WHO STOLE MY MASTODONT TOOTH?
(Memories while touring dinosaur exhibit)
Mastodon…12,000 years old
WHY DID WE VISIT THE ROM ON DEC. 8, 2018?
Answer: We wanted to see my lost tooth…the story will unfurl below
Mastodont Tooth…12,000 years old
alan skeoch
Dec. 8, 2018
“Hey Marjorie, we’ve got two hours to kill, let’s go to the ROM?”
“Why?”
“One of the best dinosaur exhibits in the world.”
“Also have a spider special somewhere in there.”
“What does the ROM look like to you?”
“Sort of looks like a kind of Eiffel Tower that has fallen over.”
“Now what is your real reason for the visit?”
“My lost MASTODON TOOTH…I would like to see it again.”
“A tooth? We are looking for a tooth?”
“You betcha!”
“How much will it cost?”
“$35 for the two of us.”
“Better be worthwhile.”
“The dinosaur exhibit alone will be worth every penny….”
“Looks like a modernistic Eiffel Tower has collapsed…”that’s the Royal Ontario Museum”
“We only have two hours…let’s find the TOOTH first.”
“Why so important to you, Alan?”
“Long story but here is the short version. In 1960 I was prospecting in the Yukon Territory and found Dublin Gulch where
an American gold seeker was using hydraulic hoses to wash off the overburden to reach gold pay dust. He had a slab of
gold as his personal knuckle duster. Gave me some gold dust which I mailed to you…remember?”
“Sparkle on black electric tape in the letter.”
“Right. Well he also found the bones and tusks of Mastodonts. Lots of them as Dublin Gulch was a 12,000 year old
boneyard. The tusks were hauled up to his cabin along with ancient bones. And a huge Mastodont Tooth which he
gave to me. A treasure.”
“Lost it…right? “
“Stolen. I used the tooth in my early history classes at Parkdale C. I. Kept it in my cupboard. One year it was there…the
next year it was gone. Stolen. What a great prop that was for my lessons on human origins in North America…the Mastodonts
walked across the Land Bridge from Siberia to Alaska…people followed…thousands of years ago.”
“That’s the short version?”
“Some day I will tell you the long version.”
“Mastodont teeth in jaw. They had two sets and once they were ground down the poor
old Mastodonts starved to death. I suppose that could happen to us if there were
no dentists to do tooth implants.”
“These ancient ivory Mastodon tusks have been carved into pieces of art…valuable.”
“So we have found the tooth…Now What?”
“Let’s tour the gallery…see what we can.”
“Alan, the sign says this ugly looking slug may have been one of our ancestors.”
“Speaks to the origin of life on earth.”
“Other weird creatures in those ancient seas … below.”
“Creatures as beautiful as this bird have evolved…50 million of them according to the sign.”
“Lots preserved in bottles somewhere in the bowels of the ROM”
“And here is the DODO BIRD…probably our most famous extinct creature … has become a popular term today.”
“And here is an Arctic Fox with a Lemming in its mouth…supposed to be millions of Lemmings.”
“Ever see one?”
“Never…worked in Alaska on the edge of the Bering Sea…expected to see lemming but never did…
and only once did I catch side of a Kodiak Bear. Wild things are not easily found…less and less so
as human beings with guns move into their territories. Sad.
“Wow…look at them all…so many…bewildering…Dinosaurs.”
“What does Dinosaur mean?”
“Terrible Lizard…term fits I think.”
“That is the head of a huge armoured fish … so big and hungry that you would make a tasty meal…could
swallow and chomp you with ease.”
“Look at the bone yard…reminds me of Dublin Gulch…”
“The ROM has made a game of Dinosaur watching…This is Tyranosaurus Rex…big time predator 66 million years ago.
“Sign on the floor says STAND HERE…take your picture and send it home by Email.”
“Kids and adults lined up … big kids first.”
“Look down this gallery…see the flying creature at the end…bat like wings maybe 20 feet across…”
“I can’s see it Alan.”
“You will later.”
“The age of dinosaurs and other living things could not exist without the evolution of plants first.”
“Dinosaur had to eat something, right?”
