Fwd: FALLING…WE ALL DO IT UNCENSORED VERSION

FALLING:   WERE WE REALLY MEANT TO BE BIPEDAL?

alan skeoch

January 2019

When I told Marjorie I was going to write a story about Falling, she wondered if I meant 

Falling in Love.  Not so.  Falling in Love would be a good story mind you but this sequence of

stories is about falling and hurting yourself.  Rather I should falling and hurting myself.

I am sure anyone who reads this story will have his or her own stories about falling.

Why?  Because everybody falls.   The lucky ones fall in love.  Others just fall and bash

up their bodies.

FALLING:   CREDIT RIVER MISTAKE   1985

“ALAN, the ice on the Credit River is perfect.  One sheet of perfect ice from Port Credit to the Q.E.W. bridge.  Let’s go skating…I mean real skating

not that baby circling stuff.”

“Wonderful idea”

“Just watch out for the cracks…otherwise no problem.”

Well, as things turned out there was one other nearly invisible problem.  Sand.  Wind blown sand.  I was skating as free as a bird…moving with the wind

on a great water day when  WHAM!  My blades hit the sand.  My skates stopped…dead stop…jettisoned me forward so fast that my nose hit the ice before my arms.  Some of

you may not know that the human nose is not meant to be a skate blade.  Look below for my demonstration of this fact.

This is the opening photo/print essay on how falling has affected my life on this earth.

‘Who gives a sweet damn about your life, Alan?’  Good question.  if you feel that way

then please do not read any farther.   But should you be like every other human being

on the planet you will have fallen a few times. Sometimes with horrific consequences

sometimes all you have to do is get back on your feet.  Some people never get back

on their feet.

Makes a person wonder abut bipedalism.   Were we meant to walk on two feet?

Our rib cages suit four legged life better.  Bi-pedalism has some good points…i.e.

we can read, write and lace up our skates.   But look at my nose?  Yuk!

Falling!  Wow, have I ever had some bad falls.  Yet, I am still standing.

alan skeoch

January 2019

FALLING is as natural as sitting and standing but has more negative consequences.

FALLING:  THE DAY  I GOT DOORED…RHYMES WITH GORED    1952

 I had a bad  fall was  back in 1952 when  I got ‘doored”.   I  was going into Grade 8 when Mom said that her friend  Vi  Couling

needed an office boy at the Queens Park Parliament buildings.  What a wonderful opportunity so I cycled all the way downtown early each

morning on my bike and then returned at night.  A long long bicycle ride.  Fourteen and  full of piss and vinegar…energy to burn…until that

car door suddenly opened  in front of me in the rush  hour traffic on St. George Street.  The door cut into my shoulder like a machete

cutting sugar cane.  Whomp!  I tumbled to the sidewalk and the front wheel of my bike got twisted.   I remember the woman who opened

the door scream “Are you hurt?”  What to say?  “No, I’ll be fine.”  Others stopped.  Something was wrong with my body.  I could not lift my

left arm…it  sort of hung there.  No pain or at least not much pain.  The lady slammed the door shut and took off up  the street and the car

melted into the traffic flow.   That left me and my bike half in the  gutter and half on the sidewalk.  The term ‘doored’ had  not been  coined

back then.  “Somehow, Alan, you have to get home.” But home was a long way to the north west. My bike was  driveable once the handlebars

were forced  back a bit.  My left arm however was not as easily remedied.  I could pedal  the bike with my right hand steering and braking.

But it was not going to easy.  Nothing else could I do.  Finding help when hurt is not easy.  But there was  one thing I could do.  I could sing.

And I did.  Lyrics from the King and  I. “Whenever I feel afraid, Ihold my head erect, and whistle a happy tune so no one will suspect I’m 

afraid.”  Over and over again I  mumbled this song.  It took about an hour or maybe longer to wend my way from Queen’s Park to 455

Annette Street where  I knew mom would  be waiting. “Alan, what happened, you’re white as a sheet.” “Got hit by a  car door…I think 

something is broken.”  Mom  washed  me up and  we hustled by bus to St. Joseph’s hospital where an X Ray revealed  I had a broken

clavicle.  A simple  break…the bone was in place.  A sling and some aspirins helped.  Next day I went back to work on the bus and street car

which was  a lot less fun than whistling my way through the city by bicycle.  Jammed into a  rush hour crowd  proved to cause other problems

when a pervert tried to rub up against me.  “My that man is  close to me…almost like his hand is in my pocket.”  His hand  was in my

pocket!  His intentions were sexual.  He scared me more than being whacked by the car door.   What to do?  I got off the street car fast

and waited for the next one.  That cost me a double fare.  Seemed it was safer on my bicycle…and cheaper.   As soon as I could

I got back on my bike.

Aside:  One amusing event happened on the job when Deputy Provincial Secretary R. J. Cudney called me to his office.

“Alan, we have a problem.”

“Yes sir.”

“There are ten marriage licences  missing.”

“yes, sir?”

You have  been putting the great seal of Ontario on the licences  in batches of 250.”

“I have … yes  sir.”

“Did you notice any discrepancy?  Numbering is consecutive.”

“No, sir…”

“Thank you, Alan, you may go.”

What was really happening here?  Took me a  while to understand that the Deputy

Provincial Secretary was checking to see if I has stolen TEN marriage licenses.

Mr. Cudney never said that directly.  What in hell’s half acre would i want with

ten marriage licences?  Ten wives in the future, maybe?  In 1952 I could barely

look at girls…let alone future wives.  Mr. Cudney came to that conclusion and sent

a man to check with the printer whose numbering system must have made an error.

Missing marriage licences was a serious business.

But why would I even be a suspect?  Good reason.  My job was a very responsible job.

“Alan, your job is to put the Great Seal of Ontario on all of our official documents…this big silver seal…goes in  a press like this.

