would have to get a +2 or +3 to get my MA.
So I rewrote the test again one spring day along with a bunch of other grad students who accepted me
as a peer even though there was a gap in our ages…a big gap.
One of the most flattering things happened in that second attempt at French.
“Al, you are number 8, remember that”, said one my fellow students. I did not know
what the designation 8 meant until we all went for a beer after the test. The organizer had
a pen and paper to record each sentence in the test. We were not expected to pass the test.
We were expected to memorize a sentence each. Sentences translated would be provided
for the next test. We were expected to cheat. (Not sure the same test would be presented)
What a great feeling i had that day. My fellow students accepted me. I was one of them.
Even though I let them down with sentence number 8.
Walter C., my former principal would expect me to see him right away to report the cheating.
Are you kidding? That’s a laugh. I do not rat on friends.
I passed the second test…got a +2 I think. None of my friends did that I know about. How could
they? French was no longer compulsory in high school. Those kids did not have snowballs chance
in hell to get their MA as long as the French requirement was in place.
The requirement was quietly dropped a year of so later I was told. I was still basking in the
reflected glory of being Number 8. Immediately sent a note of thanks to Maida Schroeder,
my high school French teacher who kept me in the front seat and during the final exam
slipped me a cartoon that said it takes skill to invent words that do not exist. She knew.
My friends at Parkdale held a party for me when I got the zero. It was good party complete with
a big poster and my mark emblazoned in red as I remember.
The thesis had an impact. Copies were made and are on file at the New Yorks State
Historical Museum, the Ontario Agricultural Museum, Black Creek Pioneer Village. Parts have
been quoted here and there.
I returned to Parkdale C.I. for the rest of my career. Never regretted one moment. Just loved
sharing history with younger generations.
The yardstick? The girls skirts and shorts? What a humbug. But I suppose standards have
to be set in life. We can’t have students coming to class nearly nude? That might be too distracting
for anyone wanting to do an MA program. Hard to memorize sentence 8 in that case.
Now here is a test.
If I handed you my thesis…all 300 pages nicely bound. Would you read it? AHAH! Thought so,
Would you read sentence 8 for the test? Now that’s more like it.
alan skeoch
Feb. 3, 2023
P>S> NICE things do happen in life. One of the nicest that year was when my Type A Class
at the Faculty of Education gave Marjorie and me a gift…an overnight stay at the Moffat Inn
at Niagara on the Lake. We went there the following winter with the kids. We had a fireplace
in the room That is how we celebrated my Master of Arts.
PPS And after it was all over a gang of my fellow teachers spent several memorable
weekends at the Henry Ford Museum in between the consumption of beer. Henry Ford
was an oddball collector of old machines. I think a copy of my thesis resides there although
I am not sure. I was asked by the Mellon bank to rebuild a McCormick 1831 reaper and
ship it to the Northern Ireland Pioneer Village. That was another result.
So there you have it. Pride and Arrogance.
alan
EPISODE 731 FEB. 2, 2023 COLDEST NIGHT OF WINTER COMING IN 1 HOUR
EPISODE 731 FEB. 2, 2023 COLDEST NIGHT OF WINTER COMING IN 1 HOUR
alan skeoch
Feb. 2, 2023
NOTE: This story is to be read/viewed twice. Once now on this frigid day and
once next August when the day is hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk.
Then you will have to decide which is best…FIRE OR ICE? The truth of the
matter is that neither fire nor ice are nice. They are killers. Our lives as human
beings are IN BETWEEN. Take a moment to consider that and to think of the
wonder or wonders. What wonder of wonders? That we have peopled the
earth, Maybe our arrogance. Our belief that we deserve the Earth is just
a matter of chance. And our place here is just a lucky quirk of time. Those
dinosaurs lived longer on this planet than we have. And if we want to live
here longer then we have a task indeed. Lots of people have mulled over
these thoughts. Thoughts made simple and melodic by Robert Frost as
you know.
Fire and Ice
BY ROBERT FROST
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
AND ALL THE EARTH WAS LOCKED IN ICE AND SNOW….OR SEEMED SO
note: This is why second winter scene Episode….the worst or the best
OUR FARM ANIMALS KNOW THE COLD NIGHT IS COMING
MARJORIE ALL DECKED OUT IN PINK AND GREEN AND PURPLE…WITH A FUEL STICK OF KIT KAT
OUR SMALL BARN IN BACKGROUND WAS ONCE ON THE FARM OF J.S. WOODSWORTH…FOUNDER OF THE CCF….
WE HAD IT MOVED HEERE FROM ETOBICOKE
NOT LONG AGO THIS WAS A FARM AND THE DRIVEWAY HAD MEANING
ADDITON TO EPISODE 728….THE MANURE BOB SLEIGH AND TEAM …LORNE SAUNDERS FARM
Just fond actual picture ….moving manure by bob sleigh
EPISODE 728 STUPID IS AS STUPID DOES—gsthering horse manure to grow mushrooms
episode 728 STUPID IS AS STUPID DOES—gathering horse manure to grow mushrooms
alan skeoch
Feb.1, 2023
“Alan, this is stupid…really dumb.”