“Yep…the herbivorous dinosaurs ate a lot of farms..tons of them.”
“Then the predatory dinosaurs ate them…right?”
“Survival of fittest … or the more ghoulish comment that “Nature is RED IN
TOOTH AND CLAW.”
THE skies of earth some 65 million years ago were quite frightening as these huge Pterosaurs drifted on thermal updrafts for miles and
miles with hardly a beat of their wings.”
“Look at the mouth on that big one.”
“Used the mouth to shovel up fish as it flew close to the water.”
“Had teeth that pointed inwards…spikes..”
“Fish hooks.”
“How could a dinosaur learn to fly?”
“I do not know.”
“Bones must have been heavy…too heavy for flight.”
“Apparently the bones slowly evolved … became lighter and lighter…then some time in the deep past a dinosaur said ‘Look at me, I can fly”
“Any of these Pterosaurs around today?”
“Nope they all died in the Fifth Extinction 65 million years ago.”
“Then where did birds come from?”
“Birds evolved differently…I have no quick answer for that…Do some work yourself…find out.”
“Look at those long bony fingers on that big pterosaur.”
“Now imagine a huge piece of skin that stretched from arm to foot…so big that once airborne these
things could drift on the wind with no need to flap much.”
“Got to go now.”
“Gift shop.”
“Alan, we could buy this fake tiger for $1,000…full size.”
LEAVING HE ROM…FROM DEEP PAST TO THE PRESENT
“Christmas Luncheon at Victoria College where we first met…remember?”
“Yes, you leaned out the window of your residence while I was running laps
to get ready for a football game.”
“You hollered…’Doing anything tonight?”
“I answered…”Not much”
“you responded…”See you tonight.”
“And so began our love affair…I am 80 now and you are a little younger.”
“Well, we’re not as old as the dinosaurs…that’s a comfort.”
“I wonder if our civilization, with its glass and aluminum towers, will last
as long as those dinosaurs did?”
“Art in paint and timber inside Victoria College.”
“Will any of this survive 12,000 years like the Mastodon Tooth?
“The wind is blowing icy air down from the Arctic, Alan.”
“Climate change is happening…takes time…the world is getting warmer in slow steps…DON’T LET COOL AIR FOOL YOU.”
“A lot of people Talk about the Sixth Extinction…blame human beings for it…we are changing the earth”
“Not always for the better.”
“Visiting the ROM is a sobering experience.”
“The footprint of a dinosaur.”
“The hand print of a human being.”
“65 million years apart.
“Let’s go home.”
“Just a thought…I wonder if the ROM stole my Mastodon Tooth.”
“Maybe.”
“I should have scratched my name on the tooth.”
alan Skeoch
Dec. 8, 2018
What was the secret question I asked earlier? HOW DID BIRDS EVOLVE?
BIRDS ARE NOT PTEROSAURS. **Your job is to find the answer.
Post Script Below: Changing Times and survival
FACEBOOK DOES WONDERS! (and sequel ” WILD PIGS…RUN..RUN!”
FACEBOOK: A POSITIVE FORCE IN OUR LIVES
(a feel good story of Christmas Present and Christmas Past)
DATELINE DEC. 7, 2018
I have read many criticisms of our computer age but the one that
concerned me the most was the comment that we no longer have
face on friendships…flesh and blood contacts…meet people who
we can see and touch. That comment struck me as true and very
sad.
Guess what ? The anonymity of Facebook is just not true.
Marjorie and I discovered that the word anonymity was not even part of
the vocabulary of these Facebook users
…..as Christine’s smile (above) confirms.
Marjorie made contact with this diverse group of Facebook friends
who meet regularly in the middle of High Park. They have one thing in
common…their ages and Roncesvales Avenue
This is Carl who organized it all and supervised the gift giving and provided me with
a huge box which I expected to contain wealth beyond my dreams. Instead I received
a pile of rubber mud mats “that could be made to fit any car.”
And on Dec. 7, 2018 Carl organized a big Christmas party complete
with gifts (under $15) for everyone. We became part of this meeting.