In addition, Alan I want to show you how to but a blue ribbon and  hot wax seal of letters of incorporation.  Shove this sharpened

tool through the top left corner , made a cross with the ribbons, then melt the hot wax over the place where the blue ribbon crosses and push this seal into

the hot wax.”

I did that job for the full Grade 8 summer.  Loved it.  I also sent many letters of congratulation for Golden Wedding anniversaries.

Just for fun I sent several congrats with the big seal to my Grandmother and Grandfather on the farm near Acton…maybe sent

a dozen or so.   I think Mr. Cudney became aware of this juvenile indiscretion and ignored  it.  He was a very formal man.  I filled

his water thermos every morning…a silver jug kind of thing.  Formal relationship.  Office boy.  But He trusted me.  How do  I know that?

“Alan, the CNE starts next week and I would like you to protect the Great Seal of Ontario.”

How do I do that, sir?”

“You will work nights…all night…guarding the Great Seal in the Government Building…are you willing?”

“yes sir.”

“Every night, all night long?”

“yes sir.”

 

Now that was a nice job.  All alone in the government building.  Not boring at all.  In the 1950’s the government building was  full of interesting 

things.  One branch had a  demonstration involving a  long electric train.  I  loved  working that.  The central quadrangle was, however,   was the most

fascinating because Lands and Forest brought in live Ontario wild animals in cages…raccoons,  skunks, foxes, beavers…and  many  fish tanks

with pike, trout, pickerel…maybe even a muskelunge.   As the evenings wore on I made a great discovery that really kept me awake and  interested.

The open air quadrangle was alive with creatures other than those imported.  Rats! Lots of  rats…black, brown, beige…big, small…shy and bold.

So I would  hide behind a pillar and  count to fifty then peak out.  Rats  all over the place.  Once they saw my face they scampered away and disappeared….

as if they never existed.  Mom made me a midnight meal and  gave me a thermos of milk…I kept that away from the rats.

I took the job very seriously but today in 2019, I have a second thought.  Just suppose someone wanted to steam the Great Seal of Ontario.

And suppose that person decided the best time to steal would be at night.  Do you think a fourteen year old boy would  be able to prevent the

theft.  Mr. Cudney did not arm me with a weapon.   That adventure seems very strange.  But it happened … after I was doored.

FALLING — THE SEWER GRATE INCIDENT    1956

I loved my Humber Sports racing bicycle with hand  grip brakes,  But it failed to reciprocate the love one day On Evelyn Avenue.  I was racing down

Evelyn heading for a visit with my friend Russ Vanstone.  Going as fast I could.  Now the tires and wheel rims of racing bikes are very narrow…maybe

an inch or so in diameter.  As it so happened  the open spaces in sewer grates is about 1.5 inches.  I discovered this the hard  way.  My front wheel 

suddenly dropped and locked in sewer grate. The bike stopped but I did not stop. I was catapulted over the handlebars and landed face first on the

bricks and cement of the sidewalk.   My facial skin was ripped badly.  What to do?  I had to get home to mom who would know whatever first aid

was needed.   

“Alan,  what happened?”

“I fell, bike got caught in sewer.”

“You’ve got brush burns on face and  shoulders….bad  ones.”

That was all I remembered.  Mom stripped me and got me in the bathtub to gently remove the little stones imbedded in my skin…not just on my face.

Shoulders as well as I was  not wearing a shirt.  But that help I do  not remember.

When I came to I was shocked to find myself standing stark nude in our bath tub while mom and her friend Ina were carefully cleaning me up.  Now

that was embarrasing.

FALLING — THE BROKEN BEER BOTTLE INCIDENT     1944

During the 1940’s we rented the second floor of a Victorian mansion that was on the corner of Gladstone Avenue and Sylvan Avenue.  The house was really

inside Dufferin Park.  Gone now.  Living in the park was entertaining since there was a lot of gang activity.  Children left to do  whatever they wanted because

their fathers were overseas fighting World  War II.  But that is  just speculation on my part.  The fact of gang activity cannot be denied however.  Two big gangs, Junction 

  gange and Beanery gang liked to sort things out with fists and  weapons.  They did this regularly as I remember.  One weapon of choice was the long necked beer bottle. Grab

the bottle by the neck, slam the bottom on a stone or a cement light standard and Presto…a very lethal looking weapon.  Held in the hand by the neck meant the

sharp shards of broken glass could be rammed into an adversary.   After the fights the weapons were often discarded  in the park.  Discarding weapons  happened

very fast once the police arrived.  One Saturday or Sunday afternoon mom took Eric and  I for stroll through the park.  We decided to play a game of Blind Man’s

Bluff.  A scarf or big handkerchief was tied around my eyes and my job was to find Eric.

“Can you see, Alan?”

“Nope…nothing.”

“Let me turn you around  a few times like this..” I was pivoted

“Now try and find Eric. He is standing still near you somewhere.”

“YOW!…I’M CUT…BROKEN GLASS!.”

I tripped  on a tree root.  Even today I  remember the exact spot that it happened.  I fell and by chance

one of the beer bottle weapons had been discarded near the tree root.  My left leg fell on the sharp shards

cutting me badly.  Mom and  Eric were aghast.  I was scared…would  I bleed to death?

“Alan, come here, we will have get you to a hospital for some stitches:”

“Stiches?  Hospital?”

“Yes…fast.”

“I am not going,”  I began to run home.

“Come back here Alan.”

I ran up the stairs, past our landlady Mrs. Southwick, then into our big communal bedroom.  

“Red, get Alan…he cut himself in the park.”

“Where is he?”

“In the bedroom, under the bed…holding on to the springs.”

“I’ll get him.”

Then Dad lifted up the bed and grabbed me wrenching me free from my

death grip on the bed springs.  After that I do  not remember much.  But proof that ithappened is easy

to find for the scar just above my ankle remains visible to this day.