“What?”
“Gathering all that horse manure”
“Need about a ton of horse manure , figure.”
“You are going to wreck our car…how much does that load on the roof weigh?”
“I figure about 400 pounds….8 x 50…roof should be OK”
“And inside the car?”
“Less…lots of room for you and the coonhound”
“If people knew how stupid you can be they must wonder about our marriage.”
“Wait a bit…wait until the spawn arrives.”
“Spawn?”
“We are going to grow mushrooms in the spring and summer….Horse manure and mushroom spawn is all we need.”
“Why?”
“Something to do in the winter while you ride your horse….I will gather up the hoseballs.”
“Wacko!”
“Lorne and Carol will let me have the teams horseballs as well. ‘Road apples’! Four or five trips to the city
with loads like this should do it…a ton of horseballs dumped in that big box I’ve built at the back of our lot.
No one knows…not much smell. Actually I like the smell of horse manure…better than pigs snd cows.”
“What if the neighbours see the car looking like this…roof loaded with horse manure.”
“Who would believe it?”
NOTE: I spent the month of February that year (1970’s) hauling horse manure from farm to city. No one asked what was in
the sacks on the car roof. Sort of strange as I expected questions. No police stopped…no neighbour questioned.
It was winter…February…when most people are indoors. These were great days. While Lorne forked manure
onto his bob sleigh for the horses to haul it to the back field, I rescued the horse dung. Somewhere I had read
that horse manure makes great mushrooms. And that was all I needed. Recipe? A ton of horse manure and
a package of mushroom spores from Dominion Seed House. Dump the stuff in the box and wait for my
mushroom crop.
Well it did not quite work as planned. I checked the mushroom coffin regularly….days and days, weeks and
weeks. No mushrooms. Then around June…months later …there was one tiny little mushroom. One goddamn
mushroom! After all my labour. Not even sure it was an edible mushroom. Just like everything else in life,
mushroom growing demands skill. That was something I did not have.
Not all was lost. I loved gathering horse manure in the winter time. Marjorie would take Spartacus, our estrogen
gelding, up and down the fifth line. We rescued him from certain death. Those estrogen mares were chained up
in barns with tubes hooked to their arses to gather their urine. Why? For Birth control pills. Terrible life for those
mares. Had to be pregnant mares for some reason. Their colts were of no use. We rescued Sparky. Called
him Spartacus after the slave in Roman history.
Imagine this wagon filled to the brim with manure destined for the far field. Imagine
sitting on top of the load bouncing along to the team’s version of Jingle Bells.
Sweet memories.
On some clear sunny winter days I even got a chance to ride across the snow clad fields with the loads
of manure. I think Lorne just kept the horses for that purpose. And he was pleased that we could do the
manure spring together. He never charged me for the horse manure. I thought it was free but now realize
it was a money crop that made the fields more productive.
Bottom line? I was a total failure as a mushroom grower. That puny little mushroom in the plywood
coffin was never harvested. Our car, A Renault 15, did have a special aroma. Maybe I should have
sent a note to France telling the car company to add a sentence in their brochure. “This car can
carry 400 pounds of horse manure on its roof without denting.”
Suppose Marjorie had married the Lawyers son in North Bay? Could he have
given her a better life. I think not.
Marjorie had many boyfriends. I met most of them. One even proposed to her at university. She refused
gracefully because she liked me better…a bit better. Now that, I realize, is hard to understand. Some women
marry with the expectation they can change their husbands. Marjorie never did this. Even when
our car, house, clothes had the faint smell of horse manure.
Was the mushroom failure the only failure in our lives? Not so. There were many failures. I built a
barn on the farm..it collapsed. I tried to make maple syrup using a Forth line forest. Some son of a
bitch shot our pails of the trees. We accepted a contract to grow cucumbers for Manthew Wells Rose
Brand pickles company of Guelph. We were laughed at and lost our investment. The company wanted
gherkins and we produced crooks and nubs and cucumbers as long as your arm…all of which were
dumped. Our payment for months of labour was less that $50. Our investment in a tractor and our
labour was a couple of thousand dollars. A failure. Even the tractor, a well used Farmal A, was a disaster
as I forgot to put anti freeze in the radiator and the hard winter cracked the block. Scrap. I loved that
tractor. Lots of failures in my life…in our lives. You would think I (we) would learn from these failures.
We never did. That’s what farmers must feel as their glowing expectations turn into broken dreams.
These fine bred horses did not come from Estrogen barns. They came from fine mares and stallions. Spartacus was not that lucky.
“Alan, you have given readers we are total failures at everything.”
“Right. We have had more success raising kids and dogs. But
readers like failures. More human. Everybody fails at one time or
another.
“If they do not fail. Have continual success in life. Guess what happens to them?”
“I do not know.”
“Neither do I.”
alan skeoch
ev. 1, 2023
“Marjorie, there seems to be a funny smell in the car these days”
“Look at the roof.”