Marjorie made cookies, big butter tarts and a bright red cowgirl hat. I wrote a story
about a dinosaur tooth and the mystery of time. A replica of the dinosaur
tooth was included. Goofy? Right. A lot of the gifts had a goofy
nature. In my case I got that huge box of rubber mud mats that would
fit any car as long as you could use a big scissors. Just opening the
box was an ordeal worse than any snowstorm.
John was wearing a bright red Christmas sweater with a prominent
Christian cross hanging from his neck. “Are you a priest?” “Nope, this
was my mother’s necklace. I put it on 17years ago when vowed to never
touch a drink again. Sitting nearby was a man who gave my wife his
Christmas package which was a Moosehead Beer special. Now who
could not enjoy meeting such people. Some even had special Christmas
sweaters that were hand knitted.
It was a grand experience. Especially so since several of my ex students
from Parkdale Collegiate were present. And they remembered me.
One young lady, Lucy, even confessed she lied to me back in 1965
about doing her homework. Confessional? Seemed so. I gave her
absolution ‘“but sorry to say I will have to dock you ten marks.”
Silly? That’s the nice thing about the passage of time. Being silly.
“Remember Joan, June and Carmen, …sir?” “Sure do. I remember
Carmen set their house on fire by hiding in the closet smoking a
cigarette. And June gave me her old lawn mower years ago…cast
iron push kind…still have it. Kids…students…became friends but still
called me sir.”
Another remembered my odd behaviour when teaching, “You would
look at me…direct the question to me…but use the name of another
classmate on the other side of the room. “Classes were always fun, sir”
Jerry and Marilyn sat with Marjorie and me. We have known each
other for sixty years. Our paths cross in the most unusual situations.
“Sir! “ Amazing to still be called sir after nearly half a century.
I am 80 years old and the students at the meeting must be
close to 70. Yet they still called me sir. Heart warming. Respected.
There were nearly 20 people at tis Christmas Party. People from
the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. As mentioned They were not brought together by schools,
churches, businesses, sports…no, they got to know each other on
Facebook and they all lived within walking distance of Roncesvales
Avenue,Toronto.
alan skeoch
Dec. 7, 2018
See pictures below…and if you really have noting better to do then
read the sequel which has little to do with Facebook but a lot to do
with my memories of the High Park zoo.
Marjorie Skeoch with Gerry and Marilyn Holmes…our paths have crossed for more than half a century. Marjorie touched base with
this crowd, “Alan, we must go to their Christmas Party…we were Roncesvales people too.”
This is the Facebook gang having their annual Christmas party in the Grenadier Restaurant in the centre of High Park
MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS PAST TRIGGERED BY THE FACEBOOK CROWD
AN IRRELEVANT SEQUEL…BUT TRUE
Dad was not exactly the doting parent. And when he took on a parenting role it usually led to
a memorable adventure. Some of those adventures involved High Park. Mom was the real
caregiver of our family and Dad was more like the third child. He was no shrinking violet though.
Quite the reverse. He seemed to have been given a double dose of testosterone when compared
to other fathers. Tough and rough and endearing. Loved.
THESE PHOTOS are a little out of period except for the pic os Eric and me in Granddad’s wheelbarrow.
But the pics will help the two stories a bit. Dad made our lives one constant adventure. Mom kept us
alive.
“THOSE GODDAMN WILD PIGS WILL EAT YOU! RUN! RUN!”
As we exited the Grenadier Restaurant two of Dad’s missteps as a parent came to mind because
both of them originated damn close to the Grenadier Restaurant.
1) The High Park Zoo is built in a little valley that weaves southward through the park. In 1946 to 1947,
Mom asked dad. “Why don’t you take the boys to the High Park zoo?” He could find no good excuse
to avoid the zoo since the horses were not running at either the Dufferin or Woodbine racetracks.
So we went to the zoo. Most people view the zoo from deep in the valley but dad never did what most
people like to do. “Let’s see the zoo from the backside…no one goes there.” Seemed like a food idea
except for the fact that in 1946 the maintenance standards were not high. Just as we reached the
wild pig enclosure disaster struck. Now wild pigs are called peccaries. They are small but they are
also vicious. And in 1946 they seemed to be breeding like rabbits. There were dozens of them behind
the wire fence. Behind the fence be damned. “Those goddamn pigs are free…and they out to get us.