FALLING:  UNEXPECTED GYMNASTICS   1957

Just a short account but I have never told this story to anyone.  Every time I touch the back of my

head I am reminded of a totally unexpected fall  I had  back in high school.   Gym class with either

Dunc Green or Streak  McLelland gave me a kind of  confidence I did not deserve.  On the  day in

question I finally mastered a box horse  somersault.  Made  me  feel pretty good so as I left

school that afternoon I noticed a bar that ran along the high chain link fence that surrounded our

football field at Humberside.  There was a gap in the fence so students could come  and

go.  At the top of gap…about 8 feet up…was a bar running parallel to the ground. A challenge.

I took a run, jumped up and grabbed the bar.  Expected to swing there like the high wire acrobats.

But the bar swivelled.  And  I fell backwards, head down.  And landed  on the concrete below.

Hit hard.  Was a bit stunned as  I remember. No one saw me.  I got up and continued home but

did  not feel too good.  And there was a  bump on the back of my head.  That bump is still there.

Not sure if the bump was because of the fall or whether everyone has such a bump.

What I remember most about that incident is how stupid I felt. I took an

unnecessary risk and  was  lucky the consequence were not worse.

FALLING:  THE CROSS BODY BLOCK AND SMASHED FINGER   1958

I am not the greatest athlete in the world.  But football was one sport in which I excelled  in a very small way.

Few people ever notice the way  linemen open holes for the glory boys…half backs, full back, quarter backs.

The linemen do  this by throwing their bodies against the defencemen on the other team.  We had  a marvellous

coach at Humberside, Fred Burford, who knew how each of the 24 players on the field should act…how they

should step, turn, use shoulders or throw  cross body  blocks.  Short choppy steps so legs are

coiled and ready to launch  the body.  Cross  body  blocks were used to take out outside linebackers  mostly.

Nothing mean about the block.  Get close to the opposing player then launch body into the air parallel to the ground,

try to hit him with your hip. Part of the game.  No ill will involved.  Football was a  science to Mr. Burford.

I loved it.  And got qjuite good at the Cross  Body.  Except one day things went a bit awry when I threw a 

Cross Body, took out the Corner Backer but let one hand hit ground splayed out like a bull frogs hand.

The ball carrier or someone ran right over my hand with their football spikes.  Smashed  my little finger..broken in

several places.

My poor little finger!   Sounds like such  a trifling thing…a broken little finger.  But that finger had immense 

consequences to me.  First, was the operation.  Mom and  dad were both working so I travelled  to St. Jospeph’s

hospital by street car one school day.  I was in Grade 13…a big year…a tough year.   Missing a day  of school

was a problem that late October morning but it had to be done.  Now, that is not the truth.  I could have managed

quite well with that broken finger.  Some would say  I should have ignored the medical advice and cancelled the

operation.  Too late when I was on that street car.  Let me put the events that followed  in dialogue form.

“Day surgery, young man, put on this robe.”

(Robe as  we all know is  a misnomer.  Half a robe is a better term.  Bare ass to the wind robe is even better.)

“Now we are going to prep you for the surgery, pull up your sleeve…just going to shave

your arm…clean.”

“Why are you shaving my right arm when the operation is  on my left arm…little finger?”

“Sorry, young man, wrong arm.”

“Big needle!”

“Local  anesthetic…just feel a bit of a  prick.”  That was an understatement with many meanings. Prick?

“There, we’ll wheel you into the hall … wait here until the doctor’s ready.”

(Waited there a long time…too long as  it turned  out.)

“OK, your turn now…operating theatre.

‘What are those people above me doing?”

“Watching…mostly interns…future surgeons.”

(Doctor entered with several attendants)

“OK son, we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

“Just cut here…length of finger”

“YOW!!!  HURTS DOCTOR…REALLY HURTS!”

“When did this boy get the local anesthetic?”

“At 10…”

“Ten?  It’s  now nearly noon…needle  has worn off…quick give 

him another shot.”

The  doctor did his job…cut, cleaned, wired little bones back in place…while I looked up

at the half dozen faces looking down at me from their circle guest seats in the so called theatre.

Not much pain after the second local  cut in.  I could live with it.

“There, slap on the  cast and soon you can go home.  Anyone here to take you home?”

“Nope…mom and dad both working.”

“How will you get home?”

“Street car.”

“Fine.”

As I remember there was a  street car line on Roncesvales  back  then…hooked up with the Annette Street bus

and got me home.  The cast was a little bit red at the tip.  Some blood oozing…not much but enough to make

me feel woozy.  Got home and  went to school…maybe for afternoon classes.  Not sure about that.  What I became sure about

was the fact I could no longer take notes…couldn’t write.  Cast on my hand was like a big club with a tiny wire tip sticking out.

The wire held  the broken bones in place.  Eventually it was pulled out cleanly.  Successful operation but my high 

school career was affected.  No ability to make notes.  I am left handed.

I felt OK. Even able to go back and play football.  In one of the games I made a really good below the knees  tackle of the enemy ball carrier…took him

down like a calf in a  rodeo.  Burford even congratulated me.  But looked  at me strangely.   Something was wrong.  A couple of weeks later both

Burford and Griffiths, the football coaches  cornered  me in the second floor hall.  I did not think they even knew I existed.

“Does that cast bother you Alan?”

“not particularly.”

“Does it affect your homework…your note taking…your classes.”

“Not too bad, sirs….no”

(I lied, what else could  I do?  Later, much later, I realized the football coaches were getting flack about football injuries.  I was not

the only boy with a problem.  One of my fellow team players had  taken a fit…convulsions…from a head  injury.   So the coaches were 

worried. Other teachers were questioning the football cult.  My dismissal of the problem must have made them feel a bit better. If they believed  me.