Alan run like a son of a bitch while I grab Eric.” And we all ran as fast as we could with a couple of dozen
peccaries chasing us with their little tusks gleaming. We survived but Dad was sweating. Not sure if he
told us to “keep your goddamn mouths shut” when we got home.
“DAD NEVER RETURNED…OUR SLEIGH WAS SMASHED TO BITS”
2) Just west of the Grenadier Restaurant is the long rather steep hill that runs down to Grenadier Pond
where it was once believed the British Grenadiers drowned with their cannons while retreating from the
American troops who took Fort York in the War of 1812. Myth of course. Let’s be fair and call it embellished
truth. In 1946 to 1947, that long hill was a toboggan run. Long, steep and fast. No children romp in the snow.
This toboggan run was serious business. That year we got a sleigh for Christmas. A metal sleight with metal runners
and a wooden steering bar. Beautiful thing. Eric and I looked forward to using it. But we never got a chance.
“Red, why don’t you take the kids to High Park to try out their new sleigh?” Again he was trapped. So we hopped
on College Street Car that t germinated in High Park. And there before us was the toboggan run. Lots of people
yelling and screaming as they thundered down the hill and out onto the ice of Grenadier Pond. We were nervous.
No need to be tough. “OK, boys, let me test the sleigh first.” Dad was a big man…a tough man…a 220 pound
tire builder at Dunlop Tire Corporation. The sleigh seemed small when he plopped his body on it face down with
hands on the steering bar. “Boys, you wait here…see how she goes.” And away he went. and we waited…and
waited. He did not come back. Eventually we walked down the hill where a crowd had gathered. Dad had rocketed
his way down the ice covered toboggan run going so fast that the iron runners on the sleigh gave him enough speed
to become airborne. He flew out of the wood channels, sailed through the air for a short while and then hit a tree
dead on. Broke his ribs as it turned out. He was badly hurt but managed to get us home holding his rib cage all the while
To us the big disaster was our brand new broken sleigh.
alan skeoch
Dec. 7, 2018
The SKEOCH CYCLE CAR FACTOR 1920 PRODUCTION LINE … DANGERS
Begin forwarded message:
From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>Subject: The Little Skeoch…picture of 1920 factoryDate: November 28, 2018 at 12:09:49 PM ESTTo: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
THE SKEOCH CYCLE CAR PRODUCTION LINE IN 1920
(Dalbeattie, Scotland)
alan skeoch
Nov. 28, 2018
Seems to be quite an interest in my last email concerning the Little Skeoch so here is another picture of the production line as it appeared
in 1920. Lots of things to see including the typical line shafting along the ceiling of the factory. Wheels on the line shafts drove the industrial
machines…lathes, grinders, etc. If you are really perceptive you might see the convertible top unfurled and ready for assembly. If you can
read, and some of you can no doubt, you will see a sign mentioning Wolseley Oil Engines…whatever that means. And those if you who
are socially aware and critical of the grim atmospheres of factories might note that sunshine floods this factory floor.
My dad, Arnold (Red) Skeoch became a tire builder in Canada around this time and I will always remember his stories about the
dangers of the big line shafts which had a drive pulley beside a stationary pulley. If you wanted a machine to shut down all that
was required was a slight push on the whirling drive belt to put on ‘idle’. That way the whole assembly line was not affected.
I assume the movement was normally done by some kind
of lever. But Dad, working in Guelph and later in Toronto, described how a worker decided to move the belt with his hand. His arm got
caught and he was converted to pulp as his body was drawn up and around the drive pulley. Pulp is the wrong word. But Dad
did say the man died. I had visions of the poor guy being whirled around the drive pulley like his body was a windmill. Until his
arm was torn from its socket and his blooded body fell to the floor. That is my image…might be true .
The pulleys in this factory below are quite small but I do not see any idling pulleys which means all at the production line
has to be shut down to change a belt or service a machine.
Dad had another industrial story he told occasionally. Rubber tires were made with flat slabs of reinforced rubber. To make the rubber
uniformly flat a large rolling machine was used. Very dangerous. One worker got caught in the roller and came out flat. Dead flat.
Was this true? Well dad told the story as if it was true. Accidents in factories…even factories like this Burnside Motor Works factory…were
quite common. And that still seems to be the case as a few workers each year in Ontario meet their maker in such accidents even
though machines are now shielded and line shafts are a thing of the past.
The really bright readers among you will know what that machine on the far left actually did. It may be the drive engine for the whole line shaft.
The machine that powered the whole factory. See
the drive belt dead centre…seems to connect to that machine dead left. Now why in hell’s half acre did I use the t erm ‘dead’.
When Dad retired from the Dunlop Tire Corporation around 1970, Eric and I asked if we could tour the factory and see what he did
for his whole working life. That was quite an experience. Dad was busy manhandling slaps of rubber … big slabs …onto some spinning
machine on which he carved bug truck tires. A job only for the strong. Dad was strong and proud of his work. He grinned at Eric and I
as the plant foreman took us around the factory. Dad wore a simple sweatshirt and his hands were blackened by the constant contact
with rubber. Dad seemed to like his job as he turned down the foreman’s job when it was offered. “I can make more money making the
tires than supervising.”
Dad liked working for Dunlop’s because for many years the factory was very close to the Woodbine Racetrack where he spent all or
nearly all of his idle time. He loved the horses yet ye spent his life making car and truck tires for machines that rendered horses
obsolete. Eric and I spent a lot of time at racetracks along with Dad and occasionally mom. But only once did we ever visit the
rubber tire factory. Glad we did.
alan skeoch
Nov. 28,2018
Photograph taken in 1920 when the LITTLE SKEOCH CYCLE CAR WAS IN FULL PRODUCTION….three car assembly line.In 1921 the factory burned to the ground and the Little Skeoch became a blip in the the historyof the car industry.
Fwd: The Little Skeoch…picture of 1920 factory
Begin forwarded message:
From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>Subject: The Little Skeoch…picture of 1920 factoryDate: November 28, 2018 at 12:09:49 PM ESTTo: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
THE SKEOCH CYCLE CAR PRODUCTION LINE IN 1920
(Dalbeattie, Scotland)
alan skeoch
Nov. 28, 2018
Seems to be quite an interest in my last email concerning the Little Skeoch so here is another picture of the production line as it appeared
in 1920. Lots of things to see including the typical line shafting along the ceiling of the factory. Wheels on the line shafts drove the industrial
machines…lathes, grinders, etc. If you are really perceptive you might see the convertible top unfurled and ready for assembly. If you can
read, and some of you can no doubt, you will see a sign mentioning Wolseley Oil Engines…whatever that means. And those if you who
are socially aware and critical of the grim atmospheres of factories might note that sunshine floods this factory floor.
My dad, Arnold (Red) Skeoch became a tire builder in Canada around this time and I will always remember his stories about the
dangers of the big line shafts which had a drive pulley beside a stationary pulley. If you wanted a machine to shut down all that
was required was a slight push on the whirling drive belt to put on ‘idle’. That way the whole assembly line was not affected.
I assume the movement was normally done by some kind
of lever. But Dad, working in Guelph and later in Toronto, described how a worker decided to move the belt with his hand. His arm got
caught and he was converted to pulp as his body was drawn up and around the drive pulley. Pulp is the wrong word. But Dad
did say the man died. I had visions of the poor guy being whirled around the drive pulley like his body was a windmill. Until his
arm was torn from its socket and his blooded body fell to the floor. That is my image…might be true .
The pulleys in this factory below are quite small but I do not see any idling pulleys which means all at the production line
has to be shut down to change a belt or service a machine.
Dad had another industrial story he told occasionally. Rubber tires were made with flat slabs of reinforced rubber. To make the rubber
uniformly flat a large rolling machine was used. Very dangerous. One worker got caught in the roller and came out flat. Dead flat.
Was this true? Well dad told the story as if it was true. Accidents in factories…even factories like this Burnside Motor Works factory…were
quite common. And that still seems to be the case as a few workers each year in Ontario meet their maker in such accidents even
though machines are now shielded and line shafts are a thing of the past.