Causation states that for every cause there is an effect.  Bloody obvious, right?   Not quite so simple though.  When I  taught high school

history I amended the principle of causation.  “For every cause there are multiple effects.”  Consequences.   Well, the trivial matter of my

broken finger had  lots of effects some of which I will record…others i will not record because so  many good things happened that recording

them here seems like bragging.   I counted  over 20 consequences  of that broken finger…some negative  but most of  them terrific…so terrific

that I dare not send them to any readers lest they  consider me a big blowhard  like  that asshole  Trump.

What seemed to be a tragedy ended up as one of the best years of my life.  To say much about that year would make me

seem vain in the extreme so I have deleted the  consequences and inserted the Bad Joke below.  Would you do this

to your mother?

BAD JOKE:  FALLING 

Our family lived on the second floor of 455 Annette Street in 1957.  A long staircase went up to our family home of three rooms.  Coming home

from a football game one day Mom was waiting at the top of the stairs to hear from Eric and I about a game that day.

“How was the game, Alan.”

“Eric got hurt.”

And I threw Eric’s helmet on the floor.  Russ Vanstone had inadvertently run over the helmet with his 1956 Chevrolet.  Smashed it all to hell.

Eric, Russ and I thought it would be a good joke on mom.  Now that was not a good idea.  But we were teen agers. the story sort fits this sequence of stories on falling.

Mom did not scream but she did put her hand to her mouth as I remember.  Then Eric popped up the stairs.

Consequences of that broke finger:

Deleted:  If Kevin or Andrew or grandkids want to know I will send an uncensored copy

1)  Pain for a  short time

2)  Could  not write…no school notes  or homework  done

3)  Pressure on final Gr. 13 exams made my mind go blank in physics exam. 

I could not remember what the basic symbol, the letter ’s’ stood for…a critical situation

4) My Gr. 13 average marks  dropped to around 70% which  was not enough for

acceptance into university

5) I  had choice of joining the work force or going back  to high school to improve my marks

I  chose to go back although it was  embarrassing…even felt humiliated

6) Rejoined  the football team and was chosen captain

7) Elected President of Boys  Athletic  Association

8) Got suspended for a week along with Vic and Ted  for taking an afternoon to

spot … look for weakness in an enemy high schools football team. Unsportsmanlike behaviour said VP Mr. Couke and he was correct I agreed.

9) Reconsidered my life decided to use my spare periods as  a chance to read

books  I had never had  time to read  as much before…Eric Fromm, Charles Dickens (all his  novels), John  Steinbeck, Arnold Toynbee, Robert Service,

Luke Short, Loren Eisley (sp?),

Robert Browning, Robert Frost, John Wyndham, Dwight Eisenhaur biography…lots of books…devised a check out notebook listing number

of  pages to be read each half hour…often  exceeded my estimate…had my head  in books for most of that year.

10) Asked  head  of history Evan Cruikshank if I could write the Gr. 13 history exam by  home study…got his permission.  Same

applied  to the Gr. 13 English exam…got permission from Roberta Charlesworth

11)  Made many speeches in auditorium promoting yearbook,  athletics,  school dances, etc.

12)  Had chance to consider my future…university bound  but scared  about it…mom was  a seamstress,

dad was a  tire builder, thus a working class family so university was a novel experience. Was I biting off more than I could chew?

13) was chosen for both football all star teams by Toronto newspaper…Toronto Star, Toronto Telegram

14) was chosen Head Boy for Humberside Collegiate Institute 1958

15) Improved my marks and  was accepted  as a student at Victoria  College, University of Toronto

16) was asked to make the farewell speech for Mr. Les Devitt, math teacher who, during WW! was a test

pilot for Toronto made aircraft.  if he felt a plane to be unworthy he deliberately crash  landed the plane

so no young man would  be endangered in a war combat situation…fact unknown to students until then.

17) Broke up with my steady girl friend…we just went separate ways…which led  to meeting Marjorie Hughes

at Victoria College second  year sock hop.  We had good chemistry…natural…friend for life… became my wife. 

 If I hadn’t broken that little finger we might never have met.  Marjorie had a lot of men to choose from.  I was  

lucky even if undeserving at times.

18) wrote a  play  about our 38th Rover Crew…corny but a lot of fun.

   19) had long talks with Russ Vanstone about just about anything…politics (he was s conservative, I was CCF or Liberal or nothing, Girls, 

FALLING:  ICE AT FARM…BASHED  BACK OF MY HEAD  2010

Just a short story here.  I was working alone at the farm one midwinter morning.  Snow had turned to ice  on

the sloping fields and  I slipped.   Anyone who  has fallen knows that once the  fall begins  there is not much

a person can do to stop it.  You  can  roll like a wrestler does but usually the fall is  so fast that little can be done.

That was the case on that winter day in 2010.  My feet slipped forward and I went over backward and my head  struck

the hard ice like a pumpkin hits the trash  bin  after Halloween.  It hurt.  But not that much really.  So I continued

working and did not give too much thought about it until I dropped into the hardware store to get some lumber.

“Can  you take a look at the back of my head?”

“Jesus, you got a big slice there…some blood,..flap of skin and hair…let me 

get our first aid  kit.”

And  the man who handles  lumber bandaged me up until I got home

“Alan,  we’ll need  to see Dr. Bahiya at the Walkin In…you need  stitches.”

And  so  my head  was sewn back  together.  Not really a big deal.   I wondered why there was so little blood for

head wounds are supposed to be bloody.  Later, I went back and thanked the hardware guy.

FALLING:  DROPPED OFF A SMALL CLIFF IN SOUTH OF  FRANCE      2014

(We were having a grand time in the South of France…our own farm house for a week…then WHAM!)

Too many pictures here, I know that.   Who takes pictures when someone is injured?.  As fortune would have it, Kevin decided to document the

experience.  Fortunately he was not present when the French nurse said  “en face out non?”