The really bright readers among you will know what that machine on the far left actually did. It may be the drive engine for the whole line shaft.
The machine that powered the whole factory. See
the drive belt dead centre…seems to connect to that machine dead left. Now why in hell’s half acre did I use the t erm ‘dead’.
When Dad retired from the Dunlop Tire Corporation around 1970, Eric and I asked if we could tour the factory and see what he did
for his whole working life. That was quite an experience. Dad was busy manhandling slaps of rubber … big slabs …onto some spinning
machine on which he carved bug truck tires. A job only for the strong. Dad was strong and proud of his work. He grinned at Eric and I
as the plant foreman took us around the factory. Dad wore a simple sweatshirt and his hands were blackened by the constant contact
with rubber. Dad seemed to like his job as he turned down the foreman’s job when it was offered. “I can make more money making the
tires than supervising.”
Dad liked working for Dunlop’s because for many years the factory was very close to the Woodbine Racetrack where he spent all or
nearly all of his idle time. He loved the horses yet ye spent his life making car and truck tires for machines that rendered horses
obsolete. Eric and I spent a lot of time at racetracks along with Dad and occasionally mom. But only once did we ever visit the
rubber tire factory. Glad we did.
alan skeoch
Nov. 28,2018
Photograph taken in 1920 when the LITTLE SKEOCH CYCLE CAR WAS IN FULL PRODUCTION….three car assembly line.In 1921 the factory burned to the ground and the Little Skeoch became a blip in the the historyof the car industry.
THE LITTLE SKEOCH MOTOR CAR … LIVED FOR ONE GLORIOUS YEAR…1920
ONCE UJPON A TIME THERE WAS A MOTOR CAR CALLED THE LITTLE SKEOCH
(also called The Skeoch Motorcycle Car)
alan skeoch
Nov. 27. 2018
Maybe we should bring back the LITTLE SKEOCH MOTOR CAR. It was small,, cheap and simple…sort of a 4 wheel bicycle seating two people with a chains drive and small
motorcycle engine. So small that only two very slim people could ride in it since the
car was only 31 inches wide and a little over 8 feet long.
Some of you may think this is some kind of joke. Wrong. In 1920, James Skeoch built his first Little Skeoch, then entered it in a Scottish auto show and sold it
in ten minutes. All told less than a dozen Little Skeoch’s were built in his small factory. Ten were quickly purchased at that auto show. Price? 180 pounds…which was the cheapest car in the show. None have survived. Sadly in 1921 a fire consumed his little factory and as a result the Burnside Motor Company in Dalbeattie, Scotland, ceased to exist.
Pictures of the Skeoch production line were retrieved from Skeoch family albums. Not exactly an automated factory.
But the LITTLE SKEOCHS were real mini cars and seemed about to make a big splash in the booming car market of the 1920’s
until fire ended the enterprise. Everything became a blackened pile of scrap iron.
James Skeoch moved on. His skills were valued. He had a long successful career and died in 1954.
Not many people, by 1954, were even aware that there was such a car as the SKEOCH. Memories are short especially since
none of the Little Skeochs survived. Gone Gone Gone.
Well, not quite.
POSSIBLE REBIRTH OF THE LITTLE SKEOCH
Fwd: ALAN SKEOCH AWARD 2018
Begin forwarded message:
From: SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>Subject: ALAN SKEOCH AWARD 2018Date: November 14, 2018 at 6:31:06 PM ESTTo: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>, “Macdonald, Leigh” <lemacdonald@scdsb.on.ca>
LEIGH…SEE MY NOTE THAT FOLLOWS…THIS IS THE SPEECH I WOULD LIKE TO GIVE…MIGHT TAKE EIGHT MINUTES
ALAN
SKEOCH AWARD … TO NATHAN TIDRIDGE
( HAMILTON WENTWORTH DISRICT BOARD OF -EDUCATION)
CRITERIA
1) SENSITIVITY TO STUDENTS AT ALL LEVELS.
2) COLLEGIALITY WITH FELLOW STAFF MEMBERS
3) ORIGINALITY
4) ENTHUSIASM
5) REACH BEYOND THE CLASSROOM INTO BROADER COMMUNITY
ALAN SKEOCH
NOV. 15, 2018
Members of OHASSTA, publishers, student teachers, ladies and gentlemen
I consider it a great honour to have this award given in my name annually to a classroom
teacher whose contribution to education has been remarkable.
What makes a remarkable teacher?
Off the top I would put each of you in that category because you are willing
to reach beyond the classroom to the wider world of education…that’s why
you are here at OHASSTA…you are perpetual learners … improvers…interested
in others ideas…prepared to share your ideas. Remarkable.
Nathan Tidridge, this year 2018 is you…How do I know? Because for
the last half century…48 years I have sat among you…joined your tables…
shared your joys and your failures…noticed things that make you remarkable
-Remarkable teachers are respected…first and foremost…without that respect Remarkability fizzles.
-Remarkable teachers remember names…memorize names of their students from the get go
-Remarkable teachers can control their classrooms…clear objectives
-Remarkable teachers never humiliate their students
-Remarkable teachers have thick skins…not all teaching goes smoothly…sometimes a student might
tell a teacher to Go to Hell…that is a real teaching moment…remarkable teachers know that.
-Remarkable teachers recognize distress in certain students…and provide help…or get help.
-Remarkable teachers laugh a lot…and can laugh at themselves
-Remarkable teachers are positive people;e
-RemarKalbe teachers respect social distance…they are called Sir, Miss, or Mr…not Joe, John or Judy
-Remarkable teachers enjoy rather than fear parents nights
-Remarkable teachers want their students to achieve…to be elevated
-Remarkable teachers know what they are doing…the lessons are going somewhere…coherent
-Remarkable teachers understand the curriculum…even though they might pinch it a bit…or expand it more
-Remarkable teachers are passionate about their subject
-Remarkable teachers are passionate about children…love working with them
-Remarkable teachers are remembered … forever
-Remarkable teachers are cut from various cloths…they are not digital cut outs…they differ…students notice
I had a lot of remarkable teachers
Phyllis Morgan…who loved Latin but also spent much of her life finding places in the work world for her students…and
who recognized distress and took action.
Evan Cruikshank…who admitted there were things he did not know about our world…instilled a desire to work as a team in the classroom
Roberta Charlesworth…who lifted me by my ear and drummed one clear lesson into my teen age brains “I judge people by what they do,
not by what they say.’
Duncan Green…who found a place for everyone in his classes…in his school play…on his track and field team…no one was left out
Fred Burford…who made math seem easy…and who elevated a nondescript bunch of teen age boys into a formidable team of football players…
education requires team work. I got the hop, step and jump…not a stellar role but one I could attempt.
Miss Sharpley, Grade 6, who made every student feel important but who also treated every student the same…
Mr. Herman Couke…who suspended me for 5 days for spotting a football game played by an enemy school…that
was unethical behaviour he explained…I have to suspend you Alan … your first offence…must treat all students the same
or our educational system will collapse into a sea of favouritism.
John Ricker who taught me a wonderful skill…to keep my mouth shut if a lesson takes off…he was prepared to
zip sideways in a lesson…peripheral … and he used silence as a control skill…and he showed deep thinking and power using just as few words as possible.
He knew the power of Silence…slow sipping of his coffee with his eyes ferreting the room…then with one word…the word “Really”
he established that historical causes and effects are never simple…many causes of one big effect…and that effect had consequences
that were varied … not simple. If he were in your class next Monday he might ask”
-Who is Donald Trump?
-Why did so many Americans vote for him?
-Why did the Journalist Woodward title his book on Trump, FEAR?
Or he might just say, “I was thinking the other night about human civilization, what makes us remarkable? Do we have a future?
Alan Skeoch
Nov. 14, 2018
OHASSTA CONFERENCE
One week is Fall colours, next week is winter (Nov. 1 then Nov. 9, 2018)
Sometimes I think the seasons change too abruptly…from a warm fall day to a dark winter, snow encrusted day was only one week.
Can you sort them out…tell the difference between fall and winter pictures. Probably not…takes a good eye to notice.?
alan
Nov. 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
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.