(What was the worst part?  Coming out of the anesthetic. )

“What a  great day…sunshine in the morning makes me  happy as the John Denver song goes.”

“A little early to get up, Alan.”

“Let everyone sleep, I am going for a walk  and take some pictures of that Lavender Field down the road.”

“Breakfast in an  hour.”

We had rented a French farm house about an hour north of Marseilles.  Beautiful area.  Soft sunshine, pastel painted villages,  lavender fields

and even wild pigs.  No  English spoken…really the old France before the descent of English tourists by the busload.

“Dad, it would  be best if you did not try to speak  French…:’

“Why?”

“Because your accent is terrible and  you keep slipping English words into the conversation which confuses everyone.”

“To hell with you.”

So I was alone on my walk and climbed a small hill…rock strewn hill that ended  in a rather steep decline on the other side.

But the lavender field  was stunning.  I got out my pocket camera and  began snapping.  At the same time I was backing up

to get a  better panorama.  Bscked too far…feet stepped on a  whole pile of rounded pebble…like ball bearings to my feet.

Suddenly I was rolling…faster and faster…no control…over the steep cliff face…faster and  faster.  Then WHACK!  I  hit

a tree halfway down the hill…bounced off and continued the fall.  Heard something crack… Had time to think and protect my camera in my clenched

fist…hit a couple of rocks and  then fell about five or six feet to the road  below.  Landed  spread eagled.  

“God-damn-it-all -anyway, must have broken my camera,” That was my first thought when I got my bearings.

“Camera is  fine,”  Unrapped it from my clenched fist.  

“Then why sound of that crack?”

“My wrist…right side…broken.”

I took stock  of myself and the picture was  not good.  Quite a bit of  blood, broken wrist, bruised  legs,  clothes torn.   A car came by  and  swerved  to

avoid me but did not stop.  Maybe I looked like a drunk.   “Got to get back to the farm house…drag myself…cannot faint.”

Slowly made it back…Knocked on the door…why did I knock?  Don’t know.   Morgan, one of granddaughters answered.

“What happened to you Grandpa?:  she screamed

“Need to get to a hospital…fell off a  cliff…broke my wrist…all  bashed  up.”

“Kevin, get the car…must be a hospital around here…a town?”

Found a hospital and was immediately admitted  and wheeled from emergency to a private hospital bed.  “God, this  is going to cost a lot of money,”

ran through my head.  But when hurt money does  not really matter.   A couple of doctors examined my wrist after the brush  burns  were attended to.

“Vous avez besoin d’ operation immédiatement.”

“Ou?”

“Ici?…aujourd’hui  ou demain.?”

I said my French  was  only fair, but in this crisis it got worse.  We agreed to have the surgeon operate the next morning.  No  mention of money.

So I spent that night alone in a strange hospital in a foreign country in a nervous state.  Stupidly I  had asked them to put me under…and anesthetic…

for the operation.  Wish that had  never been agreed.  When I  woke up later that day…maybe early afternoon…first person I saw  was Marjorie

sitting on a  chair reading.  But I couldn’t breath.  Had a mask on my face and maybe oxygen was being pumped at me.  But my lungs were out

of  synchronization with the artificial  lung.  Sheer terror.  Made things worse.  I just could  not breathe.  Took a  few minutes for my lungs to take over

  I remember that fear to this day.   Any operations that can be done using local anesthetics are welcome.  Knock-out is not.

I do not know how long I was supposed to stay in the hospital.   Several days I think.  I managed to stay two more nights I think

entertained myself in the dark hours of the night by singing.  Yes,  singing.  My brother says I cannot sing.  But I know better.  My version

of Old  Man River  coursed through the halls.  “Old Man River, he just keeps rolling…keeps on rolling along…”    Not sure but I think one

night I heard  another voice from somewhere nearby also  singing.

Finally, I just walked  out of the hospital.  Paid  my bill earlier.  Guess how much?  No, let me tell you. The cost for everything…hospital bed,

doctors  assessments,  washing, surgery, anesthetic, meals, surgery, nurses…the cost was $2,000. That was all.   Terrific treatment too.

One funny incident  happened while I was recovering.  My body was  badly bruised…black on one side of my body, white on the other.  Like

some medieval  clown.   At some point early on I had to take a leak…had to take it bad.   Indicated such to the nurse and  she

said  four words I cannot forget:  “En face ou non?”   What did that mean?  Ahah…she  is  asking if I need  to face the toilet or

sit down.  If I have to sit down then she will have to help me take a leak.  Yuk!  I responded after a few moment thought, “En face”

I did  not add “s’il vows plait” but got right down to business.  The nurses expression did  not change.  What a relief?  I could take

a leak.  If I could take a leak  then I must be OK.  So, shortly afterward,  I just walked out of the hospital.  Kevin and  the

rest of the family picked me up on the  road.  No, I was not half naked  wearing a hospital gown that made me bare ass  to the

wind.  I had dressed  myself…hurt a bit but did it.

The final  insult came when we were back in England and discovered that Air Canada would not let me fly home until I was

certified  as  air worthy by a  doctor.   I understand why.  Occasionally we  read of a passenger jet having to land in some

distant airport because of a passenger emergency.  The hurts everybody.  So we got a doctor in London who examined  me

gave the green light.  And finally we got home…to my bed…sorry, our bed.   Washroom right beside us where I  do not need

to make the choice of “en face ou non.”

The operation was a success.  Only difficulty was the temporary wires or pins  holding my wrist together were covered

by my skin…had to be cut open to pull the pins weeks later.  Really no big deal.

FALLING    THE STEPS WERE INVISIBLE…TORN ACHILLES TENDON     2017

(Torn Achilles tendon…wheelchair and ‘the plastic boot’…meant Marjorie had more work to do)

We  travelled  first class on British Rail from London to Sheffield. Supposed to be the beginning of a

great family Christmas in England.   Nice  way to start.  Spacious seats, big picture windows,  private table,

a light meal, and a super fast train.

Unfortunately things did  not work out as planned.  Gabriela had purchased a used Volvo from a car

dealer in Sheffield.   Quite a fancy showroom in a converted factory.  Lots of  soaring stairways and great 

architectural  details to make car buyers feel special.  A nice walkway joined the two showrooms

with excellent photos of  the old factory on both walls.  I walked  up the entry curved slope looking

at the pictures.  And then I stepped  off into space. Flying in the air…hurtling for s few seconds. Have you heard of infinite swimming pools that seem

to stretch to the horizon. I expected the gentle curve walkway  would be the same at both ends.  It was  not.

the far end had abrupt steps  downward.   I missed them and stepped off into space.

Fell about five feet down  on to a cement floor.  Twisted  as I  fell.  Ended up almost paralyzed behind  two new cars.  Could not get

up as  my legs would not work.  Grabbed the back  of a car.  No help.  Finally three salesmen found me.  Some  blood from head

and hand cuts but, worse,  legs wouldn’t work right.  Especially left leg…like it was broken.   

“Carry or help me over this  ramp …family over there.”

“Dad,  what happened?”

“Alan, you are hurt…how did it…”

“Didn’t see the steps…thought I was on a ramp…maybe I will get better if I sit down”

Never got better.  Very painful.  Could  not walk.  They bundled me up in the new car and

drove back to London…took about 5 hours.   Then Gabriela phoned the Highgate Private Hospital

who took me  right away.  A very concerned doctor poked and  prodded while I lay  flat on my

face trying to do what he asked.

“Move your toes on right foot:

“There, how is  that?”

“Now move your toes on the left foot…move them.”

“They won’t move.”

“Looks like you have torn your Achilles  tendon.  We won’t know how bad until we take X-Rays and

see the surgeon who happens to be in the building.”

So began a whole bunch of things.  The X Rays  conformed  my tendon was torn badly…80% torn.  Just barely 

holding.  A specialist then fitted me with a huge plastic boot with rubber pockets that could  be hand pumped. 

Kevin phoned and rented me a  wheelchair for I could not walk.   Our joyous Christmas plans were put on hold.

Not all bleak though.  I was  able to drag myself…or, rather, Marjorie was able to drag me to a couple of the Charity stores  

that feature cheap clothes,  various discarded  hard  goods,  and  piles and piles of good  books.  We bought a big

pile of each.  Kevin managed  to wheel me into a pub or two for a local pint of  ale.  

The best thing that happened was the wheelchair.  People do not look at you if you are in a wheelchair.  Other wheelchair

people do look however and greet and share their grief.  I was not alone. It was  a  new kind  of existence. And we turned

it into a bit of fun.  Various entertainers played flutes, sang songs, picked at guitars…most had caps in hand  or on the 

sidewalk for donations.   Now this  gave me an idea.   Why not join them.  So Kevin, Marjorie an Gabriela  parked  me

beside a tall lean man collecting money for Cancer.  I looked  part of the charity.  Put on a solemn face and turned  my

baseball cap into a money pot.   Before my joke turned sour we dumped  the money in the cancer pot and  Kevin  wheeled  me 

away.

Back in Canada I was disappointed to learn that it would take another three months or moe for me to even consider walking

normal.  And for most of that time I  had to wear the accursed boot.  At night, however, it could be loosened and eventually removed.

Sadly I will never be perfect again I fear.  But damn close to perfect.

That bit of bravado got me into deep trouble a year later at the High Park Curling Rink.

FALLIING     SLIPPED ON THE ICE…BACKWARDS WITH HEAD  HITTING LIKE A  GONG      NOVEMBER. 2018

My torn Achilles tendon was healing well.  I spent a lot of money doing therapy at $75 a crack during the summer and fall

of 2018.  I wanted to be ready to curl again.   Monica had taken over my skip responsibilities and  she was good but I needed

to take command again just to inflate my ego a little.  No more classy deliveries.  I was using the stick which made curling

look like shuffleboard.  Hot shot curlers make snide remarks of those that use the stick  They believe we are not real curlers.   And

they are right.  Amazing how they change their minds when they get older and  a little stiff in the joints and then have to

use the stick as well.  Humbling experience.  In my case I kept wearing my slider. Slider?  That’s a piece of slippery leather

worn on one foot so a curler can slide down the ice a ways while delivering a rock.  

Mistake I made was continuing to wear my slider on my right foot.  While at the same time I  was recovering from

that torn Achilles tendon on my left foot.  Two feet that were handicapped.  But I managed to get back in the game.

Got over confident as usual. Then one evening I threw a real killer take out rock.  Gave it all I could give.  Too much.

I ripped up in the air…two feet forward  and up…head pointed down.  Then crashed to the ice.  My head hit with such

force that the curlers at the other end of the ice stopped in mid stride.  Fortunately I was wearing a helmet that I got

for a couple of dollars at a farm sale.   That helmet saved my life.  Yes, no overstatement.  Even with the helmet

on I was  a bit stunned.  Hit so hard I cracked the helmet which takes some doing. So there I  was splayed out on 

the ice with helpers trying to help.  “Leave him there.”  “Get him up.” “Is he conscious?”  

They got me to my feet and then called the medics on 911.  “That’s the rule, Alan, if a head hits the ice

we have to call the Paramedics, so just sit here until they come,” said Stephen Low, worried  I  would 

just drive home.   I guess it was a slow night because in no time I had four or five paramedics around me

poking me and asking questions.  The teams came off the ice and  were suddenly quiet…most unusual

for loudmouth curlers.  I think they thought I was dying.  Admittedly I was a  bit confused. Medics do  that

to a person.  

The silence bothered me.  Like being in a  funeral home.  Then I remembered a comment by Mark Twain

commenting on a newspaper article the was wrong.  “It’s OK, everyone, remember that comment by Mark Twain…

‘Rumours of my death have  been  greatly exaggerated.”   I could feel the energy pour back into the room

and  orders for draught beer were back  to normal.

But my adventure was not over.  Stephen and his son  Andrew drove me home after I refused  to

go to the local  hospital because ‘my Dad said people only go there to die’ (which he did himself strange to say).

I will go to our own hospital,…the Trillium in Mississauga.  It was there that the strangest thing happened.

The triage nurse has to decide priorities…i.e. who needs  care fast.  She noted my particulars…birthday, etc…

then she asked:

“And, sir,  what year is this?”

“Must be 1979.”

(It was really 2018)

I do  not know why I said that.  Just a gut answer.  But it was wrong…way wrong.  And the nurse

put a little red  sticky  thing on my admitting bracelet.  That got me a Catscan an hour later.

Came out all clear…fortunately.  I was  impressed all the same.

  I was OK.

FALLING    I MAY NOT BE THE BEST SKIER…BUT I CAN CARTWHEEL    1965-1000

I forget when Marjorie put our ski equipment in the dump…somewhere around the year 2000.  She had good

reason to do  so.  She was a better skier than I would ever be as I came to skiing very late in life.  Too many

other things to do…like work for 35 cents an hour rather than ski at $100 a day (guess work).  When I did

ski, however, I did a lot of falling.  My style at best became a modified snow plow.  

Falls?  Lots of them.  Like the time a Smugglers Notch when I got going so fast I could not turn into the woods.

That would be certain death so I sped down the hill.  Not quite all the way down.  My ski tips dipped and over I

went into a cartwheel style.  Lucky no one was around and even luckier, I was unhurt.  Other falls?  At 

Blue Mountain I got ripping down again…too fast to turn or use snowplow.  Came around a pile of stacked  snow 

at the bottom at the same time another guy like me came hurtling on the other side. Face to face, body to bodyl

We collided…yes, face to face…could have kissed each other.  The solid thump of our bodies

 spread the impact.  Neither of us were hurt even though we were locked together like two bull moose

in rutting season.  Then there was my first ski  venture up in North Bay at the Harris ski hills. Alone as  Marjorie

was busy shopping.  “Let me try your old  boyfriends ski hills”  She had dated Sid Harris  for a bit.  Mike Harris,

who became a right wing Premier of Ontario, was  the little brother.   That Harris  ski hill should have

been declared a Ski Hazard.  The lumps on the hills were solid  rocks underneath.  I know because I hit

many of them and  came back to North Bay with the bruises  to prove it.  My stupidest effort at skiing

occurred outside Collingwood at the ski hill north of Blue Mountain.  These were steep hills for expert skiers or for 

those rubber bodied 12 year olds.  On that venture I made a big mistake.  I had one of my skis and one

of Marjorie’s…a long ski and as short ski.  But I had paid my money so figured I would have to bite the

bullet ski lob-sided.  I  did for a few body bashing runs.  Fell a lot that time.  Bottom line I never skied

without a few falls.  Normal for most human beings I think.  Amazing that Marjorie, Kevin, Andrew, 

my brother Eric and his wife Judy are such hot shots skiers.  Eric  still skis at 78 years of age.  Loves it.

In my glory days I think I  asked Eric why he wanted  me along on a ski venture. “For entertainment, Alan, entertainment.”

FALLING     FARMING IS DANGEROUS    1975

(Get the idea…see Kevin and Andrew beside our old W6, Dad getting beams ready…now imagine that bean across shoulders as the tractor moves forward…no foot on clutch…could not reach pedal)

(Our old barn had collapsed when we were kids…needed rebuilding)

“Marjorie, let’s build a new barn?  I’ve got the beams from a barn demolition…we can do it?”

“Have you ever built a barn?”

“Learn as I go.”

Well the lesson was a hard one.  Dad and I planted one long post beam that would be the beginning of

the barn.  That was as far as I got. 

“Beam is in the wrong place…pull it down.”

So I moved Old Red, my W6 1953 tractor near the post then tied a rope to the post and began

to drive forward.  pulling down the beam.  It was a long beam firmly planted in a post hole

 and as it came down it fell across

the tractor resting on my shoulders…dead centre.  The pressure was terrible.  Forced my foot

off the clutch so the tractor kept inching forward and the beam exerted more and more pressure.

I was being crushed.  Just below me were the boys…watching.   Andrew and Kevin. They

did not think anything was wrong.  But I was being crushed as the beam pressed harder and

harder.  Thought I was about to die.  

Then a strange thing happened.  Adrenalin kicked in and gave me strength I did not know was

possible.  I squeezed out from under the bean and fell to the ground right where the boys  were

standing.  They thought I was being funny.  Nothing funny about that fall.

FALLING     ALASKA — FELL FROM AN S-52 SIKORSKY HELICOPTER     1960

We were doing geophysical prospecting on the barren lands of western Alaska.  Near the 

Bering Sea.   A vast land with few people but beneath that land is a gigantic copper

body whose limits we were trying to measure.  To do so Humble Oil, an American oil

company, had contracted two Sikorsky S52 helicopters to get our crew from point to point

on the vast arctic tundra.   We had two ex military pilots one of whom woke us each morning

with his voice on an battery powered bull horn.

“Let’s get Fucking airborne!”

A joyous greeting followed by the thumping and whumping of the helicopter blades as the

huge machines warmed up.  We welcomed the sound.  And after a few weeks we got

comfortable sitting with our feet dangling out of the cargo doors as the helicopter lifted itself

skyward like a giant moose fly.  I got a little too over confident.

One morning just as the helicopter was lifting off the ground I leapt from the

pontoon to the cargo door as I had done many times before.  What I forgot that time

was the reel of heavy base line wire on a pack frame on my back. It weighed about 70 pounds…heavy.

So when I jumped , I missed the cargo door and fell between the pontoon and the door.

Fell straight down to the ground. Not as bad as that sounds….perhaps fell only five or ten feet 

 just as lift off was happening.  Hit the tundra back first since the reel and wire flipped me

over.  Not too much danger landing on tundra in summer time.  Like landing on a twig made

cushion of low plant life , moss and melt water.

My biggest worry was when the pilot noticed and brought the helicopter back down.

He was good…imagine he had done lots of rescues in the heat of battle.  Landed, waited for

me to throw the wire in the cargo door then jump back in.  And we got ‘fucking airborne’ again.

There is no thrill quite like cruising through the air in an S-52 with your feet dangling 

in space as you look down at the earth.  None of us fell from that height.

FALLING     IN OUR OWN LANE…UNCONSCIOUS    2015

Falling cannot be stopped once it begins.  Best a person can do is roll with the fall…like a ball…spread the impact around.

That is fine to say but almost impossible to do sometimes.   One of my worst falls happened in our own laneway.

There is a patch of asphalt that is a bit lower than elsewhere.  Water fills the patch.  And in the winter time that 

water freezes into an invisible slab of ice.  There had been a bit of snow falling overnight so the patch of ice

was even less visible.

I remember the airborne part of falling that day.  But not much else.  Knocked myself out for a spell of time.  Not sure how

long but when I awakened I knew i was in trouble.  Dazed.  And some blood.  No glasses anywhere.   I managed to 

get to the front door:

“Marjorie, I am hurt…slipped on the ice…need to go to the hospital…get the car ready.”

And I sat down heavily on the front room couch.  Still a bit dazed.  Instead of the car, Marjorie

called 911 and two burly medics helped me into their ambulance.  

I came around….do not remember any stitches.  

 “Alan, we could not find your glasses until Woody nosed along a trail of blood.  Glasses were a long

when I noticed Marjorie returning from shopping with two big bags.  

“Just a second, I’ll give you a hand.”

“You stay right where you are, Alan, that pach of ice…remember?”

So I did  (Fine husband you are Alan)

FALLING     FROM A LADDER    1990

“I Would like that cauldron for our movie…the one up there on the third level.”

“Just a second…get the ladder and get it down.”

“There…pull it forward…the ladder is slipping….OWWWWW!”

Now I cannot tell this full story because the results of the ladder moving would upset sensitive readers.

Suffice it to say the ladder moved down about two feet with my body pressed against it.  Two feet below

was an industrial sewing machine with exposed gears and other sharp parts. I hit this point and 

stopped the ladder.   But I was hurt…how bad?   I could not say immediately because the movie

set buyer was down on the floor.  She was young and enthusiastic and totally unaware of the

pain I felt from that short fall.

  Censored:  Use your imagination or speak to me privately

I was going to be OK.   I can say no more,

Still standing…most of the time

FALLING      NO JOKING MATTER:  SAD CASE OF WALTER HELSTEIN  1958

(Often our trails were almost invisible…just a blaze mare here and there and then, at foot level, inadvertently sharpened saplings.

Walter Helstein put one of these sharp spikes through his hand.  Nothing could be done to help him. No hospitals could  be reached.)

Nothing funny about falling.   Really no laughing matter so let me apologize for the light remarks by

telling you an experience that happened long ago when I began my work in the bush.  We were

a crew of four dropped by a Beaver float plane in a remote part of the Groundhog River.  No line cutting crew

so we had to cut our own lines with blazing axes.  That part of the Ontario wilderness had a lot

of tag alder and scrub poplars growing.  When blazing a trail we would cut the brush with a 

downward stroke of our blazing axes.  So what?  The tag alders were not cut flush to the

ground . They were slashed. End result is that a sharp spike was left where the slashing happened.

Imagine hundreds of these spike along our trails.  Falling on them was certainly dangerous so

we were cautious.  

Walter Helstein was an older man recruited from a casual labour pool in Timmins or South Porcupine.

He had no bush experience.  And he was not in the best of health anyway.

“Walter, never step on the wet logs that cross our trails…easy to slip and fall…so step

over them.”

“Why dangerous?”

“The Tag alder spikes…fall one of them and it will go through your body like a Japanese jungle

trap in World War II.”

So Walter was warned but he was also unfit for our work.  We knew the danger.

He stepped on top of a moss covered rotten tree that crossed one of our trails.

He slipped and fell.  His right hand was impaled on a tag alder spike. Bad situation. We did

  not know this had happened because Walter was slower thant Bob, Floyd and me.

By then it was early September and the unnamed lake where we had our fly camp

was thick with September fog.  No float plane could land even though we put an

SOS kind of call through to Austin Airways in South Porcupine.  

Each night in our tent as the freezing wind blew rain in the tent flap and our tin stove

belched out red hot heat from split birch cordwood…each night Walter’s pain then infection

got worse and worse until by the 7th or 8th day when a plane finally landed, his arm was

swollen badly and he was beyond any attempt at conversation.  He cried for s couple of 

 the nights…not tear type crying…paint crying.  Then even that ceased.

We never heard from Walter again.  Our camp was packed up a week or so later. 

By then Walter was in a hospital somewhere.  Apparently he spent most of the 

year in hospital.  Infection set in and there was danger he would lose his arm.

I do not know what happened in the end.   Rumour had it that lying in a hospital bed was better than trying

to dodge moss covered deadfalls and stiletto pointed alder spikes. There I go again, making

light humour out of dark tragedy.  Sorry Walter if you ever read this.

Falling is no joke.  If I have made light of Falling please read between the lines or,

better still, go back to that first picture of my nose.

FALLING IN LOVE — WOULD BE A BETTER IDEA AND A BETTER STORY

alan skeoch

Jan. 2019